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sinfulcries · 3 years

Note

hi sir! i really enjoy your works so could i request atsumu's senpai catching him jacking off while moaning reader's name in the locker room and reader takes his virginity on the spot?

maneater — atsumu x male reader

author's notes. UHM I AM SO SORRY THIS IS REALLY LONG I GOT REALLY INTO IT HAHAHA. this was also beta read by my lodicakes @bunbyy <3 thank you so much NJKNDKJA

tw. senpai kink, public sex, exhibitionism, mating press, caught masturbation, university au, virginity loss, peer pressure, belly bulge, size difference, unprotected sex, barebacking, facefucking, facial, sleazy senpai reader

Miya Atsumu, by all means, was never interested in dating or the concept of love and crushes and infatuation. All of those seemed vaguely unfamiliar to the boy who only had volleyball on his victory-hungry mind. When it came to a certain male on his team however, he would instantly lose his composure. His knees would feel like jelly whenever their fingers would brush against each others accidentally and his face would heat up like wildfire when the flirty, tall senior would attempt to flirt with him.

A crush, Miya supposed. These feelings would go away sooner or later but Osamu and his teammates who clearly caught onto Atsumu’s strange behavior, begged to differ.

More often than intended, you two would have the thickest and most uncomfortable sexual tension. And one of those instances was right now.

After one of your practice matches, you had peeled your shirt off to reveal your seemingly perfect body. Atsumu revelled in the way your skin glistened under the sheer layer of sweat coating your big arms and your toned abdomen, or the way the fabric of your shorts hung low and exposed more than what meets the eye, leaving Atsumu to imagine the rest of what laid beneath. The blonde made sure to take his sweet time memorizing every crevice of your toned stomach, failing to notice the teasing smirk plastered on your face.

Interrupting the male’s not so discreet sightseeing, you chuckled. “Enjoying the view, Tsumu?” You teased, making the said male blush embarrassedly. “N-No! Shut yer trap, Senpai!” He sneered only to receive a grin from you in reply. “You know, You’re really cute when you’re flustered, dollface.”

God, the things you did to him were dangerous and the cute pet name went straight to his cock, making it noticeably twitch against his thigh. The shorter man merely ignored your statement with a blush on his face, giving you an embarrassed wave before walking towards the locker room, “I'm gonna take a shower.”

By showering, Atsumu meant releasing his sexual frustration by jacking off to the thought of you fucking him. The wing spiker shut his eyes in pleasure as he flicked his wrist around his length shamelessly, lips parted ever so slightly as he moaned your name.

The thought of you manhandling him, having him pressed up against your chest as you fucked him raw made Atsumu shut his eyes tightly. His pace only increased as he fisted his cock much faster, imagining that it was your bigger hand instead. This was definitely more than a crush-- Miya just came to the thought of his teammate for fuck’s sake! Thank God you weren’t there to witness the sinful and humiliating act that he had just committed.

By the time he came, shooting thick ribbons of white cum onto the tile walls, he rinsed the rest of his body clean before reaching out of the stall to grab his towel. Before he could even grasp the cloth, another person snatched it before he could, making him groan frustratedly.

“‘Samu, I swear if this is you, I’ll cut yer ba—”

When Atsumu opened the shower curtain however, the culprit was not his twin brother but instead, you stood in front of him with an amused look on your face. Your teasing expression only making the shorter man gulp nervously.

Avoiding your coy gaze, you taunted, “You’re a bad boy, Atsumu.” while moving to pin the blonde against the tile walls. Atsumu let out a soft squeak, feeling your calloused fingertips rubbing teasingly against the rim of his ass.

“Touching yourself to the thought of me.” You growled, leaning in to lap at the expanse of his neck, your teeth slowly dragging against his skin leaving bite marks on the clean flesh.

The blonde let out a breathy moan, as he tried to explain himself, however his mind was clouded with nothing but lust and disbelief. “I’ll give you the real thing instead. How does that sound?” You whispered, making the blonde shake his head. “I-I don’t want to..”

As much as he desperately wanted to feel your cock messing up his insides, he was embarrassingly enough, a virgin. And to have his virginity taken in some dirty locker room had him thinking more rationally, holding himself back from succumbing into his desires.

“Why not? Are you a virgin?” You teased, making Atsumu pipe up with humiliation. “Am not!” He protested.

Not believing the blonde, your hand inched towards his ass, prodding at his entrance with one finger. The male immediately jolted forward into your chest, squeaking as you pushed the digit in. “F-feels weird…” Atsumu murmured.

Ah, a virgin. How adorable.

The best people to fuck, in your not so humble opinion, were virgins. They were quite similar to new toys— they’d have your cock inside of their cunts, getting a good feel of how big you are before they’re reduced to a sobbing mess, feeling your cock molding them into your shape.

“C’mon now, ‘Tsumu, don’t be such a buzzkill for yer senpai.” You mused, giving his ass a harsh slap. “I’ll take good care of you. I’ll be gentle.” Your words weren’t the most convincing especially paired with the predatory gaze in your eyes. Nonetheless, Atsumu complied hesitantly, deciding to trust you instead, “Ugh fine. Ya better be gentle or I’m backing out.”

‘You’d be too addicted to even think about backing out’ You thought to yourself, grinning as you pulled the blonde out of the shower, urging him to lay down on one of the benches before pulling your shorts off along with your boxers.

By no means were you remotely close to small. Atsumu shamelessly drooling at the sight of your thick cock leaking beads of precum in your hand. Miya could only gulp as you pressed the smooth head of your cock against his bottom lip, letting the fat head part his lips open. “W-Wait you won’t go too deep right?” Atsumu mumbled worriedly.

“Just trust me.” You responded, guiding the rest of your cock inside of his mouth slowly. And without a single warning, you grabbed the boy by the back of his head, pulling him in closer as he choked helplessly on your cock. “You can take it right Tsum? Senpai knows you can.” The condescending grin that wormed its way onto your lips made Atsumu moan against your cock, your hips now moving to fuck the wing spiker’s warm throat.

You could vaguely hear the sound of him choking and gurgling around your thick length, the younger man’s jaw now going slack with how long you’ve been mercilessly thrusting into his mouth. “Shh, Samu might walk in at any minute. How would he react to seeing his cute lil twin getting facefucked by his sleazy senior?” You whispered tauntingly, Miya only “mmf!”-ing in reply.

With your thrusts slowly becoming sloppy as you felt your high approaching, you took your cock of the blonde’s mouth before spilling your load on his pretty face, relishing in the way your cum dripped over the boy’s cute features. “S-Senpai…” The boy panted, shakily taking your cock in his small hand “Want more…”

Your prediction was proven to be correct. Miya Atsumu was already addicted to your cock and you haven’t even taken his virginity yet! What a charming lil whore, so easy for you to break and corrupt!

Smiling at the blonde, your fingers were now pushed against the puffy rim of his ass, the dampness from his recent shower making it much easier to prep his hole for your cock. Atsumu let out a soft gasp as you started to curl and twist your fingers inside of him, his body writhing cutely against the bench he was laying on. “Mm so tight, I can’t wait to fill this cute cunt up.”

Miya blushed at your words, the venom in your voice making him flush red with how needy he was for you. Jolting upwards, he could feel your fingers brushing against his prostate, a flurry of high pitched moans ripping past his throat as you continued to fingerfuck the poor boy. “Ssssso good~!” Squealing girlishly, Atsumu’s cock trembled before he came on his stomach.

“Fuck, you look so hot” You rasped out, admiring the way his chest heaved up and down, his oversensitive cock now twitching against his stomach. As much as you wanted to spend your time admiring the view, your patience was wearing thin, and you could barely keep yourself from climbing on top of his quivering figure, aligning the head of your cock against his puckered rim before pushing every inch inside of him. The pain was absolutely unbearable-- the thought of pushing you off of him was the only thing occupying his mind as he blinked back the fat tears forming in his eyes.

As expected, his ass felt so good wrapped around your cock. Nothing beats the feel of a freshly entered, young virgin, especially since he looked so pretty folded down on the bench with your cock filling his ass.

“It hurts! Too big--!” Atsumu whimpered, finally letting the tears he had been holding back stream down his pretty little face. You only grasped both of his legs in response, folding him with ease so that his ass was raised to take in more of your cock. With you, balls deep inside of him-- It was safe to say that Atsumu was slowly breaking. It was obvious with how his tongue was stuck out, eyes crossed lewdly as the tears, cum and drool on his face mixed messily together. The satisfaction of burying every inch of your cock inside of his ass only brought a wicked smile on to your face and it didn’t take long for you to start fucking him and breeding him against the dirty bench, each euphoric thrust sending atsumu overdrive as he breathlessly panted for more. His whimpers sent you into a frenzy, your hips pistolling deeper to abuse his prostate-- and the blonde could only scream for dear life as you pounded into his guts mercilessly.

Rich, deep moans spilled from your lips only aiding Atsumu into orgasming much faster. And Your brash, rapid thrusts made ‘Tsumu moan out in pure bliss, keeping himself balanced as he held onto your sturdy arms. “Such a fucking cockslut for a virgin.” You groaned, Driving your cock deeper inside of him so that you could marvel at the little bump bulging out of his toned stomach.

“Look at that, you can even see my cock in yer little tummy.” Teasing him never got old, especially with the cute whine that came out of his mouth. “If only the team was able to see just how much of a virgin whore you really are.”

That alone was enough to make Atsumu cum once more, and with one more drive of your hips against his colon, you watched as his body spasmed against your cock, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he cried out your name.

Although you did have a bad habit of tossing virgins away once you were done using them up, you were certain that you’d keep Miya Atsumu for a while. After all, he was quite fun to play with.

#sinfulcries works #top male reader #dark content #haikyuu x male reader #seme male reader #dark blog #dark haikyuu #hq smut #haikyuu smut #atsumu x male reader #atsumu x reader #miya atsumu x male reader #atsumu smut #hqintheclub

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hajimine · 3 years

Text

BETWEEN THE NOTES — SEMI EITA x GN!READER

synopsis: for as long as you can remember, you and Semi Eita have always hated each other—but a couple of tender glances and one too many bottles of beer later, you find out that maybe you were looking at it the wrong way this whole time.

genre: fluff, (kinda) enemies to lovers, musician!au, mutual pining but they’re both idiots, jealousy, etc.

warnings: alcohol + intoxication (nothing bad happens), slight suggestive themes, vulgar language, kinda fast paced?

wc: ~2.5k

to: @archivednikes happy birthday shawdy <3

special thanks to: @rintaroll for beta-ing & telling me a lil bit about how bands work and stuff bc idk shit lol :,)

“Semi, get your ass moving,” you huff. “You’re gonna make me late.”

He gives you a smug look and raises a slitted eyebrow. “Did something crawl up your ass and died? What’s up with you?”

You exhale heavily through your nose and stare at him, unimpressed.

“We gotta catch the afternoon train if you wanna reach the venue in time for our gig. This is a really good opportunity for me, don’t you dare mess it up.” you say, gathering the last of your things for the trip.

There is a tingling sensation crawling down your spine, as if someone is staring at you. You look over your shoulder curiously, opening your mouth to utter another snarky remark to get your partner to stop gawking around and get ready.

But the intensity behind his gaze caught you by surprise.

Those hazel eyes of his—ones that are usually sharp and cold—held a sort of softness in them as he looks at you. When you caught him staring, his gaze did not falter one bit.

You couldn’t stop your eyes from traveling down the perfect slope of his nose, continuing down to his pouty lips.

As much as you hate him, you can’t deny that Semi Eita is an attractive man. Heck, even the word attractive isn’t enough to express how infuriatingly hot he is.

Your gaze stays on his lips for a second too long. Have they always looked this soft and inviting?

The dry cough from the opposite side of the room is the only thing that managed to break you out of this trance. Semi Eita’s trance.

Your manager stands by the door, tapping her foot on the wooden tiles impatiently.

“Now, lovebirds,” she narrows her eyes, “Save the PDA for tonight, yeah? We’ve got a schedule to follow.”

You roll your eyes at her, cheeks uncomfortably warm. And just like that, the strange yet tender moment you shared with Semi dissipated into thin air.

。。。

You don’t know if you should take pity on the gray-haired singer or if you should laugh at him.

Currently, Semi’s head is bowed down in shame as he gets an earful from his manager in the middle of a crowded train.

You see, the four of you should’ve arrived at the venue by now. Both your managers are very strict about schedules, and they planned to arrive at the bar two hours before the agreed time.

Thankfully, his bandmates have been a little more punctual than him and have successfully boarded the 4pm train. But Mr. Popular right here just had to stop every few minutes to take pictures with every single fan he met on the way to the station.

“It’s half past five now,” his manager whisper-shouts, “Do you know what that means?”

Semi tries to give her an awkward smile to calm her down. It doesn’t work.

“It’s rush hour! What if we won’t reach the bar in time? It could ruin both your careers, do you know that?” she glares at Semi once again, but there is less bite in her voice now.

“I’m sorry,” Semi starts, plastering a charming smile on his face, “I only wanted to be nice to the fans. Wouldn’t make too good of an impression if I just ignored them, no?”

His manager sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, exasperated. She motions for Semi to stop talking with a wave of her hand.

The singer grins, and out of the corner of your eyes, you can sense his sharp gaze on you once more.

You try to ignore it.

。。。

When your group reaches the bar, Semi’s bandmates are almost done preparing themselves for the gig.

The bar is dimly lit and cool, the multitudes of warm overhead lighting being the only source of light in the room. It’s not too busy tonight, you observe. Some people still donned their work clothes, perhaps rushing over to the bar right after a long day at work—mingling around with friends to let loose for a little and enjoy themselves.

“Dude, where were you?” Aito asks, eyebrows turned downwards in a frown.

Semi pats the guitarist on the side of his head, “Relax, we’ve got plenty of time to prepare.”

Aito rolls his eyes, completely used to his bandmate’s antics.

“Whatever,” he huffs. “By the way, are we gonna have a little after party later?”

“Uh,” Semi’s eyes flicker towards you for one second, then back to Aito, “I dunno man, might be too tired to get wasted tonight.”

The guitarist narrows his eyes. He didn’t miss the way Semi’s gaze lingered on you.

“Y/N,” Aito smirks. “You coming to the after party?”

You were listening to their conversation this whole time, finding the whole exchange quite amusing.

“Eh, I don’t see why not,” you smile sweetly, “It’s gonna be even better now that this dude isn’t coming anyways.” You pointed your thumb at the vocalist.

From where he’s standing, you hear Semi scoff.

“Y’know what?” he sneers, “On second thought, I am going. How does that make you feel, huh?”

You shrug, feigning indifference.

“I literally do not care.”

“Piss off.”

Aito throws his head back in laughter, shaking his head as he walks away from the scene, muttering about people being too clueless and dense for their own damn good.

You adjusted your equipment bag on your shoulder, exhaling loudly to try and calm your heart down.

。。。

It is in moments like these that you remember why you decided to go forth with this career path, no matter how rocky it may be.

Adrenaline courses through your veins as you sing the lyrics of you and Semi’s song; every ounce of the jittery nerves you had just a few moments ago long gone.

There’s nobody else in this world that can ever take your place

Some of the customers are listening intently, others just nodding along to the song, and the rest not even listening at all.

You could hear your heartbeat thumping loudly against your chest, the sweat trickling down your forehead and into your eyes making it harder for you to see the crowd.

And when the day’s all done and dusted, all I ever need is to be in your arms again

You whip your head towards Semi, just like the countless times you rehearsed this song together.

“It shows chemistry,” your manager had said, “play it up for the crowd, will ya?”

The butterflies in your stomach flutters about restlessly when you notice that Semi has been looking at you this whole time.

His eyes—sharp and intense—held your gaze, unabashed. Steady. Sure.

Will you stay tonight? ‘Cause baby you’re all that I need, and you’re all that I want.

And in that moment, with your eyes locked on each other, the world seems to stop.

Nothing else matters, Semi’s lopsided smile says, only you.

。。。

The performance flew by in the blink of an eye, and it’s a little past midnight now. As promised, your managers held a little after party in the shared lounge of your penthouse suite.

It’s not as fancy as it sounds, you smile to yourself. There are suspicious stains on the gray carpet, and the furniture smells vaguely of cigarette smoke and sweat.

Bottles of beers have already littered the floor and glass table, and you haven’t even started drinking.

“Duuuude,” Yuuto slurs, “Why are ya so tense for?”

The bassist points at you and Semi, eyelids drooping as he tries his best to keep them open.

“C’mon guys,” Aito clasps his shoulders and massages them roughly, “Relax a little, we did amazing tonight.”

Semi shrugs his friend’s hands away, annoyed. He snatches an unopened bottle of beer from the cooler and opens the cap with his teeth.

You gulp. He hands you the bottle wordlessly before grabbing another one for himself, chugging it down quickly. You mirror his actions, hoping that the alcohol can dull the annoying fluttering in your stomach that refuses to leave ever since the two of you shared that intimate moment on stage.

For fuck’s sake, what’s going on with me?

Your trick works, in a way. Your stomach feels pleasantly warm now, and your breathing has finally evened out. Another unopened bottle of beer lays invitingly on the couch and you reach for it, opting for a bottle opener instead of doing it like Semi.

“Bro,” Yuuto grins at the singer, drool threatening to leave the corner of his mouth, “Did’ya see that blonde chick in the front row? She was hardcore eye-fucking you dude.”

“Ah,” Semi takes another swig of his beer, a cute flush blossoming in his cheeks.

Wait, what. Cute?

“She gave me her number when we were gathering up our stuff.” He runs his hand through his hair.

“You gonna hit her up or what?” Aito teases, smirking.

The singer shrugs, “Maybe, I dunno.”

Your breath hitches, and Aito’s smirk widens. You raise your eyebrows at him, silently telling him to fuck off.

“Where’s Kai?” you hear Semi ask. Come to think of it, you haven’t seen the drummer since after the show was over.

“Oh,” the guitarist laughs, “Fucker left us for some girl he saw in the bar. Might see him tomorrow morning, might not. Who knows?”

The vocalist hums and walks over to where you’re sitting, plopping down on the old couch.

“The managers?” Semi casually drapes his arm on the back of the sofa. You feel yourself tensing as your heart races uncontrollably, and the singer looks over at you with an unreadable expression on his face.

Aito scratches the back of his neck, quickly losing interest in the conversation.

“They decided to sleep in early. Long day, I guess.”

Semi nods and rests his head on the top of the couch, exposing his defined jawline. His eyelashes look so pretty from this angle, they’re long and fluttery and they almost…

Huh?

“Eita, are you gonna hit that blonde girl up or nah?” Aito provokes, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You clench your teeth and reach for yet another bottle—your fourth one this past hour. Or fifth. You don’t bother counting. Semi looks over at you again, but this time his eyes holds a sort of concern in them. You scoff to yourself.

“Uh,” the singer looks at his friend weirdly, “Why are you so insistent on this? I did say maybe didn’t I?”

Aito laughs. You almost recoil in disgust.

“Oh nothing,” he chuckles, “It’s just that she’s really hot and she’s your type so—”

You stand up abruptly, knocking over some empty beer bottles by accident. The regret is immediate. You can feel the acid in your stomach traveling up your esophagus, tickling the back of your throat.

Semi quickly stands up when you clasp a hand over your mouth, trying your best to hold it together.

“Shit,” he mutters, “You okay?”

He rubs tiny circles on the small of your back, an action that’s supposed to be soothing but instead causes tingles to run up and down your spine. You shiver.

Another wave of nausea hits before you could respond, causing your knees to almost give out under you.

“Whoa there, angel,” Semi wraps his arm around your waist, holding you flush to his side to support your weight.

You groan softly as your head spins uncomfortably. Droplets of cold sweat is starting to form on your forehead, adding another layer of discomfort upon you.

“You wanna go to your bedroom?” Semi murmurs close to your ear. You shiver again. At this, Semi thought that you’re freezing so he drapes his leather jacket on your shoulders, holding you close.

You nod weakly as you try to blink the black spots in your vision away.

From somewhere around the room, you hear Aito snicker, “Stay safe!”

You turn your head around to give him a deathly glare, but all you see is a big blob of blurriness.

Dammit.

。。。

Semi takes the key card from your bag and pushes the door open, placing your duffel bag on the floor after

He guides you to the bathroom—with gentleness you rarely see from him—and sets the toilet cover down so you can sit on it while he wets a towel with the running tap water.

“You still feel dizzy?” he asks, voice soft.

You stare at his fingers as he wrings the towel and shakes your head.

Semi holds out the cloth and pats your forehead with it, the coolness allowing you to feel a little more refreshed.

“Do you want me to make you some tea?” he wipes the back of your neck carefully.

Shit. Has he always been this thoughtful?

You shake your head again, telling him that you just want to go to sleep.

He sighs and gives you a half-smile, holding out his arm to help you to the bed.

Semi still has it in him to give you a little but of privacy as you wiggle out of your tight jeans, looking away until you slip under the covers.

He helps you pull the plush white comforter closer to your chest, tucking you in.

Your mind doesn’t feel as hazy as it was a few hours ago, but the leftover alcohol coursing through your veins gave you a sort of boost to your impulses.

“Eita,” you whisper, reaching out towards the singer, “Stay?”

The singer halts in his steps and turns to look at you.

“Uh, I don’t know Y/N,” he starts, “You’re drunk right now.”

“No I’m not,” you say, steady voice proving your point. “Please?”

Semi glances over at the door and sighs. He chewed on his lower lip for a few seconds before sighing again.

“Okay.”

。。。

You’re struggling to open your eyes when you wake up, the harsh sunlight streaming into the room completely unfiltered.

Drunk you completely forgot to close the blinds, it seems.

You groan audibly, wanting to pull the covers above your head to hide yourself from this cruel world.

You freeze. Why can you feel someone’s soft breaths on the crown of your head?

Nervously, you reach out in front of you, eyes still shut closed. Oh no.

You force your eyes open, grimacing from the sudden brightness. Your eyes widen at the sight in front of you. Semi Eita, your supposed nemesis, is sleeping soundly a few inches away from you, arms wrapped around your waist.

What the hell happened last night?

A small squeak leaves your mouth as you fully realize the situation you’re in. The small noise wakes Semi up from his slumber, causing him to slowly open his eyes, squinting at the bright light.

“Morning, angel,” he croaks, voice raspy with sleep.

My god does he look pretty in the morning.

You stay there, frozen and unblinking. All the words at the tip of your tongue seem to disappear from existence.

Semi blinks, sitting up quickly.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he rubs his eyes vigorously, “I should’ve said no when you asked me to stay. Fuck, you were drunk and I—”

You grab the back of his neck and pull him closer to you, a small smile gracing your lips.

Your thumb grazes Semi’s bottom lip, dragging it down every so slightly before releasing it, enjoying the way he seems to unravel under your touch.

“Shut up and kiss me, will you?” you murmur, trying to keep your cool as your heart hammers against your chest loudly.

At this, Semi breaks out of his reverie and laughs, “I thought you’d never ask.”

a/n: if you’ve made it this far, please feel free to let me know what you think about this fic! and please REBLOG IF YOU ENJOYED mwah <3

#❀ —𝐁𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 #haikyuu x reader #semi eita x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu fluff #haikyuu imagines #semi eita imagines #semi eita #haikyuu x you #hq x reader #haikyuu scenarios #!semi

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homoose · 3 years

Text

Teach Me Something I Don’t Know: Part VII

Summary: Spencer’s unresolved trauma catches up with him. Reader gets her heart broken.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst, I’m so sorry guys

Warnings/Includes: brief mention of violence and details of a case; brief mention of prison, past trauma; a lil self-loathing and self-sabotaging

Word count: 3.8k

a/n: I knew that this was where this story was going from the very beginning. The dialogue is one of the first parts I had written. It still hurts. Relevant to the story: I operate with the understanding that the Jeid arc does not exist, which also means that Spencer never went to therapy in season 15. Also, huge thanks to @reidscanehand for beta-ing and just generally being my hype person!!!!

Song Recs: Shrike by Hozier; Better As a Memory by Kenny Chesney (don’t come for me if Spencer made playlists this would ABSOLUTELY be on there)

Series Masterlist

———

Spencer made his way to Emily’s office, ignoring the team’s eyes on him— varying degrees of understanding, concern, and uncertainty plain on their faces. As he reached the threshold, he paused for a second before moving into her line of sight. When he moved into the doorway, she looked up and waved him in. He closed the door behind him.

She gestured to the chair in front of her desk. Spencer hesitated for only a split second, but it was long enough for her to notice. He lowered himself into the chair and met her eyes.

She folded her hands on top of the desk. “How are you feeling?”

He drummed his fingers across his kneecaps. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie, and they both knew it. She bit back a sigh and flipped open the folder in front of her. “I’m finished with the official report. I wanted to go over it with you before I submit it to the director.” She looked at him briefly before reading out the report. “On January 9th, our team pursued a lead at the residence of suspect Andrew Hurley. We divided into teams to cover the two entrances to the home, as well as the barn behind the house.”

Spencer fidgeted slightly in his chair and rubbed the tips of his fingers together. Emily continued, “During the raid, Supervisory Special Agent Spencer Reid became separated from the team and was ambushed and disarmed by the suspect in the barn.” She paused but didn’t look at him. “The team was unaware of the altercation for some time, during which Dr. Reid employed various approved restraint methods and was ultimately forced to utilize self-defense measures to preserve his own life. Consequently, Mr. Hurley sustained serious injuries.”

She did look at him then, a steady and unrelenting gaze that had him shrinking inside himself. “However, I have determined that Dr. Reid’s actions were justified in order to maintain his own safety.” She returned her eyes to the report. “Mr. Hurley was detained and treated for his injuries at Sebastian River Medical Center, and he is expected to make a full recovery. Based on the cognitive interviews and physical evidence, a grand jury hearing is scheduled for January 25th.” She brought her hands to rest on top of the report.

“I’ll sign off on it and deliver it to the director by the end of business today.” She let out the sigh she’d been holding back. “Reid.”

He pressed his mouth into a thin line, torn between shame and vindication. “Emily.”

“What happened in that barn was unacceptable. And I need you to recognize that.” Her eyes were back on him, a leader’s gaze boring into a weak link. “You went against a direct order. You put your life in danger unnecessarily, and in the process you endangered this entire team. Furthermore, you could have cost us the ability to close this case, to put Hurley away and bring justice to his victims.”

“It won’t happen again,” he assured her.

“No, it won’t.” Her tone told him that if it did, he’d have bigger problems than a meeting in her office. “My recommendation to the director is that you transition to your next mandatory leave cycle early.”

“I can handle—”

“It’s not a request. You’re on sabbatical starting tomorrow. That’s an order, and one you’d do well to follow.” She closed the file in front of her. “We’ll see you back in the bullpen on March 7th.”

“I don’t need more time off, Emily,” Spencer snapped.

He could see her grind her teeth together at his tone, but he couldn’t seem to care enough to feel contrite. She took a deep breath in through her nose, leveling him with a pointed look. “If Simmons hadn’t broken it up, you’d have killed Hurley on the floor of that barn.”

His mind snapped back to the lifeless eyes of Hurley’s victims— eight year old boys in shallow graves. Boys who died afraid, and in pain, and crying out for their mothers. His thoughts raced to the feel of Hurley’s throat under his arm, the crack of the zygomatic under his fist. Emily was right of course. If Matt hadn’t found them in the barn and dragged him up and off of Hurley’s nearly lifeless body, Spencer would have killed him without compunction.

“Reid.” The stern edge was gone from her voice. Spencer refocused his eyes on her face, now showcasing an underlying concern that made his stomach turn. “I’m not recommending another cycle of mandatory counseling at this time, although I reserve the right to require it moving forward. But… I’m asking you to take care of yourself. You’ve been through a lot in the last two years. More than a lot.”

“I said I’m fine,” he insisted, but there was less fire behind it this time.

“And I’m not saying you aren’t,” she countered. “But I am saying that the person in that barn… that wasn’t you. That was not the Reid that I know.” Emily tilted her head and furrowed her brow. “The Reid I know uses his intellect and empathy to see angles that the rest of us miss. He depends on the strength of his mind and his unwavering compassion to diffuse conflicts without violence. He invites his friends to foreign film showings and puppet theater.”

When he didn’t budge, she let out a long breath. “I want you to take the next fifty days to find that Reid and bring him back to us.”

...

Y/N dropped into her desk chair with a huff. They’d been back from winter break for two weeks, and she already needed another vacation. But tomorrow was Friday, and then they had a long weekend. She could make it through one more day.

She closed her eyes for a long moment, tired in the way that only kindergarten teachers fresh off a long break can be. She heard the click of Anita’s shoes coming before she even entered the room, and Y/N couldn’t stop the twitch of her lips.

“Dude. How is it only Thursday?” Anita flopped down into the plush Calm Corner chair.

“This has been the longest week of my life,” Y/N agreed. “My kids were off the chain.”

“There is so much drama in middle school right now,” Anita groaned. “I can’t keep up with all the tea, and you know how I love to stay up to date on the freshest brews.” She shot Y/N a look. “Speaking of, where’s the good doctor?”

“I think they’ve had a lot going on at work,” Y/N surmised. “I haven’t seen Mrs. Jareau in over a month.”

“Well, I’m getting antsy,” Anita complained. “Thought for sure you’d be going steady by now.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help but feel a little impatient herself. If she’d known it would be this long before she’d see him again, she might have made a move when he’d volunteered. Then again, probably not. She sighed.

Her phone chimed with an email message, and she automatically swiped the screen open to read it.

Spencer Reid Re:

Are you free today? If you are, I’ll be at Soho.

...

Spencer sat at the table in the corner of the coffee shop. He sipped absentmindedly at his tea, almost gone cold. He hadn’t waited for a reply before leaving Quantico. He drove straight to the city, figuring he’d wait at Soho until he felt some semblance of calm returning to his body.

He didn’t know why he’d emailed Y/N, and he wasn’t sure he really wanted her to show up. Usually he’d talk to Penelope or maybe JJ. But he’d wanted to get as far from the BAU as possible, and he didn’t want to drag Penelope away from the colorful, safe corner of the world she’d created for herself. He didn’t want to fill it with all the tragedy she’d tried so hard to leave behind.

If Y/N did show, he was certain he could keep the conversation vague, focus on her and the classroom, ask her about her holidays. She wasn’t a profiler, didn’t know his tells well enough. She’d be none the wiser, and he’d have her warmth and presence to focus his energy on, if only for a few hours.

Every time the bell chimed, his eyes flew to the door, searching for her. He knew it was ridiculous. He’d only known her for one hundred and eleven days. Pragmatically, he knew she shouldn’t be the one he wanted to talk to. Realistically, he wasn’t planning to burden her with all of the mess of the past week, the past year, his entire life.

But in the six hundred and forty seven minutes he’d spent with her since September, he’d felt more like himself than he ever had. He was never afraid to be himself with her— the silly story voices, the ridiculous costume, the magic trick, the vulnerability about his mom. All of these pieces of himself were things he usually waited years to show people. It had taken her a matter of weeks to draw them out.

He couldn’t help but believe that if he wanted to, he could tell her everything. She’d know exactly what to say. She’d listen for as long as he could keep talking. She’d cover his shaking hands and wrap him up in the warmth of her spirit. She’d give of herself to guide him back to the person he used to be. She’d be more than willing to use her radiance to illuminate the dark so that he might have a little light again.

The bell sounded, and his eyes focused, and there she was. She was wrapped up in a puffed jacket, a bright blue scarf tied around her neck. Her nose was adorably red from the cold, and she rubbed her hands together as the door closed behind her. Her eyes found him immediately. A small smile turned up the corners of her mouth, and she gave him an enthusiastic wave. And he knew that he was right about all of it.

She approached the table, unwinding her scarf. “Hi!”

“Hi.”

Her eyes flickered over his face, and then settled on his mostly empty mug. “I’ll get you a refill, and then we’ll catch up?”

He nodded, and she headed to the counter. There had been a part of him that thought she wouldn’t come, but of course she did. For some reason, unbeknownst to him, she liked talking to him. Even among his closest friends, he was often made to feel self-conscious about his tendency to ramble, but Y/N had literally asked him to. She sought him out, asked him questions, listened intently, and remembered things he’d told her. She was kind and thoughtful and genuine. Of course she came when he called.

She returned with two mugs, carefully setting them down on the tiny table. She unzipped and removed her jacket, hanging it on the back of her chair and revealing a crew neck sweater covered in tiny astronauts and rocket ships. When she sat across from him, her hands wrapped around the mug and her eyes met his.

“Hi.”

He couldn’t stop his lips from twitching, despite the events of the day. “You said that already.”

She laughed, and he felt the weight begin to lift. “Yeah, well, I haven’t seen you in forever, so— I’m just making up for lost time.”

“Sixty one days.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s been sixty one days, eighty eight minutes, and approximately,” he looked at his watch, “fourteen seconds since we saw each other last.”

She laughed again, and his mouth completed its curve. She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I like that you’ve been counting.” She let her chin come to rest in her hand, eyes studying his face. “How are you?”

He wanted to lie, but she was looking at him so earnestly that he mumbled out, “I’m managing.”

She mirrored the way he’d looked at her across this same table nearly three months ago. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” That was a lie, too. But asking her to meet him was enough of a burden.

“Okay. Well, if you change your mind at any point, let me know.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “Until then, I can just regale you with all the kindergarten stories you’ve missed while you were out saving lives.”

And regale him she did. For almost an hour, he listened to her tales of love (budding crushes were taking over recess time), loss (the class pet— a stuffed zebra— had accidentally taken a swim in the Atlantic on a vacation to Florida), and lessons learned…

“So, in case there was ever any doubt, we are now painfully aware that we shouldn’t attempt to flush our underwear.” Y/N let out an exasperated laugh.

She’d been talking to him for fifty three minutes, and his heart already felt one thousand times lighter. “I’m really glad I wasn’t there for that one.”

“I really wish that was the only poop story I had.” She shook her head. “There are a lot of things they don’t tell you in grad school. I think there’d be a global teacher shortage if they warned you about the amount of bodily fluid management involved in teaching kindergarten.”

She toyed with the edge of her empty mug. He watched the movement of her fingers.

“Do you—”

She laughed and gestured for him to speak first.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

…

They ended up in Mitchell Park. The trees were bare and the grass was brown, but he was with her, and so it was beautiful.

They’d been walking in comfortable silence, when she asked, “Did you change your mind? About talking about it.”

Spencer put his hands into his pockets. “It’s, um— it’s kind of a lot.”

She shrugged. “I’ve got time.”

“I don’t mean— I mean, it would take some time to get through it all. But it’s also— it’s a lot.”

“We don’t have to.” He could feel her eyes on him. “Do you talk to— someone about it?”

“I talked with my unit chief today,” he answered.

“Okay. But— I mean, have you ever— talked to someone. Like, a professional.”

Spencer bristled slightly. Although he knew she wasn’t passing judgement, her question exposed the reality that she thought he could use it. “I’ve had some mandated counseling over the years.”

“Obviously it’s your choice whether you talk to someone or not,” she mused. “I just— I know that I’ve benefited a lot from seeing my therapist.”

Spencer was unsure of what to do with that information. Here she was, confessing that she went to therapy— sweet, lovely Y/N. In comparison, he wasn’t sure if even daily meetings with a counselor would be enough to tame the darkness that had grown and festered inside him over the years. That sometimes threatened to swallow him whole.

For a long while, there was only the crunch of the frozen ground beneath their feet. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was an uncertainty about them that felt uncharacteristically heavy. He was hyper aware of her presence, and so he felt her pace slowing down before she came to a complete stop. He walked a few more paces before it became clear that she wasn’t planning to catch up.

He turned and saw that she’d taken a seat on one of the park benches. He carefully made his way to the bench, sitting beside her quietly. She didn’t look at him, but instead studied her fingernails intently. She cracked her knuckles once, twice, and then turned her body slightly toward him on the bench.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” she hedged carefully. “I didn’t mean to tell you what to do, or like, imply that there’s anything wrong with you. There’s nothing wrong with you at all. I just—”

“It’s fine,” Spencer assured her. The way she looked at him then— like he was something fragile, delicate— made his eyes burn. He kept his voice even. “I know what you meant.”

She smiled, eyes crinkling and filled with something that felt familiar and far away all at once. “Good. I can’t have you out here thinking you’re anything less than wonderful.”

He couldn’t stop looking at her, attempting to solve the impossible cypher behind her irises. As he failed to decode it, his inability to read her blinded him to what came next. He missed the dilation of her pupils, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips, the increase of the beats in her carotid. So when she leaned in and pressed her mouth to his, he was momentarily paralyzed.

Her lips were so soft against his slightly chapped ones, pressing with a perfectly gentle pressure. She brought her hand up to cradle his cheek, the pads of her fingers just barely ghosting the curls falling around his ear. She sighed into his mouth and pressed a little closer. He took one peaceful moment to bask in the realization of a desire he’d had for almost four months.

And then she swiped the very tentative tip of her tongue against the seam of his mouth, and his hands involuntarily wound into her hair, dragging her closer. He opened his mouth against hers to swallow her sweet little gasp. His grip on her hair tightened, and she let out the tiniest mewl, and like a switch had flipped— suddenly his mind was full of the darkness she’d spent the evening chasing away.

Y/N beneath him in the dark. Maeve in a pool of blood. His hands around Cat’s neck. His mother’s slap against his cheek. Max walking away from him. His fingers pressing the plunger on a dirty syringe. The slam of the door behind his father. Y/N calling out his name. A knife at his throat under a canopy of bones. Innumerable sets of lifeless eyes staring up at him. His life being snuffed out on the dirt floor of a shed. The clanging of metal bars and fingers ghosting over old bruises. Y/N looking at him with warm, loving eyes. The violent crack of bone underneath his fists. Y/N’s face, lovely and perfect— and then twisted in pain.

He broke away from her, releasing his hold on her hair and pushing her back into the bench. He took a second to gather himself before he dared to look at her. Her hair was tousled from his rough grip; her eyes were half-lidded and focused on him; her lips were red and kiss-bruised and turned up in a small, sweet smile.

And all at once he knew he had to hurt her, and it had to be now. Because what Cat had said about him was true. He might have escaped his mother’s illness, but he hadn’t been able to outrun the violence— and unlike her, he didn’t have the excuse of being sick. He had hurt people, and he had enjoyed it. He would have killed Hurley, and he would have slept soundly. He was no better than the men his team hunted.

Every time he thought he’d moved past it, that wickedness lurking just under the surface would grab him by the throat, choking everything else out. Emily’s directive rang in his ears. Find that Reid and bring him back to us. He knew who she was talking about. The problem was, he wasn’t sure that person still existed.

He was going to hurt Y/N eventually. Better to do it now, before things got too far.

“You’re Michael’s teacher,” he said, as evenly as possible.

Her smile faltered, and she pressed her lips together. He could still feel the phantom press of them against his own, and he was sure he’d never forget it. She cleared her throat. “You’re right, you’re totally right. I, um— I won’t be in a few months, and maybe then—”

“You don’t even know me,” he interrupted.

Now there was confusion in her eyes. That much he could read. She huffed out a small laugh. “I— I don’t think that’s entirely true.”

He looked directly at her. “Why? Because you read my bio on a university website? Because we got tea a couple times?” His voice sounded harsh, patronizing, and he hated it.

Her confusion shifted into shock, and he ignored the tug on his heart. “Are you serious?” she questioned, genuinely searching for a sign that he was joking.

“Dead serious.” He shrugged, and it felt like his bones were breaking. “You don’t really know anything about me, Y/N. If you did, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

“Where— where is this coming from?” Her voice was small, close to breaking. He lined up the last nail on the lid of the coffin.

“Maybe I gave you the wrong impression. I’ve appreciated talking to you. Volunteering in your classroom was entertaining. But I don’t— I don’t see you that way.” It was a lie, and if he didn’t have such a practiced poker face, she might have seen through it. As it was, his poker face had helped get him banned from every casino in Vegas, so he watched her as he hammered the final nail. “You’re just Michael’s kindergarten teacher.”

“Oh.” The hurt flashed across her features— the furrow of her brow, the tightening of her mouth, the storm clouds in her eyes. “Well, I— I really read this wrong, huh?” She laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Yeah.” He put his hands into his pockets to keep himself from reaching for her, the desire to comfort her a strange juxtaposition to the pain he was intentionally inflicting on her. “I guess so.”

She opened and closed her mouth twice before taking a deep breath and nearly whispering, “Okay. Well. I’m— I’m gonna go.”

She brushed some imaginary dust from her pants and then stood. She turned to him, and he waited for her to explode— to scream and curse at him. But it didn’t come. She didn’t look at him at all. “Um— yeah. I’m gonna go.”

He didn’t say anything, and he knew she’d take his silence as indifference. But he had to keep his mouth shut, because if he didn’t, he’d beg her to stay. He’d tell her every single random piece of information he had stored in his brain. He’d tell her that he loved her from the moment he watched her help a child pick a solution from a pencil box. He’d tell her that he only ever dreamt of two things these days— her or the lives he didn’t save. He’d tell her every single one of his deepest, darkest secrets. He’d tell her that sometimes he was so afraid of himself that he could barely breathe. And if he told her all of that, she’d walk away anyway.

So instead, he watched her turn and start back up the path, hugging her arms around herself and swiping her cheek against her scarf.

When she disappeared over the slope of the path, he scrubbed his hands over his own damp face and let himself break.

———

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#spencer reid #spencer x reader #spencer x y/n #spencer x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds self insert #spencer reid imagine #homoose writes #tmsidk

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more-stuff-of-pi · 3 years

Text

I’ll Fight For You

a/n: lmao i swear i’m fine, just needed good ol’ kiri to assist me in a v self-indulgent fic. also, sorry for taking forever to write something yoinks

notes: did i read through this after i wrote it? nope. we’re fucking rolling with the audacity of not even a single ounce of beta-ing. requests are open :) find my masterlist here

pairing: kirishima eijirou x fem!reader | genre: angst (w/happy ending) / hurt/comfort | warnings: abusive mother (mental/verbal), a father who doesn’t intervene | word count: 2,018

Your boyfriend was practically vibrating with nerves as he adjusted his hair in the mirror. It was artfully piled on top of his head, his dark roots making a sharp contrast against the vibrant red.

“Ei,” you smiled, “you’re gonna be fine.”

He worried his sharp teeth against his bottom lip, frowning all the while. “But what if they--?”

“They’re going to love you, Ei. Probably even more than they love me,” you joke, coming up behind Eijirou’s monstrously large form. Hero work had been both kind and harsh on him but he made it look effortlessly good. You gently slid your arms around his waist as you angled yourself so that you could still eye his reflection.

“I’m just… worried, is all.”

You cock your eyebrow. “About what, Ei?”

He incredulously meets your gaze through the mirror. “What do you mean, about what?!”

It dawns on you a little bit. “Oh, well, she’s not going to be mean to you, Ei. She knows how to play nice when it counts. And you, good sir, count.”

“That’s not as reassuring as it is worrying, you know.”

“My mother is just a little intense, babe, it’s nothing I’m not used to. Like I said, she knows how to tone it down in front of others. I’m sure tonight will be fine. I probably just exaggerate everytime I whine about her, so she’s probably not even half as bad as I make her sound,” you shrug, leaning more into Eijirou’s side.

“Baby,” he sighs, twisting a little to look directly at you, no mirror this time. His eyes are sad yet firm as if wishing you to understand that there’s no need to defend yourself with him.

You squeeze him tighter before letting go and walking to the door. “C’mon, we’ll be late if we don’t leave now.”

❁

You always forget that you don’t really ever exaggerate your mother’s behavior towards you until you’re around her again. Everything as far as introducing your boyfriend to your parents has been going incredibly smoothly. Your dad enthusiastically engaged Eijirou in hero stories, talking about Red Riot’s most recent media appearance where he was dressed in pajamas and carrying tubs of various ice creams you both had wanted to try when he dropped everything to prevent a construction beam from falling on clueless bystanders. Only one tub of ice cream had survived and luck had it that it was your least favorite flavor combination. Your mother praised Eijirou for his success and his coupling good looks at which she winked, making your boyfriend flush both at the phrase and the uncomfortable comments your mother directed at him. You winced at that, having forgotten to prepare him for the habitual talent your mother had of sexualizing anything, especially if it would ‘embarrass’ her child.

Your mother had made off handed comments throughout the whole night that you seemed to be the only one to pick up on. Your dad might have noticed a few but, as usual, he only looked at you apologetically, never interrupting his wife to stand up for you.

As much as you loved both of your parents and as much as they had their good moments, this fucking sucked.

“--not that she’s any good with that quirk of hers, of course,” your mother snickered as she brought the glass to her lips. You had become a good actor over the years in order to avoid your mother’s bullying over your ‘sensitiveness’, but something about her dismissing your hard work always immediately dismantled whatever mask you had thrown on. To cover what you know must be a crestfallen look, you give a laugh, something that could be called half-hearted at best. Your eyes remained trained on your food. “Oh come on, Y/n, that was funny.”

You chuckled again, hoping to force some genuineness into it. “Yeah--”

“No, it wasn’t,” Eijirou immediately cuts you off, voice straining with anger. You felt your face drain of blood as you noticed how tightly he was gripping his chopsticks. He was fuming. You don’t think you’d ever seen him angry before. The thought scared you. “That was just mean.”

Your mother quirked an unimpressed, subtly pissed brow at your boyfriend. “Don’t be sensitive, Eijirou. House rules: if it’s mean but funny, it’s okay.”

“As long as you get a laugh from it, it’s okay to abuse your child?” He spits at her like venom.

Your mother sets her glass down, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

“You heard--”

You slap a hand over Eijirou’s bicep, squeezing so hard you wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up bruising. “It’s fine! Nothing I’m used to! I grew up on the ‘if it’s mean but funny’ rule, so it’s fine.”

The look he gave you was of incredulous anger. “No, it is not--!”

“Please, Ei. Please, just--,” you averted your eyes, ashamed of your own familiar defeat. “Just sit.”

Shamefully, you slide back into your seat, nervously smoothing out a napkin back onto your lap. Eijirou still stood beside you, staring daggers at your mother who effortlessly returned it. His fists were balled, the veins in his hands flexing with the effort of restraining himself. His jaw snapped shut with an audible clamp as he resolved himself to sitting back down.

Your dad clears his throat, more so than necessary as if the harder he did it, the better he could dissipate the tension. “Done, everyone?” No one answers him. He takes that as the go ahead to begin clearing dishes, desperately jumping at the opportunity to escape your mother’s impending tantrum. You loved your dad very much but, god, he was nothing if not a coward, always leaving you to fight your own battles. You don’t think you’ve ever won.

Your mother returns her cold attention to you, the ice starting to thicken and your mother’s hollow kindness starting to retreat along with her patience. “What are you even doing to help train your quirk, sweetie?”

Taken aback, you met her gaze. “W-what do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t ever see you doing anything at all to help. You do realize that training takes work, right? What does it take? It takes--,” your mother trailed off, flourishing both hands to motion for you to finish the sentence.

“Effort--”

“Effort!” She clapped with your word. “It takes effort! And I only want the best for you, sweetheart, which is why I’m just asking what you’re doing. From where I stand, it doesn’t look like you’re doing anything at all to help improve yourself! As your mother, your concerned mother, I’m just looking out for you, sweetheart.”

Your mind is reeling at her words. You so badly want to defend yourself, assert all of the effort that you have painstakingly put in-- but you are reminded of the precise way your mother is able to leech any ounce of power or confidence from you. You would think that was her quirk if you didn’t know any better. “Mom, I am putting effort in, I train almost everyday--”

“Do you really?” Her voice drips with venomous shock. “It certainly doesn’t look like you do,” she gestures vaguely at you, eyeing your body with a vulture’s gaze. “Maybe you should consider morning and night. Oh! And a diet change, too. You know, since the popular heroes have a specific look to them and I just want to make sure that you can fit that. Since it’s your dream to be a popular hero. Like I said, you have to be willing to put in the effort. Oh, sweetie, don’t look at me like that. You know the difficult position I’m in! Trying to encourage you and help you achieve your dreams while not seeming too enthusiastic. You’re putting that stress on me, sweetie, I’m only trying to help.”

It really was incredible how quickly your mother could erase any confidence you had. Normally, you would stand beaming, more than happy to assert yourself and stand up for yourself and others. All it took was a couple words from your mother, and you turned into a dog with its head down and its tail between its legs, fearful of its master.

Your gut sank and hatred swirled throughout your body for both yourself and her as you once again let her have power over you. “You’re right. Sorry, Mom--”

“Do you know where your daughter ranks as a hero?”

Stunned, you both glanced at Eijirou, having almost completely forgotten that he was there. Throughout her tirade, you had felt a tragically familiar loneliness, used to having to defend yourself when no one, not even your other family members, would. Used to always submitting and used to the shame that always accompanied your forced silence.

“What?” She spat.

“I asked if you knew your daughter’s ranking. I just was wondering, is all. It would make sense if you weren’t aware that she ranks in the top 30 since you were asking about the effort she puts in. I would think that that accomplishment -- at such a young age, too, might I add -- was evidence enough of the countless hours, blood, sweat, and tears that she has poured into this. The effort she’s painstakingly put in. You’re right that being a hero is her dream, and she’s a damn good one, too. Saved my life more than once with ‘that quirk of hers’,” he sneered bitterly. “And, on top of that, she’s so beautiful through and through that sometimes it’s all I can do to stare at her in awe. Your thinly veiled shaming of her appearance is never the result of a mother’s so-called difficult situation, only the result of your own insecurities.”

Eijirou suddenly stands, having finally had more than enough for one night. “The only gratitude I will ever have towards you is for bringing this wonderful woman into this world. I hope one day you’ll actually realize how amazing your daughter is and how proud of her you ought to be. Because I am. I am so incredibly proud of her and her accomplishments and the results of her efforts.”

“And who’s to say that I’m not proud of her, Eijirou?”

He scoffs. Eijirou, the kindest, most patient man you know, scoffs in your mother’s face. “Haven’t you ever heard that actions speak louder than words?”

Your mother gapes up at him, opening and closing her mouth like a fish. In that moment, she resembles a fish and you couldn’t be more pleased with that comparison.

“He’s right, mom.” You rise to join him. “I know you love me. I have no choice but to believe it because I think it would destroy me if I didn’t. But maybe someday I won’t constantly have to defend myself to you and you’ll accept the things I say without dismissing them. You always say you admire me most for my assertiveness but you shut me down anytime I use it to stand up for myself against you. And that makes you nothing but a hypocrite.” You stare her down, reveling in the confidence Eijirou gives you in this thing against your mother. For the first time, you are not alone as you fight this battle. For the first time, you have help. And for the first time, you feel like you’ve won. “Now if you’ll excuse us.”

You take Eijirou’s hand and lead him out of the house, leaving your parents to stare after you in shock. As soon as you make it out, cold air hits you like a slap in the face that harshly wakes you from a daze.

“Holy shit, Ei, did I just stand up to my mom?”

He laughs and squeezes your hand. “It was pretty manly, too.” You laugh breathlessly, still in disbelief as you push your other fist against his arm. “And you know,” he continues, “that I’m the best judge of that.”

“That must mean a lot,” you grin, swinging your linked hands between you as you walk further from your parents’ home, feeling the fullness of a good meal and a battle won.

taglist: @samwrights, @mayaoliviee, @luluwiie, @gigglyparker (i thought i would tag you since you commented on the draft that i posted of this, hope you don’t mind <3)

#i'll fight for you #kirishima eijirou x reader #kirishima x reader #bnha x reader #hurt/comfort #abusive mother tw #tw abusive mother #mha x reader #bro this fic lowkey fvcking sucks lmao so sorry that this is the first thing you see from me in a while #like it just feels really rushed which it probably is but it's incredibly self-indulgent and it fulfills my purposes so it's good enough #for me that is

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pomegranates-and-blood · 3 years

Text

Arinn (Vοσταλγία Winter Blurb)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Arinn: fireplace, hearth (Old Norse)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: Winter Blurb #4. Pillowtalk and annoying priestess soft Ivar, that’s about it.

Word Count: 1312

Warnings: nope, just fluff and my writing lol. Teeny tiny bit of suggestive whatevers towards the end.

A/N: Yeah, idk what this is, but I’m Marie Kondo-ing the shit out of Nostalgia atm, so, since it sparked joy, I wrote it, and now imma share it cause why not, hopefully it sparks joy in you!

“Ivar?”

There’s few things Ivar likes more than his name on your lips, the way your voice forms around the short word, the still notable accent present even then. But, right now, it is not something he wants to hear.

But you are nothing if not insufferably stubborn. Determined, you’d call it, but Ivar prefers to call it by what it is.

“Ivar?” You move closer, and though he keeps his eyes closed you pay no mind. Your hand on the side of his face is soft and slightly cold. Again, waking up to your soft touches and your body pressed against his is something he’d kill for…but on the morning, not the middle of the night. You insist, voice breathy by his ear, “My love?”

“What.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“I can,” He retorts, still refusing to open his eyes. “Let me.”

“Do you still believe it?” You ask him, and Ivar bites back words of how it is the middle of the night and you both should really be sleeping, and instead turns to lay on his side with a sigh. He opens his eyes to find you wide awake, a slight furrow in your lips that tries and fails at hiding a smug smile. By all the Gods, the things he puts up with for you.

“Believe what?” He questions, not caring about stopping himself from reaching for you, trailing up and down your arm with the back of his fingers. You are always slightly cold to the touch, and at his weakest he thinks it fitting that you feel like relief from burning flames under his touch.

“That it was Fated, that…that the Gods somehow intervened for us to meet.”

“Do you?” He asks instead of giving an answer. You notice, of course you do, that he is deliberately choosing not to answer your question, but past a look that tells him he hasn’t fooled anyone, you don’t mention it.

He wants it to be true, if he is honest. On nights like these, especially now that these nights are not promised to one day be remembered as a relic of the past that has long since left him amongst those flames your cold skin saves him from; he almost believes it to be true. It seems impossible otherwise, that you are here now, that you love him and you chose him, if it wasn’t somehow mandated by the Gods that heard him too many times curse his weakness while pleading for reprieve.

If somehow the Gods sent you to him, as a reward or something else -a punishment, his sleep-addled mind complains-; then it is easier to accept it is something he can keep. The idea that it was something he did that made you stay, that made you choose him, is strangely terrifying, even if the alternative leaves him powerless, because it means there is something he can do to make you leave, to make you choose a life without him in it.

You reach with your hand for the amulet of Thor that hangs from your neck, a habit you haven’t let go of even if it is no longer your Gods that are represented in your pendant, as you consider his question.

“I don’t know,” You muse, voice quiet. Ivar lets his eyes fall closed as he offers a quiet hm of his own, a prompt for you to continue. Your voice, warm and comforting, washes over him as you say, “I was taught that the Gods may choose what happens to us, but we decide if or how we let it change us. That is something the Fates cannot decide for us.”

“Your Fates…Moirai?”

“You remember.” You whisper, almost to yourself. He hears the smile in your voice, and it fills him with pride to be the reason behind that softness in your tone, behind that openness in your smile.

“Mhm. The three women.”

“They are three women for you too, aren’t they?” He replies with another sound, something that he thinks sounds vaguely affirmative, and lets you continue talking. “Bend to the Fates, but don’t let them break you. My mother and father told me that, one of the only lessons I remember from them.”

“What is it supposed to mean?”

“I have no idea.” You reply honestly. Ivar chuckles tiredly, and you offer a breathed laugh to accompany it.

“Since there aren’t lessons to answer it…what do you believe, hm?”

He almost wants to ask himself at which point he decided he was the one after answers instead of you, but he doesn’t much care for it. He does care for your answer, though.

“If the Gods, if…if Freyja or Despoina are the reason I am here…it doesn’t matter,” You find your resolve halfway through your words, and Ivar can feel his lips pulling into a faint smile. You adjust in your place, quickly regretting it when you let a cold breeze under the warm furs, and so move closer to him. He likes it when you do that, when you burrow close to him and seek his warmth. It makes him feel…powerful, in some roundabout way. Like you need him as much as he needs you, like you can trust him to take care of you. You pull back slightly to look at him, and he blinks past the lure of sleep and forces his eyes to focus on you. You offer a small smile, “They are not the reason I stay.”

He finds himself smiling back, like the lovesick fool that you’ve made out of him; but after a breath narrows his eyes and points out,

“We could talk about this come morning.”

“We are already talking about it,” You retort, shrugging one shoulder. “We ought to finish the things we start, my love.”

He takes a deep breath. He knows that just by retorting with something he will be doing exactly what you want him to, which is staying awake and keeping you company, but he is too tired to think of a strategy around it now.

So, he insists, “Not really.”

“You were the one telling me to finish what I start a couple of nights ago, if I remember correctly.”

Ivar knows what you are talking about, mostly because he can identify that smug little tone in your voice. In the dim light of the morning, he had your legs wrapped around him and you were moaning quietly against his lips as you tasted yourself on his tongue, but you were interrupted and you just…left. Ivar grew increasingly frustrated during the rest of the day, and he is certain -even if you deny it- that at some point near the afternoon you noticed, and you started making it worse by lingering more than usual on your touches, putting a bit more force in your kisses. He knows at some point during the night, when he finally had you to himself, half-mad with lust he grunted by your ear how you better finish what you start. He still remembers the way the dark and hoarse laugh you let out made a shiver run down his spine.

He grits his teeth, and insists, “Not the same.”

You remain silent for a couple of breaths, and it is enough to intrigue him into opening his eyes again. He finds you smiling a little wickedly, and can’t help the thrill that look sends down his spine.

Another little shrug, and you offer, “It could be.”

Ivar rolls his eyes, “Go to sleep.”

“Sex would help me sleep.”

“Would it help you stay quiet?”

“I don’t know if you want that. You always say you want to hear me m-…”

Ivar interrupts you, leaning forward to capture your mouth in his, cupping the back of your head and bringing you closer to him. He pretends not to feel you smiling smugly against his lips.

____ ____ ____

Thank you for reading, hope you liked it!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss @itsmysticalmystery @revolution-starter @the-a-word-2214 @fae-sedai @crazybunnyladysworld @funmadnessandbadassvikings @stupiddarkkside @aprilivar @msrawog

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar #νοσταλγία masterlist

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ranboo5 · 3 years

Note

whats 'the clip' and knifetrick?

Augh. Under the cut for shipping discourse and p/dophilia ment (nothing graphic or specific). Gets long bc I discuss my thoughts on DSMP shipping in general. You are setting me up fr anon

Some quick vocab -

intimacy here is used to refer to. Well. Any kind of intimacy between characters, of any sort, as an umbrella term /r, /p, and /qp here are used as shorteners to denote "romantic," "platonic," and "queerplatonic," both as adjectives And as verbs ("to /r" = "to portray romantically") shipping here is used to refer to any focused examination of intimacy between characters

And some clarity that Should follow from the essay next but may not - """anti-antis"""" and RPF writers delete forever

The Clip is from one of if not the? most recent Discord stage(s) Mr Live has done (which I missed when it was live RIP) wherein he issues a hard ban on shipping him ("do not ship me, in any way, with anyone!") which would less influence c!beeduo (which has been portrayed/stated to be romantic AND nonromantic both conflictingly for a while until being confirmed unconfirmed several months ago, that being the last was heard) without its direct invocation if he hadn't also cited for the reason as being underage ("'Cause, one, it's straight up pedophilia") which is! a) immediately applicable to At Least his DSMP character, Partially and b) while not Strictly True (should b obvious that portraying a relationship within the bounds of what it is in canon and in a nonsexual way is not That, and /r-ing c!beeduo etc was possible to do Appropriately again by remaining w/in the bounds of canon) is Clearly Indicative of the fact that baggage-wise it IS associated with people being fucking creeps

This Really complicates things bc like okay the apparent solution is "lol just don't /r it" but it's really like. A Worse issue than that bc like.

Okay the reason shipping in terms of fictional characters is a Different Bar is bc it's an examination of Intimacy and certain lines exist in certain dynamics of intimacy that Isn't Shown (which is the whole Within The Bounds Of Canon thing) which is important in a medium like DSMP because of the smaller gap + more personal relationship b/w character and streamer. Examining intimacy beyond th bounds of the consent that has been established in that regard is Weird at best and Violating And Creepy more often and, As Mentioned In Ranb's Stage, Literally Evil at worst

Which is why writing abt like. QPR or platonically intimate Techno and Philza (characters) is smth that is fine because that's smth that has been shown and repeatedly stated onscreen; it's in the bounds of canon n thus within th bounds of what the streamers've consented 2 be done with their characters. But writing T3chza making out or whatever is fucked up because it's smth that's beyond those consent barriers

And the thing is right

Slapping a /p on T3chza makeout doesn't. Make it less violating

Like what you CALL romantic is not the measure or whether it's past those barriers yk? And if it's indistinguishable, if it's in extrapolative territory that is Past The Bounds, it Does Not Matter how much you /p it EVEN IF IT IS TECHNICALLY PLATONIC y feel? Like at the end of the day placing a moratorium on some/all forms of shipping is placing a moratorium on certain examinings of intimacy

And okay 2 go back to Mr Live and his character. What it implies taken in context w/ older portrayals of c!beeduo and said by invoking smth that both evokes Really fucked up baggage (that does unfortunately exist btw I'm sorry if you didn't know that but People Really Do B Fucked Up Abt Beeduo) AND applies to his character is a revocation of consent to examining deep intimacies:tm: with his character, which is gonna apply regardless of the nature of that intimacy (even if nonromantic)

Like I don't /r c!beeduo myself, do not, never have, but I talk to people who have and have consumed content where they r background /r; I also don't think it matters. Like I don't Actively /r it and I don't Actively Not /r it because imho w/ the intimacy regarding c!beeduo that is plot relevant and character important whether that intimacy is /p /qp or /r doesn't really matter. I don't consider myself Less of a c!beeduo shipper than someone who /rs them because that would be dumb as hell and while none of the content I've made* is Intrinsically or Intentionally /r it certainly can be read tht way as much as it can be read /qp or /p. It's be dumb and hypocritical of me to like, dunk on ppl for /r-ing c!beeduo when I'm also invested in these two and my tonetags r not gonna suddenly Delete the picking apart I've done of the dynamic @ hand

Which Has Been. Within Bounds Of Canon. It's been what's been shown (sometimes to my great distress. There is a reason that the :canon_beeduo: emote looks the way it does) Directly Onscreen and in general keeping with the tone n intensity/directions of what they've Done With The Characters

HOWEVER

As mentioned up there. Revocation of consent

It makes. Full sense 2 me that Mr Live wants to place a moratorium or fullon ban on shipping his characters perhaps where he wouldn't have before because of the Unfortunately Very Extant trends of people being Fucking Weird about shipping his characters AND of using them as a Thinly Veiled Excuse to ship HIM, which. I should not have to explain why shipping real people is fucking abhorrent

THIS creates a problem which is a. Bit of a vacuum in interacting with what is a facet of c!Ranboo's arc, decision making, and character. Like you CAN have c!Ranboo w/o cbeeduo but you Can't Really have his plotline without examining c!beeduo. And as I mentioned earlier: even if your examination of c!beeduo is fully platonic, the significance of it To the plotline means that any examination of it and its relevance to the plotline and characters IS gonna be an examination of intimacy, which. Regardless of it's platonic, Is Still Shipping

Unless some HARD retconning happens it leaves this like. Hole in an aspect of c!Ranboo's arc and decisionmaking and it's very. Uncertain? God. Fucking months ago I was already kind of :huh. Does he know what the fuck he's doing: irt c!beeduo and desperately wishing for things to be cleared up and now it's only That Much Stronger

NOW. KNIFETRICK, FINALLY

Knifetrick (or, as it’s actually listed, Bishop’s Knife Trick) is a fic about "Ran and Jackie from The Pit TFTSMP" in a "canon-typical ambiguously romantic relationship." As you can tell from the scare quotes, especially if you've seen me vague, both of these are, to put it politely, Doubtful. I've read the fic; I will not be sharing my opinions because that would be neither productive nor responsible (I will just say I can't recommend it and leave it at that) but I WILL say the following that Is relevant to the conversation:

Ran's and Jackie's characterizations respectively have very little to do with characterizations from The Pit, and bear a dollar-store-version resemblance to tropes and personality motifs found in ESPECIALLY fanon c!beeduo, especially later in the fic. I would not go so far as to say they are Intentionally Literally Ranboo and Tubbo but they are transparent expies and were clearly written at LEAST unintentionally w/ c!beeduo in mind (esp since. Ran and Jackie barely interacted in The Pit), and for a readerbase that, as far as I can tell, is HUGELY dominated by /r c!beeduo shippers. Like. Sorry. This is off-brand c!beeduo.

The dynamic between the two is pretty unambiguously romantic, also; despite what the fic's white knights claim, romantic tropes and implications/motifs/imagery from at LEAST chapter two, and is very much explicitly romantic by the most recent chapter.

FROM CH1:

"And now, with raised eyebrows and a pursed lip, the newly named General Jackie observes Ran in such a way that makes the enderman’s skin crawl. Ran reminds himself that this kid, as short and harmless as he may look, is trained to kill. [...] Jackie narrows his eyes and tilts his head a little, as if he’s trying to read in between every one of Ran’s imperfect scales."

FROM CH2:

"It makes Ran’s skin itch with discomfort. [...] 'That actually doesn’t explain much of anything at all,' complains Jackie, and he pops a few croutons into his mouth with one hand. 'Tell me what you’re thinking, pretty-boy.'

"Ran feels his face flush, no doubt mildly glowing green.

"Yes, that was the other thing. The unnecessary compliments to his physical appearance.

"They don’t happen very often, and don’t seem to have very much meaning or intention behind them— Jackie often speaks like an unthinking kid— but when they do happen… they’re embarrassing. [...] It’s annoying how the rug is pulled out from under his feet in these moments when he’s 'embarrassed'. Like the conversation see-saw has temporarily shifted weight in the general’s favor."

I am not going to include excerpts from Chapter 6 because it's just the entire chapter.

I WILL SAY, HOWEVER, STEPPING ON THIS SCORPION BEFORE IT STINGS: they are not written in an RPFy manner and I don't think there's any grounds, including Vibes, of accusing Knifetrick of being like. Closet truthing or whatever. Also, while I think there's certainly Some Weirdness ESPECIALLY around the reaction, the romance itself is Not written in any way I'd call weird or problematic pre-clip; it's nothing inappropriate or like Weirdly Fetishy or whatever. Knifetrick is not #problematic or anything and I don't have beef with like the concept of liking it intrinsically; if I thought it was like. Abhorrent I wouldn't be sharing excerpts lmao dhjfnhdsbvdnfjh. Hence: if anyone uses this post or anyth like it to send harassment or bad faith ANYTHING to anyone involved with Knifetrick I will hunt you down in the fucking night even if it WAS #problematic that'd be the LITERAL OPPOSITE of productive and as it stands it's Literally Not. Essentially: Knifetrick is a (questionably-written /mean) fic using Ran and Jackie from The Pit as a vessel for a large chunk of the dynamics and headcanons of fanon /r c!beeduo in particular

And again, I would not call it problematic in any way (aside from the disingenuity of the insistence that it's TOTALLY UNRELATED TO BEEDUO and TOOOTALLY WASN'T INTENDED TO BE ROMANTIC GUYS like own your shit please)... IF it weren't for the advent of The Clip, which is calling in2 question the Entirety of the problem of /r-ing any variant of c!beeduo or any of Ranboo's characters at all

I really do not have an answer for this tbh. I genuinely wanna hear from the streamer on this more specifically because I like,,, I got no clue where 2 go from here? Do I just consider an arc retconned? Was it an issue of speaking abt a troubling subject kneejerk wise and I'm reading too much in2 it?

I just. I dunno

Tl;dr (AT LONG LAST)

- The Clip is a clip of a Discord stage where Ranboo (streamer) loudly explicitly decried shipping in a way that implicitly applies to characters he plays - This would be all well and good but is rendered complicated by the plot relevance of c!beeduo, which does not stop being shipping if it's /p'd due to it still necessarily being an examination of a particular intimacy in a way that is in canon hard to distinguish the /p, /qp, or /r nature of - Bishop's Knife Trick is an AO3 fic centered around using TFTSMP characters as /r c!beeduo expies which is not a bad thing in and of itself unless it also is covered under this moratorium - Things remain unclear until and unless we get clearer word from streamer, but considering Mr Live seems to be allergic to clarifying anything abt c!beeduo this is doubtful

*very little if any of the content I personally have made 4 c!beeduo has been posted publicly, for related reasons. You May have seen it if you're in servers w/ me, depending on Which Ones

#dsmp fandom critical #kind of?#jic #ask to tag #I am technically defending Kn1fetrick on this post #I am not nice to it but I am defending it technically. If people start being rude abt it I am going to set myself on fire #this IS ludicrously long but I have tl;dr'd it as I do with all my ludicrously long posts. I think I have salient thoughts

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wizkiddx · 3 years

Text

in your own way

so someone sent me this idea and I thought it was really cute and wanted to do it as a blurb but then I got all confused so it’s very shite and I can only apologise. also I am not no genius so pretending to be one was literally just putting words together they make no sense ahaha

Summary: tom gets self conscious of his intelligence compared to you

(bit of angst but mainly fluff ;))

tomhollandxreader

The doorbell ringing through the couch grabbed the attention of all five of you, your heads all whipping towards the door the round to each other. You’d already got the pizza (had demolished it too) and nobody had ordered any desserts - at least that you knew of. It had been a rather tame evening, your four uni mates all stuffed into you cosy but homely studio flat. Lix had just moved to London and had wanted some help with a new project that she couldn’t afford to cock up at her new job. So, assembling the ‘dream team’ back from simpler days, you were all crouched down over many print outs - trying to puzzle your way through how the plans could be redesigned to make the invention much more ergonomic.

“Don’t stop working!” The four around you all just groaned in return, Josh lightheartedly slapping your leg as you skipped over him. Laughing at their exhausted and almost beaten brains , you jumped up and hopped toward the door frame, picking a discarded pizza box off up the floor and onto the countertop on your way. As you reached the door you tightened your hair in the scrunch before painting a welcoming smile on your face and opening the door. Whatever you had been expecting, it was definitely not what you saw.

Warm brown ochre eyes, a mischievous grin and a bunch of beautifully arrange yellow and white flowers.

“TOM!”

Squealing his names, your body apparently decided to ignore the flowers he was grasping to his front, still choosing to throw your arms around his neck and pull him close - the precious petals squashed between your two bodies.

“God I’ve missed you!” He grinned into the side of your head, only stopping to press multiple kisses to the side of your face till you arched back and met him with your own lips.

“Thought we were meeting tomorrow? You asked against his lips, with a little smirk - you could have a pretty good guess as to why. He had just returned from a long shoot abroad and had planned on spending the evening with his parents and brothers, then in the morning the idea was for you to go get breakfast together. You would never dream of competing for his affection against his family, so had been more than happy to give them a day with their eldest back before you saw Tom. It was still early days in your relationship anyway, you actually only been a couple and in the same country for a matter of weeks, but of course the time he was away you made time for the long distance phone calls and FaceTimes.

“Mhmm well I just kept imagining you in a cold lonely bed and it’s not like I’m gonna let them all hop into my bed for quality time is it?”

“Well you are close!” Giggling back, Tom playfully gasped before releasing his one arm from round your waist - both of you chuckling at the crumpled flowers. You stepped aside to let him in, in all the excitement forgetting you weren’t alone until you turned around and were met with four pairs of beady eyes staring at you. Because yes perhaps it had slipped your mind to mention to them you had a boyfriend of six months, especially forgetting to tell Josh - who you had a complicated history with to say the least.

Cursing under your breath, you watched Tom freeze up, clearly shocked by the fact you had company too. He hadn’t met many of your friends, purely because you and him were still on the downlown. Not that that particularly mattered with these 4, you were more than certain they would have no idea who he was - as Lix had said before ‘superhero movies are just stupid peoples version of research papers. Innovative and exciting, except papers don’t require the variables to beat each other up to keep their audience entertained.”

So tom’s reputation wasn’t the issue in this situation…. Instead your ex boyfriend meeting his replacement. Josh could be cruel too when he was jealous, even if it had been a year and a half since you’d called your brief relationship quits, it was evident he still wasn’t completely over you either. The amount of drunken calls asking for a hookup was evidence of that.

You’d been almost transparent with Tom, he knew this name ‘josh’ was your ex, he was aware you were still friends and hang out. He didn’t know about the 3am booty calls but that was just to protect everyone, no other hidden agenda. He’d always regret it in the morning and beg for your forgiveness so it appeared very much to be a subconscious thought only copious amounts of alcohol could release.

“Sorry I didn’t know you had-“

“No no” You interrupted Tom, grabbing the flowers and placing them on the counter, ontop of the pizza boxes, before reaching out and squeezing his hand reassuringly. “It’s okay, let me introduce you guys.”

Following that preceded an awkward taking turns of hand shakes and small talk, though you were acutely aware of Tom’s tightening grip round your waist when the blue eyes boy introduced himself as ‘Josh’ - and in fact every time he spoke thereafter.

The small talk was nice enough, the group of you all resumed your positions on the floor with Tom now squiggled between you and you painfully awkward ex flatmate Will. In fact it was all going oh so well till Lix opened her big bloody mouth.

“So Tom, what do you do?”

He immediately tensed against your side, you saw his eyes widening with shock. Instantly reading him, you realised Tom was shocked by the fact they didnt know.

And he was! He assumed they hadn’t mentioned it purely out of respect, not wanting to make the situation awkward. They were, as you’d summarised to Tom before, nerds. As you were - no nerd shaming here. But this type of people were normally primed marvel superfans, or at least had some sort of awareness- so he was surprised to say the least.

“Oh uh I…. I’m an actor”

“Oh really?” Josh’s eyes widened and he smirked. You knew , you knew what was coming. “So you convinced Y/n that drama’s a good thing? She used to absolutely hate everything when we had to do it at college.”

“I hated drama classes, that doesn’t mean I hate the whole entertainment industry dickhead!” You tried to joke, tried to lighten the mood.

“Uh well she’s supportive of my stuff and I’m supportive of hers it doesn’t mean I have to like neuroscience either.”

“Neurobiologist. You’re a neurobiologist right Y/n?” For fuck sake. Will had no intention behind it at all. He was just oblivious to people and was so upfront at times it was painful, even if underneath it all he was the sweetest person you’d ever met. Watching Tom out the corner of your eye swallow thickly as he tried to compose himself you quickly worked to diffuse the situation.

“Yeh but it’s kind of the same thing isn’t it? I say either or a lot!” Josh took a swig of his half drunk beer before nodding at Tom.

“Acting though… it’s impressive. I definitely wouldn’t be able to persevere through all the rejection though, seems cut throat to try and make it in.” There Josh goes. Tom shifted, his hand dropping from you side and his eyes fixed on the beer bottle you’d given to him as he smirked.

“Yeh well the rejections hard when I was younger but I get that less now. Now I get to reject the parts I don’t like which makes it all so worth it.”

Josh’s face morphed just slightly in pain, as the penny somewhat dropped. Apparently Tom wasn’t the aspiring actor working 3 jobs between failed audition as he had assumed. Just as you were getting bloody desperate, a literal light went off in your head, shooting your back straight as you rifled through the haphazardly spread papers in front of you - the groups focus now away from the obvious tension between Tom and Josh.

“Y/n what do you need?” Lix asked slowly realising you might’ve just found the answer and not wanting to disturb the thought process. After asking for a pen and triumphantly ‘ah’-ing when you found the right plan you looked up with glee evident in your eyes first to Lix, then Will, then Sophie, then Josh.

“We’ve been missing the whole point the whole bloody time. Look!” You jabbed your pen at an intricate diagram “It’s so bulky because we’ve been going on this assumption we need a battery and recharging ports but if we take that component out-“

“Then you just need a transformer for there” Will joined in with a sparkle in his eyes, him being the first to click where you were going with this.

“Exactly! And then size is no longer an issue and by placing an external detachable unit-“

“Y/N YOU GENIUS” “fuck that’s good” Lix exclaimed an dsimultaneously Josh much more inwardly praised your ingenious.

“We got it!” Laughing back, you encouraged all of them to join in with, noting down all the necessary inputs and outputs and components necessary to form a vague redesign.

Though it felt no time at all, the 5 of you consumed in mumbling through thought processes and logic of trying to actualise your theory, in reality it was almost 45 minutes before Lix leaned back with a relieved sigh. Announcing that you’d saved the day, she called time on the night, relieved that she could sleep worry free that night. You made light work between all of you of clearing her stuff up and saying goodbye to all of them with brief hugs. In all honesty, you were so in the zone you’d completely forgotten about Tom, who you were only alerted to when Lix went over to the kitchen to say bye as well. He’d obviously been there for sometime, clearing up all the greasy plates and pizza boxes, the flowers now sat in a vase in their full glory - or at least what was left of them after the crush injury.

This wave of insurmountable guilt washed over you, realising he’d come here after only spending a couple of hours with his family after a long haul flight home to fall asleep with you in his arms. Instead, he’d faced your rude ex, been ignored for the majority of the time he was here and he’d done the washing up. You fucked up.

Choosing till you’d finally ushered Will and Josh out, promising Will you would go and see their new shared flat soon, you closed the door slowly - knowing this wasn’t going to be simple.

You walked up and leant against the kitchen counter, watching him place the last two mugs in the top drawer of the dishwasher before pushing it closed and then closing the appliance door too.

“Thankyou for doing all this. You really didn’t have to.” He didn’t make eye contact, moving about the kitchen to wash his hands in the sink opposite. “And I’m really sorry I-I was gonna usher them out but the I worked it out and kind of got overexcited.”

“Mhmm … for an hour?” It was a rhetorical question and although he said it very quietly you knew he was demanding an answer.

“I know I know I’m a shitty girlfriend, I should’ve sent them away as soon as you got here. I am so so so sorry.” That statement was left in silence for a few, painful moments.

“I was the one who showed up here. Don’t worry about it.” It was muttered and god only know you were still very worried about it.

“No Tom I was a dickhead you have a right to be ang-“

“It doesn’t matter!” If it didnt matter, why the hell was was he answering so grumpily.Turning back around to you with a sigh, he spoke with shoulders slumped. “Look… lets just go to sleep yeh? I’ve had a long ass day.

He wasn’t in the mood to talk, you weren’t about the force him too - so with a small nod you half heartedly agreed. You knew you would have to address it at some point, but apparently now wasn’t the right time.

So without much more conversation the two of you got ready for bed, even if the atmosphere felt jilted and cold. It was rehearsed, this wasn’t not the first time he’d stayed over so like a rehearsed scene the two of you got ready and then wormed your way underneath the sheets. You waited for him to make the first move, which of course he did. Pulling you into his bare chest which you happily obliged to, your leg wrapping round his as you nuzzled into his chest. Both softly whispering ‘goodnight’ your eyes closed as you tried to sleep.

Except it didnt work and wasn’t going to. Mainly because Tom’s heartbeat was thundering right under your ear. So you were hardly surprised when he whispered in the quiet.

“Do we work?”

“What?” You arched up, a hand on his chest as your head hovered over his - your eyes burning into his in the dim light of the street lights. He sighed heavily, shaking his head and trying to avoid your gaze.

“I just- we have so little in common”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. I have no idea about even what you do! Seeing you with all of them tonight… you were enjoying talking about stuff I could never ever understand!”

“I don’t have a clue about scene direction or physical acting does that make you dislike me?”

“No course not!” He argued huffily, making you sit up in frustration and reach over to turn the bedside light on.

“Then will you please explain what is going on?”

“Just… just look I know intelligence is attractive and-and well you are and I’m not.”

That physically hurt you hearing him be so self conscious in front of. Clearly, you had made him feel like pure shit this evening and that guilt would surely eat you up later - but right now the focus was purely on making him feel assured of his own mind-blowing talents.

“Tom…it’s not intelligence that’s attractive! You know…” You sighed, how the hell were you going to explain to him how much you LOVED HIM.liked him, you hadn’t said that yet. “You know when you’re reading a script that’s good your mouth move along as if your living and breathing every single word. And you completely are oblivious to anything around Tom, I always thought if someone crashed into the house you wouldn’t notice cos your so into it. And then when your finally finished with it, no matter what time of the day or night, you’lll be like this excited puppy running in to tell me all about it. Or-or when you’ve visited a children’s hospital and you phone me bouncing off the walls, full of stories of how these kids inspire you….” Trailing off, you looked intently between both of his two brown eyes. “Thats passion right? And ambition?” He nodded minutely. “Thats what’s so bloody attractive. For all I care, you could be a supermarket shelf restocker if that’s what your passionate about and you would still be the most incredible person to me. I love your passion you idiot, I don’t care if you don’t know stupid facts about astrophysics or where in the brain control movement of your big toe! In your own way your so bloody clever and I love you because of you and your passion you idiot.”

“Seriously?” You nodded profusely at his whisper, now cupping both hands round his cheeks. “You seriously think…. I’m like a puppy?”

There was your boyfriend again, grinning from ear to ear as you giggled at him.

“Yes you most definitely are.” He gasped in fake shock, before pulling you closer and pressing his lips against yours. Now straddled over his body with the duvet weighing down on your back as you tasted the minty toothpaste still fresh on his lips. After a short while you once again settled back down on his chest, feeling much more warm than mere moments ago, and confident that Tom was reassured and happy once again.

The silence lasted long enough for you to be slowly drifting off before a deep rumble had you blinking your eyes open, eyelashes dragging against his shoulder as you tried to focus on his voice.

“By the way…” Tom dragged it out, making you hum in encouragement as you listened to his slightly hoarse and sleepy sounding voice “in your big soliloquy just then… you said you love me?” You froze, desperately trying to claw a good answer or cover up. Completely failing, you went for the next best and oddly relevant statement.

“I don’t know what solliquarity means because its an actory word so I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Solliliquy darling… but for the record, and I hope you understand this… I love you too.”

#tom holland fluff #tom holland #tomholland #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #Tom Holland angst

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pokegeek151 · 3 years

Text

@fowlblue This is your fault (based on this)

(Read it on AO3!)

Artemis did not have a good track record when it came to birthdays. His parents had always cared more about them than he did, and the combination of time skipping, cloning, and the monotony of encroaching adulthood made keeping track of his birthdays a tedious process. He had a tradition to uphold, though, which was how he ended up sprawled in an armchair in his flat, just over halfway through a bottle of expensive red wine as the clock inched towards four in the morning on September 1st.

He heard the glass door to the balcony quietly slide open and shut, though he did not look up. The faint shimmer in the air told him exactly who had come to bother him on a day he'd prefer to be left alone.

"Did Butler put you up to this?" he asked the empty air.

A few moments later, Holly materialized in front of him. "I got a surface visa, finally, and I thought I'd say hi. What did Butler supposedly put me up to?" She looked him up and down briefly. "Are you...drunk?"

Artemis lazily swirled what was left at the bottom of his wine glass. "Drunk is a strong word. Impaired, certainly." He took a long sip and drained his glass. "Would you like a drink? I do not have the constitution for a full bottle, and whatever is left will go down the sink tomorrow."

Holly did not do a good job hiding her confusion, or concern, or...whatever she was feeling. "Human alcohol doesn't--"

"Yes, yes. Fairies are unaffected by -OH alcohol. But your tastebuds can still appreciate a fine vintage." He tilted the glass towards him and examined the faint, pinkish residue left behind. "Or perhaps a decent vintage. Sommelier...ing was never a talent I cared to cultivate. The clerk said it was quality, but I have read enough studies to know it doesn't matter."

She hesitated, then asked, "Where are the glasses?"

The chair Artemis was draped over faced away from the kitchen area, so he gestured vaguely over his shoulder with his free hand. "Top shelf in the cabinet with the other glasses."

He listened as Holly dragged a chair to the cabinet in order to reach the uppermost shelf. When he heard her coming back, he slowly dragged himself into something approaching a proper sitting position.

She sat in an armchair across from him and picked up the open bottle. "What's the occasion?" she asked as she poured a bit of wine into her glass. She pointed the neck in his direction, and he wordlessly held his glass out to her to be filled.

He leaned forward, perilously close to falling out of his chair, and tapped his glass to hers. "L'chaim," he said over the gentle clink. "To life. To my life, in fact." He leaned back, nearly fell back, into his chair. "It is my birthday."

"Is that today? I lose track of the human calendar sometimes." Holly asked. Artemis didn't have the energy or capacity to evaluate her microexpressions.

Artemis took a long sip of his wine. He didn't take time to savor the taste; he liked wine well enough, but he was past the point of caring about this particular bottle. "It is indeed, and you have intruded on my annual ritual."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Getting drunk alone in your flat?"

"I am not drunk," he repeated. "I am impaired."

"Fine, fine. Getting impaired alone in your flat? That doesn't seem like a fun birthday tradition."

"It's not." He finished his glass, then glanced over at the bottle on the low table between them. He'd already had quite a bit (calculating how much was beyond what his fuzzy mind could do quickly, and if he couldn't do it quickly, he didn't care enough to), but he had cleared his schedule for tomorrow in anticipation of quite the hangover. Holly reached forward at the same time he did, and because she was closer, she was able to slide it a few inches out of his grasp. He rolled his eyes, but he conceded and fell back into his chair.

"Birthdays are supposed to be fun, right?" Holly asked. "I'm surprised you didn't spend a ransom's worth on a party with a champagne hot tub or whatever it is you rich people are into."

Artemis nearly gagged at the mention of a party. "Absolutely not. I have had enough birthday parties to last the rest of my life." The beginnings of a headache were beginning to set in, making him grateful that Holly had taken the bottle. He really had reached his limit, at least as far as tomorrow would be concerned.

Holly took a small drink from her glass. "Oh yeah?" she prodded.

"My mother always liked to throw these...massive parties for my birthday," he explained. The alcohol had loosened his tongue, but he didn't very much care at the moment. "They were more about her than about me. Everyone would get drunk, even my parents, and leave a huge mess for Butler to clean up."

"So now you get drunk instead?"

"Not drunk. Impaired." It took some effort, but he managed to reach over the wide arm of the chair and place his empty wine glass on the floor. After a few precarious wobbles, it steadied without tipping over. "Have you ever been impaired, Holly? It is quite lovely."

She chuckled, just a bit. "Yes, Artemis. I've been impaired."

"I am operating at full capacity at all times, and it is exhausting. I know everything, all the time. Well, perhaps not everything. But most things. Sometimes, on special occasions, it is nice to not be in full control." He felt in his memory the weight of his mother's arm around his shoulders as he, stone sober, practically carried her to her room on the night of his 19th birthday. Idly, he wished he had another glass of wine.

"I'll drink to that," Holly said, bringing Artemis back to the present. She motioned like she was performing a toast, then drank the entirety of her glass. "This stuff is so bitter," she complained. "Why do humans like wine?"

"I haven't a clue," he said. The sound of water splashing into a sink full of abandoned dishes played in his head, and he realized they had reached the wallowing part of the festivities. "Thank you for helping me to finish my wine. You're welcome to leave. I plan to go to bed before I start crying and feeling sorry for myself."

Holly set her glass on the table with a quiet clink. "I'm not leaving you like this, Artemis."

"Like what?"

"Drunk. Impaired," she corrected, exaggerating a posh accent.

"I am capable of taking care of myself," he protested.

"That doesn't mean you have to."

Artemis didn't have a response for her then, and he did not think of one as she extracted him from the armchair and helped him stumble into bed. As the sounds of her rinsing and drying the two wine glasses filtered in through the partially opened door, he wondered if she would still be there in the morning.

#artemis fowl #holly short #af fanfic #tw alcohol #tw alcohol mention #angstttttt #thank you for proofreading zoe #latte writes things

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my-mt-heart · 3 years

Note

Is it true that Carol and Daryl won't have any scenes for the first 8 episodes? My Facebook Walking Dead spoiler group who is never been wrong once in almost 7 years just released outlines of the episodes up to episode 5 and said per filming spoilers it doesn't look like Daryl and her will be back in the same story for like 8 episodes...That's sucks so bad. I shouldn't complain I mean I should be used to surviving on Caryl scraps by now with what we endured with season 6-8..Were we got a few small moments. But after having a ENTIRE SEASON OF CARYL GOODNESS, that was Season 9 I mean it was like it was all Caryl, and it was so beautiful. Then stupid ass Connie fucked it up and then we really got kicked in the gut when found out about Leah. Thankfully knowing we have a spin off softened the blows, but I really would think they would be the focus all season as they head towards Canon. I actually hoped that they would have had Caryl make up and figure things out early on and acknowledge their feelings but before anything REAL can transpire between them THEN Leah shows up with the Reaper and Daryl is put in a awkward situation, pushing him towards him realizing he is head over heels inlove with Carol, even if we have to weather him with Leah for a few episodes anything thing is better then them having no interaction at all. I cant believe we are back to that bullshit again. I have been watching this show since it first premiered almost 12 long years. And I started shipping Caryl the minute he handed her that pick axe, I knew something was good was goin to happen and sure enough I was right. It's been a long long journey with alot of shitty moments, years of dealing with assholes like Bethyl fans and the super pyschos Team Delusional, back in the day when we had ppl like Chandra75 that make our lives miserable and I have lost probably a hundred amazing female friends on this site that couldn't handle the stress of shipping Caryl anymore. But I've hung on, and I am tired so tired and last season set my heart on fire again. But if I gotta go back to 8 and 9 episodes of zero interactions in the LAST F*#%ING SEASON, I am going to hit my breaking point...😣

By outlines, do you mean the episode synopses, aka a few vague sentences each? Because from what I've gathered from reading those and filming spoilers, there is no concrete evidence that they don't interact before the end of 11A. IMO, it would be a huge disservice to the story if Carol doesn't get involved with the Reapers/Leah, so let's just watch before jumping the gun. Believe me, if we end up going an entire block with zero movement in Caryl's story, I will have something to say about it, but only after we cross that bridge. I learned my lesson from the whole Find Me debacle.

#caryl #caryl positivity #caryl is endgame #twd #twd season 11 #twd speculation

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

when your love reaches me (i)

summary: 1978 is decidedly not 2020. nor is your life ever the same when you meet a guitarist, curly haired, soft spoken, and true.

word count: 9.3k+ (i am abundantly sorry for how long this is. curl up with a snack, my dudes)

warnings: required: total suspension of disbelief. also: screwed up historical timeline, slight angst, language, innuendo, suggestive moments and blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smut (not 18+ but be mindful)

a/n: hi! a day late, but i wanted to respect the ‘out of time’ epilogue which came out yesterday as this is very much inspired by @perriwiinkle and her lovely fic. this is my take on a similar theme, only with brian and just three (3) parts. thank you to @deacyblues for your beta-ing help on this mini-series; i heart emoji you. anyways, let me know what you think. enjoy! xoxo!

in this chapter: something—be it fate or otherwise—transplants you to a place you do not belong.

it’s raining hard, thunder and lightning battling for dominance in the gray sky. you clutch your textbook to your chest and duck your head against the onslaught, feet nearly slipping on the flat stones of the sidewalk. london weather has always been unpredictable, but you’ve never seen a storm like this, never been caught in one either. it’s too far to make it back to your flat without catching pneumonia and the library feels just as far away so you push forward. the sky turns bright white followed closely by a boom of thunder, and you squeak, picking up your pace.

across a muddy patch of grass stands union concert hall. it’s likely to be locked on a saturday evening, but it’s worth a shot. you squelch through the mud and run the remaining hundred yards to old brick building. your hands, wet with rain, scrabble against the brass doorknob, which, to your surprise, turns with ease. muttering a prayer of thanks, you wrench the door open as a gust of wind turns the rain sideways. you slip inside, breathing heavy, and fall against the door as it shuts.

silence. blessed silence.

you heave a sigh of relief and run a hand through your drenched hair.

the concert hall is empty, but the lonesome rows of chairs and desolate stage come as no surprise. with fall break around the corner, imperal college is largely devoid of students on the weekends. there’s parties to be had, memories to be made; no one wants to be cooped up on campus. you, however, don’t have that luxury. there’s too much to be done in too tight a span of time.

as the rain pounds the roof and slides down the windows, you take a seat at the back of the hall. the plastic chair creaks underneath your weight, and each time you move a soggy squish echoes about the room. your textbook—creating exhibitions: collaborations in the planning, development, and design of innovative experiences—rests open on your lap. the laminated binding curls as it dampens, but you’re soaked to the bone. there’s no avoiding the damage. if you must, you’ll pay the thirty pounds at the end of the semester to turn your rental into a purchase.

if you think about it, it really is quite sad, the way you’re sitting on your own on a saturday night, highlighter clamped between your teeth, eyes scanning the pages of your textbook with far too much interest. if you think about it, you know you should be out with your friends. this morning rachel had tried to convince you to come out after your shift at the museum, but you’d said no—again. you’ve been given a full ride in the masters of science communication program, and you’ll do nothing to jeopardize the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. rachel insists that a simple evening at a local pub is harmless, and you know she’s right, but your answer is always the same: no. it’s easier that way.

you read for awhile, highlighting the text and annotating the margins of your textbook with the thoughts or questions that flit through your mind. as you dry, the legs of your jeans turn stiff, and your hair feels frizzy with humidity. not for the first time, you wish you’d remembered the pink umbrella leaning against the coatrack in your flat.

an hour passes, maybe two. with a heavy sigh, you shut your book and meander through the rows of chairs toward the bathroom. the washroom light flickers a muted yellow when you switch it on, an incessant electronic buzz filling the room. crossing to the counter, you stare at yourself in the mirror. you look atrocious: tired bags under your eyes, streaks of mascara on your cheeks, hair unruly, clothes sodden and weighed down on your body. you’d laugh if it wasn’t so damn depressing. you look like a madwoman, like some sort of victorian nightmare. in an effort to clean yourself up, you splash cold water on your face and scrub the makeup away until your cheeks hurt. you wet your hair, run your fingers through the tangles, and attempt to dry yourself under the hand dryer.

it’s still raining outside. there’s a single skylight in the bathroom, and when you look up, it’s a funny sensation, watching the rain slam against the window but never hit your face. you smile faintly; there’s just something about being inside when it rains. it’s similar to a warm hug or a—

a crack of lightning breaks you from your reverie. the sound goes straight to your heart, stopping it with the force of its blow. with a gasp, you clamp your hands against your ears, eyes screwed shut, and you’re suddenly six years old again, scared of a simple thunderstorm. white light pours through the skylight, drowning the room in an almost heavenly glow. thunder trips over the heels of the lightning in an effort to make itself known. the thunder is more like a roar, and you swear you can feel the foundation of the building jostle.

then all is quiet. even the sound of the rain on the roof has stopped.

you pull your hands from your ears, breathing heavy, and look around the bathroom. maybe... maybe you should call a cab or an uber. you’d rather not be stuck in the concert hall overnight, and the storm feels eerily close.

grabbing your bag from the counter, you fumble for your phone in its depths. you come away empty-handed, but you must have left it on your chair alongside your textbook. you pull open the bathroom door and step into a crush of bodies.

your heart stutters in your chest, confusion stealing the air from your lungs.

there’s a crowd of people in the concert hall. it’s hard to move, to breathe, to think. the room is dim, lit only by orange and white lights on the stage. there’s music pounding through the room, and it sounds vaguely familiar, but you’re too stunned and confused to place it. a haze of smoke filters over the heads of onlookers; the air smells like cigarettes and sweat. where had everyone come from? how long had you been in the bathroom? surely not long enough for a band and a crowd and—

a thought strikes you: this is not the union concert hall you were just sat in seeking shelter from a bad storm.

a hand circles your arm, and you startle, head twisting to the left. “you okay, love?” a voice asks. the man is short with warm-toned skin, his hair like a dark halo around his head. he stares at you in earnest, and you’re sure you’ve gone pale.

in lieu of answering, you stumble backwards, back into the bathroom. the subway-tiled walls of moments past have turned a dull green, and the hand dryer has been replaced with a paper-towel dispenser. the linoleum under your shoes is grimy, unwashed and stained. the air is heavy with cigarette smoke thanks to the women lounging around the open stalls, dripping ashes to the floor with a simple flick of the wrist. the scent clings to the inside of your nose, and you blame the tears pricking the corners of your eyes on the smell.

“excuse me,” you mutter, shouldering past a lithe woman with blown-out blonde hair. she gives you a once over, her brow furrowed, before leaving the bathroom.

at the sink, you brace your hands against the edge. the sink feels like cheap plastic, easy enough to rip from the wall. where the sturdy white countertop has gone, you aren’t sure. for the second time in one day, you splash water on your heated face.

“hey. are you okay?”

you look up and meet the doe eyes of a short girl standing behind you. her hair is bobbed at her neck, her eyes lined with a deep purple liner. her appearance is warped by the faded mirror, but you can see the way she’s looking at you, and you don’t blame her. you’re sure you look as crazy as you feel.

you straighten at the sink and shut the water off. “i’m just...” you flounder for a good excuse. your insides feel like mush, and your brain has paused, as if the loading symbol is looping over and over in place of producing any coherent thought. “do you have a phone i could borrow?”

“there’s a payphone around the corner,” she says, her words slow with apprehension. “did something happen out there? you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

there’s a pounding in the back of your head, hard and steady, and you rub your temples. “i was studying and then i was here and i don’t really remember the rest.” you pause. “it’s been a long day.”

the girl’s face softens as she smiles. she moves to stand beside you and withdraws a thin tube of lipstick from her clutch. “i know what you mean. i can get pretty bogged down and feel like the time’s flown by and i’ve been asleep the at the wheel, but, god, it’s queen! they started here, you know, in this very concert hall. and now they’re back, just for us! how bloody exciting is that?” as she speaks, her irish accent grows stronger, in tandem with the excitement lighting her face.

you frown, unsure if you’ve heard her correctly. “queen? like... the band queen or queen elizabeth?”

she pauses in her lipstick application. “the band queen, silly. are you really that knackered?” with a grin, she puts the lipstick down and takes your shoulders in her hands. “you’re at a queen concert, love. it’s friday, september first, ninteen-seventy-eight. has been all day, ever since you woke up in your jammies.” she laughs, her blunt bob swaying as tilts her head to the side. “you gonna be fine?”

your first thought: no, absolutely not.

the only answer you can give, punctuated by a weak smile: “yeah. yeah, i’m gonna be all right. thanks.”

the girl puts her makeup away and gives your shoulder a final squeeze. “i think they’ll be finishing soon, so i’m gonna pop back out so i don’t miss it. try and get some rest, yeah? you look like you could use it.”

she exits the bathroom, a song momentarily pouring through the door, and you find yourself alone in the empty room.

before you can stop yourself, you twist on your heel and lunge for the nearest toilet. you vomit, heaving what little remains in your stomach, until there is nothing left to unearth. dropping back against the stall, you duck your head between your knees.

this is just a fever dream. maybe you got scared during the storm, hit your head, and passed out on the bathroom floor. there’s no way in hell—no way in hell—this is nineteen-seventy-eight. that’s preposterous. and sure, queen might have gotten their start at imperial college—everyone knows that—but that was eons ago. freddie mercury is dead, john deacon is retired, and brian may and roger taylor are well within their seventies. the girl must be mistaken or strung out or high or all of the above.

or maybe you are. you can’t be sure anymore.

your legs tremble beneath you as you stand. if any good has come of this, it’s that you’re dry now—suspiciously so. despite the pale sheen on your face and layer of sweat on your forehead, it’s as if you were never drenched to begin with. your cream pleated trousers have no wrinkles along the back after you spent all afternoon stuffing and unstuffing boxes on the floor. your navy top is void of the stubborn coffee stain you’d gotten this morning as you rushed into the museum ten minutes late. it’s almost as if the day never happened.

it’s almost as if the day—saturday, september fifth, twenty-twenty—is still forty-two years in the future instead of thirty minutes away from ending.

“all right, we’ve got one more for you lovelies tonight! this one’s new, so keep it a secret ‘till the record comes out, okay?”

you turn at the sound of a familiar voice amplified over a loudspeaker.

freddie mercury.

though you’ve never been a huge queen fan, you’re positive anyone with even a passing knowledge of classic rock could hear his voice and pick it out in a lineup.

heart in your throat, you sling your bag over your shoulder and squeeze out the door. the energy in the hall has heightened tenfold since you last stood in the bathroom doorway. perhaps it’s due to the fact that the concert is rapidly drawing to a close and everyone wants to drink in the last moments before it’s all over.

perhaps it’s simply because it’s queen.

as your eyes slide to the stage, you can’t help but feel a giddiness rise in your chest. your throat goes tight, eyes misty, as you weave through the crowd on auto-pilot. you’re drawn to them; who wouldn’t be? the floor shakes beneath your feet as the music surges around you. he’s magnificent—freddie. he commands the crowd with ease, and you feel at home, relaxed, like you’re watching a friend goof around. seeing him there—whole, well, happy—is nothing short of a miracle.

“aren’t they marvelous?” you turn to see the girl from the bathroom. she holds your bicep tight in her fingers. her smile is radiant, her face glowing with unbridled joy. “i’m glad you made it out for this!”

you nod dumbly, swiveling back to drink in the final moments. matthew at the coffee shop you frequent would kill for something like this. you want to text him, to rub it in his face with a good-natured wink, but he hasn’t been born yet, has he? seeing freddie mercury on stage confirms it.

you’re not in twenty-twenty anymore.

the song draws to a close, and you find yourself smiling despite the uncertainty of your current situation. you can’t help but applaud alongside the rest of the audience. someone shouts “encore” but freddie waves him off with a laugh.

“we just did a fucking encore!” he says.

they take their bows—all four of them—and then disappear backstage. a moment passes before the house lights flicker on, and the crowd begins to disperse. trash litters the floor, and the room doesn’t feel as magical as it did seconds before, but you find it hard to breathe nonetheless. try as you might, you can’t tear your eyes away from the stage.

“oh my god, wasn’t that brilliant?” bathroom-girl practically jumps up and down on her ballet-slippered feet. “i’m anna, in case you were wondering,” she says.

you hesitate. there’s too much going on around you, so many things you’ve only read about or seen in pictures: the fashion, the hair, the fucking band. you feel dizzy—dizzy with fear and excitement. it’s like you’re standing in line for a rollercoaster. you know what’s coming: the slow climb up the first hill, anticipation bubbling in your stomach before the first drop, then the madness of letting yourself plummet at incredible speeds. all you can do is laugh, just like you do on the rollercoaster.

“[y/n],” you say between fits of amusement. “sorry! i don’t know what’s gotten into me!” you press a hand to your mouth, shaking your head back and forth.

anna grins. “that was me when the concert first started.” she bends her head toward yours conspiratorially. “i nearly pissed myself when i saw john deacon walk out for the first time.”

your laughter turns to girlish giggles and holding her forearm is all you can do to keep from falling to the floor. you’re drunk, surely. drunk off what, you can’t say, but you’ve felt like this before.

“hey!” anna’s eyes go wide, and you can see the lightbulb turn on above her head. “i saw where they parked their vans. we could go have a look-see!”

your initial reaction is a resounding no. just the thought of standing mere meters away from queen makes you want to break out into hives. you’re sure to say something stupid and embarrassing or screw up some time-continuum-thing. you’ve seen enough doctor who to know not to mess about with time.

oh god, you must be really fucking crazy if this is what you’re life has come to, deciding what the right or wrong move is based on a children’s television show.

yet there’s still a sliver of your heart holding on to the hope that this is all a dream. you could wake up at any moment, still in the concert hall, yes, but where you belong and a soaked mess from the rainstorm. so, even though you know you shouldn’t, even though your heart of hearts tells you that you’re a girl out of place and far away from home, you nod and let anna drag you toward the a side-exit door.

outside, the air is chilly, but it soothes your hot skin.

standing outside the concert hall is perhaps more strange than standing in it. you know this spot; you walk behind the building every day. if you follow the winding path toward the dormitories and then veer to the left, you’ll eventually reach your flat—or you would if this were some other time. it’s not a terribly long walk, and most of the time, you find it refreshing. but today, with the sun replaced by the moon and the evening air and anna’s nervous energy, you find yourself a mite too cold. the cold settles in your stomach, not on your body, and you catalog the area. the parking lot has been repaved, all the dips and cracks you know so well gone. the tree which overhangs a dumpster in the corner is but a small sapling, and the dumpster is nowhere to be seen. the cold in your belly spreads to your chest, and, for a moment, you forget what it is anna dragged you here for.

but then her fingers grip your wrist tightly, and you remember: queen.

“look,” she whispers. “there they are.”

you follow her eyeline to the gaggle of men descending a ramp propped beneath a set of double-doors. in the thin veil of darkness you inhabit, it’s hard to make out who is who. brian is unmistakable, what with his gangly arms and legs and tilted shoulders. freddie is easy to pick out, too; he walks with a swagger only he can pull off. everyone else is a jumble of faces obscured by the night and a cloud of cigarette smoke. they’re loud, but not rowdy, and it reminds you somewhat of a group of teenage boys out to make trouble.

“let’s go over.” anna steps forward, but you stop her with a hand on her elbow.

“no, we shouldn’t. i’m sure they’ve got security, and we really can’t just waltz up there. besides, what would we say?” you shake your head. “this is close enough, don’t you think?”

“fuck no!” her exclamation startles you, your eyebrows lifting, and she laughs. “this is likely the only time we’ll be able to meet true rockstar royalty. you can stay back if you want to, but i’m gonna go.”

“go where?”

in unison, you turn with anna on the ball of your foot. your movements are slow, hers hurried, but you both come face to face with roger taylor and you both inhale sharply.

your first thought is foolish: he looks so young. but of course he does. he’s twenty-nine here, not seventy. half a cigarette hangs out of his mouth, and his blond hair brushes the collar of his jacket as he goes to remove the cigarette and puff a plume of smoke to the side. he wears sunglasses, despite the late hour, and if you weren’t so bloody unsettled, you’d find him attractive.

anna finds her voice first. she points her thumb over her shoulder. “well, we were gonna go and... that is, we thought we might...” she heaves a sigh, and her smile turns angelic. “you put on a great show tonight.”

roger grins, his eyes fixed on anna. “i thought i saw you in the crowd.” his voice is raspy and high and dripping with innuendo. you all know he did not see anna from behind his drum set, but that doesn’t stop her from pulling her lower lip between her teeth and batting her eyelashes.

“oy, rog, can we get a move on, please?”

roger frowns and slips between you and anna, his hand firm on her bicep. he shouts in the general direction of the disembodied voice. “don’t get your fucking knickers in a twist, crystal, jesus!” he rolls his eyes and looks back at anna. “sorry, he’s like a damn mother hen. i didn’t catch your name.”

“anna.” she’s breathless, ready to drip to the floor in a puddle of goo. it’s painfully obvious, and roger seems to like that. his hand rubs an untraceable pattern over her shoulder.

“and your friend?” he doesn’t look at you when he speaks, just jerks his head in your direction.

you should be offended, but really you feel like crying. an overwhelming homesickness builds in your chest. everyone you know, every place you hold so dear, none of it is as it should be. those fleeting magical moments during the concert are quickly wearing off, and you feel yourself slipping back to the panic you’d fought in the bathroom.

“that’s [y/n].”

“would you gals like to join us for some drinks?” this time roger does look at you, his gaze soft but purposeful. he’s daring you to turn him down.

maybe it’s the homesickness. maybe it’s the idea that you can be anything, anyone, here with few personal repercussions. maybe it’s the haughty glint in roger’s eye. whatever it is, it finally gets you talking.

“lead the way,” you say, your eyebrow raised in silent challenge.

roger’s smirk widens, and he tugs anna against his side with an arm around the waist. “gladly.”

the inside of the tour bus is cramped. you suspected it might be so based on the outside, but you didn’t realize just how tight the quarters would truly be. you’re stiff, sat on a stool between two men with long brown hair and equally long faces. there’s a tremor in your leg, and you itch to steal the cigarette out of the man-on-your-left’s mouth and smoke your anxiety away.

for anna’s part, she seems at ease, and you envy that. she’s wrapped around roger’s arm, pressed against him on the couch, and in that moment you feel a certain flare of hatred toward her. you’d always been jealous of the girls who could so effortlessly flirt and make a move and get what they want. you never had to the confidence to follow suit. sitting as you are near the back of the bus, crammed between two sullen and tired roadies, you’re reminded of secondary school lunches. a rush of discomfort heats the back of your neck, and you shift on the stool. your movement must disturb to the man next to you because he shifts, too. he leans away, twisting his neck to look at you.

“you good?” the smoke that leaves his parted lips circles around your head, stinging your eyes.

“i wish everyone would stop asking me that,” you mutter. it comes out before you can stop it, and when you realize what you’ve said, you sink down further on your stool. your hand comes to squeeze your forehead. “oh god.”

but the man just laughs. “here.” he hands you an unopened beer. it’s cold to the touch, dripping with sweat. “you look like you could use it.”

you lift it slightly in a sign of thanks before popping the tab and taking a swig. it’s cheap, and that surprises you considering it’s queen, but you drink it anyway.

“so, who picked you up?”

your eyebrow arches, and you look at the man on your left with a mixture of shock and distain. “no one, thank you. i came on my own accord and i’ll leave in the same way.”

out of the corner of your eye, from his place on a low bench in front of you, you think you see brian turn slightly, his curls swaying with the movement. but he doesn’t face you after all, so it must have been your imagination.

“okay, okay!” the man holds his hands up in surrender, mirth etched along the lines in his face. “sorry!”

you resist the urge to huff, cross your arms, and pout like a child. you pull at your beer instead.

the man nudges you with his elbow. “chris taylor, by the way. crystal.” he points to the man on your right. “that’s ratty—pete.”

pete looks tired enough to fall out of his chair. all he can do is raise his eyebrows in greeting and drop his head back against the wall.

“i’m [y/n].”

crystal mirrors ratty’s movements and stretches his legs out underneath the card-table. “well, i must admit that you might be one of the most level-headed lasses we’ve had in here—and we’ve had plenty of girls grace this bus.”

you aren’t sure if he’s bragging or simply making conversation, so you ignore the comment and say, “i’ve had a... strange day. it’s a lot to take in.”

you’re not lying. really, it is a lot to take in. the tour bus is hot and sweaty, but conversation is quiet, like a background hum. it’s not what you thought it would be; nothing is.

“didn’t think you’d end up here?”

you shake your head. “absolutely not.”

crystal smiles, and you find yourself smiling back, the truth in your words humorous to you and you alone.

the bus door opens, and a flurry of sound enters the already-cramped space. crystal sits forward; ratty seems to wake up. at once, the energy is higher. you feel your heart begin to pound against your ribcage.

freddie enters the bus in all his post-concert glory. you’d been a baby when he died, but now you sit at the back of his tour bus, watching as he laughs and jokes and lives. it makes you want to throw up all over again.

he stands in the center of the bus, hands on his hips, surveying the jumble of roadies and groupies and band members. “well?” the corner of your mouth quirks upward at the sound of his voice; you can’t help it. “have we decided where we’re crashing yet?”

“uh, yeah.” john deacon pipes up from his spot at the front of the bus. you hadn’t noticed him all night, but there he stands, leaning against the driver’s seat, a map in hand. “i think we’re gonna—”

“oh hell, we don’t need that!” roger slaps the map out of john’s hands. it crumples between his fingers, and he all but pulls anna onto his lap. she squeals in delight. “we’ve got our own personal tour guide right here. not to mention brian. he’s got to know his way about.”

“don’t forget [y/n], roger!” anna says, ever the good friend.

no, please. please, for the love of god, forget [y/n].

as one, the tour bus turns to look at you. this time bile does rise in the back of your throat.

sitting in the back of the bus you can handle. crystal is nice, and simply being in the presence of music royalty is sure to be the peak of the rest of your life—whatever that may look like. but having them all look at you, expectantly, waiting for you to giggle or blush or say something, it’s that too much you told crystal about moments earlier. only this time, it’s so much you feel like your head might explode.

even though it feels like decades, only a few seconds have gone by since everyone began waiting for you to make a peep. so when you look at anna and say, “i’m sure you know better than me,” it doesn’t sound awkward. it sounds like a comment shared between friends. you’re thankful for that, at least.

“okay, fine.” anna claps her hands together. “what are you in the mood for, freddie?”

your eyebrow lifts at her familiarity, and beside you, crystal chuckles behind his hand. god, she’s good. you are... decidedly not.

“anything fabulous. we’ve just had a good show, if i do say so myself, and i want to have some fun before we really have to start working.”

“we are working, fred.” it’s the first thing you’ve heard brian say all evening. you can’t see his face from where you’re sitting, so his voice sounds far away. far away but ever so nice to the ears.

freddie waves his hands dismissively. “you know what i mean.”

“there’s a disco club a few blocks from here,” anna offers. “it’s not garishly disco, but it’s fun.”

there’s a pause before freddie says, “it’s late, so it’ll have to do.” he turns to brian with a grin. “do you think we should call ahead?”

twenty minutes and three phone calls later, you’re walking side-by-side with crystal and ratty, hands twitching at your sides, desperately wishing for the comfort of a pair of pockets. if you’d hazard a guess, you’d say there’s about twenty people headed for the club. you know you should feel happy, exuberant at the chance to party with queen in the 70s, but your head hurts. it really, really hurts, and you haven’t the faintest idea where you’ll spent the night. you have no money, no contacts—nothing but the clothes on your back and the half-empty purse thrown over your shoulder.

“[y/n], where are you from?” ratty asks. his questions is harmless enough, but it breaks your underarms out in an uncomfortable sweat. how can you explain that you’re from here, the very here you’re walking on, without also explaining why you have no idea where the disco club is or where the charming flower stand on the corner has gone?

you settle on something vague, but passable. “not from around here.” the toe of your shoe kicks at a loose pebble, which skips forward, nearing the long strides of brian.

“on holiday then?”

“something like that, yeah.” you smile to soften the blow of your unsubstantial answers, and it seems to appease.

you chat with the roadies about inconsequential things—roger’s horrible morning breath, the oil crisis and its impact on the upcoming tour, whether or not pigeons lay eggs. it’s small talk, and you ask more questions than give answers, but it relaxes the ache in your shoulders. you have to remind yourself breathe, drink in what you can while you can. you’ll be okay.

you have to be.

the group rounds the corner like an amoeba, all uneven edges and uncertain direction. though the hour is rapidly closing in on one a.m., the road is filled. a few of the cars closest to the curb honk and frenzied arms reach out windows to wave as queen passes them by. a girl flashes her tits from the sunroof of her car; roger gives her a thumbs up.

“is it always like this?” you ask.

crystal laughs. “this is nothin’, dove. we’ve got this party planned for october in new orleans, and i am honestly a little bit afraid of what might happen.”

the club comes into view, music ebbing through the open front door. climax is written in bright yellow lightbulbs across the marquee, and someone squeezes anna’s shoulder with a laugh. the line waiting to enter is long, roped off in anticipation of your arrival. those in queue push forward as your party begins to enter. freddie signs a few autographs on the back of receipts. brain scrawls across the crest of someone’s hip with a shit-eating grin on his face.

the resounding thought that you shouldn’t be here flickers through your mind and not for the first time. you ignore it as crystal leads you into the club, a hand tucked in the small of your back. his touch is anything but sexual, and it’s a relief. he likely sees you as a lost puppy, out of her depth, and you might have to lean into that come closing time.

“do you want something to drink?” he shouts over the music and laughter and shouting.

you nod eagerly. “yes, please!”

weaving through horde of dancers, you find a spot at a cocktail table tucked near a back corner. “boogie wonderland” plays over the louder speakers, and it grates against your headache. the disco ball in the center of the room spins and spins and spins, casting sprinkles of white light over the room. you can’t stop watching it, wondering what it would feel like to wrap yourself around the ball and stay there forever. it probably wouldn’t feel very different from how you feel right now, though your legs are planted firmly on the ground.

“lost in thought?”

you turn, expecting to see crystal with your drink, but you’re met with the incredibly tall form of brian may. you have to tip your head back to meet his eyes he’s standing so close. he must notice because he takes a fraction of a step backwards, his smile widening.

your mouth goes dry, but you manage a shaky nod. “yeah, i guess.” you blink and run your eyes over his face. like roger, he’s painfully young. his curls are dark and full, his skin smooth. he’s handsome, ridiculously so, and despite what some may believe, you think he knows it too.

“you’ve been awful quiet tonight.” he leans against the table with ease. the edge, which reaches your chest, seems to dig into his hip, and he adjusts himself to a more comfortable stance. “most girls are chatty.”

“that’s what crystal said.”

brian chuckles under his breath. “yeah, crystal would know.” he glances over his shoulder then looks back at you. “[y/n], right?”

you’re surprised he remembered or overheard or asked someone before walking over. it’s a simple thing, but just hearing your name grounds you. you don’t care who says it; it reminds you that you are, in fact, still human. and it doesn’t hurt that brian’s voice is like butter. it could put anyone at ease.

for the first time that evening, you feel a lightness in your chest as you smirk and meet his gaze. “brian, right?”

at this, he throws his head back to laugh. his reaction brings a blush to your face, and you duck your head, uncertain where your burst of flirty energy has come from. moments ago, you’d been yearning for the comfort of a good bed and solid night’s rest. now, you could stand in this dark corner and look at brian, hear him laugh, until you fall asleep standing.

when he’s calmed, brian looks at you again. there’s a shift in his stare, one you can’t quite place. “what do you do, [y/n]?”

this time, you decide to answer honestly. “i’m a student, most of the time,” you say. “but eventually i’ll be a curator for museums.”

his eyebrows lift. “a curator? that’s bloody brilliant.”

you shrug. “i like history and photography and design. it’s kind of the perfect blend.” glancing at your empty hands, you fumble for your words then meet his eyes through the underside of your lashes. “a little birdie told me you’re pretty smart yourself.”

he tilts his head in a noncommittal manner, and you swear you can see a tinge of color rise along the top of his exposed chest. “i suppose.”

“what is your specialty again? besides the guitar, of course.”

“astrophysics with a concentration in interplanetary dust.” before you can make a quip about how much interplanetary dust is actually around to study, he leans close. he has to bend at the waist to lower his mouth to the shell of your ear, and when he speaks, it’s hardly above a whisper. “i’m good at other things, too, you know? besides space and the guitar.”

you draw back slightly, enough look into his eyes. his pupils are dark, overpowering the hazel tint of his irises. if you move an inch, your lips will brush his mouth; you stay still, your eyes darting back and forth between his.

you feel utterly ridiculous for a fraction of a second. he’s brian may, first of all, and you are decidedly not worthy of his attentions. but more than that, this isn’t your home, your time. the thought makes you cringe.

fucking hell, you don’t belong here.

his long fingers skim your waist. the touch is feather-light, a mere whisper, but it pulls you from your thoughts.

“what are you thinking?” he breathes.

“not much.” it’s a half-truth; you can barely focus on your existential crisis with his fingertips working along your skin as they are. he’s brazen enough to dip underneath the hem of your shirt just enough to touch the skin of your hip. you bite your tongue. “wondering where you got the nerve to be so cheeky all of a sudden.”

he withdrawals his hand as if he’s been bitten by fire, cheeks gone red as flame. “sorry, sorry,” he stammers. “i just thought that—”

you know you shouldn’t, that it will only lead to trouble, but you do it anyway.

you grab his wrist and squeeze tight. “i’m only joking, brian.” your grip relaxes as you grin. “come dance with me.”

he huffs a sigh of relief, shaking his head. “damn, you really—”

you interrupt him again, your feet moving on their own accord toward the dance floor. there’s this strange desire in you—a desire to forget—and he seems willing enough to be the one to help you lose track of your troubles. “come dance with me.”

“i don’t really know how,” he admits, though his smile is wide, showing off his teeth.

“me neither! we can look like idiots together.”

somewhat reluctantly, brian follows you onto the dance floor. the music is louder here, the song changed to something you don’t recognize. you weren’t lying when you said dancing wasn’t your forte. in primary school, you’d stepped on the toes of every boy in your music class during the week of mandatory dance lessons. things haven’t changed much since then as you promptly land your foot on brian’s seconds into the song.

you gasp and clamp your hands over your mouth in an effort to obscure your laughter. “shit, i’m sorry!”

“it’s fine!” he yells, straining to make his voice heard over the thrumming of the music. “the clogs, they’re kinda like a protective shell.”

swaying to the beat, your hands slide along his forearms. “oh yeah? what do they protect you from?”

“klutzy girls like you.”

looking back on the moment years later, you wonder if that’s when you fell in love with him first, on the dance floor, his gangly body unaccustomed to fluid movement. he makes you laugh with his two left feet, and you forget, like you’d hoped, that you do not belong in his arms. as the music ebbs and flows like the tide, you follow it, swinging, swaying, twirling in whatever way you can. you’re sweaty, and he’s sweaty, but you’re both smiling. at some point, you bump into anna who bumps into roger who bumps into freddie and then it’s some version of disco mosh pit, arms and elbows and feet tangled together. you’re laughing—truly laughing for what feels like the first time in ages—and, if you could, you’d stay in that moment forever.

the music slows. you breathe hard, nodding as anna whispers something in your ear about leaving with roger. you aren’t sure if you’ll see her again, aren’t sure if it matters, but you’re thankful for her nonetheless. hers was the first kind face you met, and for that, you can never repay her.

a pair of arms wrap around your middle, pulling you tight against a lean chest, dipping you side to side as the music trills in the background. he mumbles against the skin of your neck. “rog’s leaving with anna.”

you nod and curl your fingernails around his forearms. “i know.”

“is it too presumptuous of me to ask if you’ll do the same? not leave with him, i mean. leave with me.”

you could say something about his proposal being too forward after only a handful of hours together, but you don’t. you feel dizzy from dancing, dizzy with a sense of freedom. normally, you’d never follow a guy home after just meeting. it’s never been in your nature, despite the times you wished it were. tonight, though, you feel like you can do anything.

and if that means letting brian may take you back to his hotel where he’ll likely screw the daylights out of you, so be it.

you twist slightly in his arms, enough to look up at him. you repeat your words of earlier. there’s no hint of a challenge in your voice this time, only desire. “lead the way.”

by the time you reach the door of brian’s hotel room, you’re fumbling with what buttons on his shirt are actually buttoned. his lips are pressed against yours, and you can feel his smile on your teeth as you struggle to both kick the door open with your heel and work the last two buttons.

“you know,” you mumble against his mouth. “you’d make it a lot easier for me if you just don’t button any of them. you’re halfway there, anyway.”

“so i’ve been told,” he replies, his own fingers pushing the three buttons of your blouse through the small holes.

the comment gives you pause. your hands still on the warm skin of his shoulders, and you pull back. his eyelids are heavy, his lips parted and plump. you don’t know what it is about his words that make you stop. maybe it’s the idea of him in a similar situation with another girl. of course, you know you aren’t the first concert-goer he’s dragged home; you aren’t that much of an idiot. still, the thought niggles at the back of your brain.

his hands slide away from your shirt to cup your face, and he bends down to kiss you softly. this kiss is different from the ones he’d given you in the lift—hungry and demanding—and in the hallway—earnest and consuming. he’s gentle, painfully so, and tears spring to your eyes. you’ve never been kissed like this, not so tenderly. it makes your heart stop.

“just you and me, [y/n],” he whispers when he breaks the touch. “just you and me.”

you nod and finish pushing the white shirt off his shoulders.

he doesn’t fuck you. he truly makes love to you, worshipping your body until you both are spent and sweaty, sheets tangled around your limbs. when he collapses beside you with a soft groan, you feel the overwhelming urge to cry. it’s embarrassing, really. but it’s been such a long day, and you’re tired—tired and happy and warm. you throw your arm over your eyes to keep from showing your emotion. you absolutely refuse to be the girl who cries after having sex with brian may.

you feel the bedsheets rustle as he props himself up on his elbow. his fingernail skims along your collarbone. “you’re so... divine.”

you drop your arm to stare at him, heart thumping in your chest. his eyes flick up to meet yours. he smiles and looks at you as if he’s known you his whole life, not seven hours. there’s nothing you can say that will capture how you feel in this moment, so you simply grab him by the neck and pull him down for a bruising kiss.

later, when you’re drifting off to sleep, one of his sleep shirts swallowing you, his chest against your back, one leg pushed between both of yours, you wonder if you’ll wake up in the morning and find it was all a dream. it certainly would make for a good story once you make it home to your flat. even so, if it isn’t a dream, the part of you that so desperately yearned for home hours earlier is slipping away.

you could stay here, like this, if he let you.

shaking your head, you burrow against him. such silly thoughts. even if you have to stay here, out of place, for the rest of your life, this night was a one-time thing. you must know that. so, you’ll cherish his arms around you while you can and commit everything to memory.

come morning, you find yourself still in nineteen-seventy-eight and deliciously sore. you’re embarrassed to say you smile at the revelation of both situations.

stretching your arms over your head as your eyes flutter open, you groan with your stretch. after your eyes have adjusted to the bright morning light streaming through the open curtains, you look around the room and find brian sitting at the small table in the middle of the kitchenette. he has the hotel phone cradled against his shoulder and ear and looks delightfully sleep-muddled. you slip from bed, uncertain how you should act.

will he send you away now that the night is gone? you wouldn’t blame him. your fingers twist the hem of his shirt as you sway from foot to foot at the base of the bed.

he looks up and waves you over. a good sign, at least.

bare feet padding against the carpet, you cross to his side, but don’t reach out to smooth the unruly curls on his head as you wish you could. the thought crosses your mind that you are painfully in love with him already, and it doesn’t even phase you. it just makes you laugh to yourself.

“what do you want for breakfast?”

you blink. “sorry?”

“breakfast? what do you want?”

“i don’t really care. anything,” you say with a shrug. at his pointed look, you concede with a roll of your eyes. “fine. a waffle.”

he adds a waffle to the order, thanks the person on the other end, then puts the phone down. he’s quick to grab your waist and pull you to his lap, his lips attaching to a sensitive spot on your neck. you giggle and swat his shoulder.

“i thought you wouldn’t be so keen about me come morning,” you admit, keeping your tone playful as you pull back to brush the hair from his face.

his forehead crinkles. “why wouldn’t i be?”

you shrug. “we barely know each other. plus, i’m [y/n] [y/l/n] and you’re brian may. not exactly an obvious match.”

he’s quiet a moment, eyes searching yours, before he says, “what do you think about plato’s allegory of the cave?”

you choke on a laugh. “i’m sorry?”

“you know, plato’s cave—what do you think about it?”

he’s being serious, something that absolutely stuns you into answering honestly. you settle on his knee, arms twisted around his neck, as you consider your response. “well, i mean, i think it’s a good metaphor.” you pause. “it makes me think of people and their cell phones.”

“cell phones?”

shaking your head, you backtrack. “i mean, just technology in general. when it comes to technology, we never really know what we’re getting, do we, usually until it’s too late. i know it wasn’t his intention, but the cave makes me think of that. the way technology can so easily take control and we’re powerless to stop it.”

your words hang in the air for a long while. then he dips forward and claims your mouth with his. you shuffle in his lap, surprised, a soft oh parting your lips. he kisses you with that same hunger you’d felt in the lift the previous evening. when he draws back, he presses his forehead to yours.

“come with me,” he breathes.

you still completely, hands dropping from his neck to his arms. the clock on the desk in the corner ticks, loud and annoying. “what?”

“come with me.” he draws back to run a hand over the hair framing your face. “on tour. we leave next month.”

“you’re insane, brian.”

he shakes his head. “no, i’m not.” his words are resolute, anything but unsure.

“we’ve only just met and i don’t think you know what—”

“i know what i’m saying, [y/n].” his hands move to hold your face. “come with me. i’m crazy about you. say what you will about the timing, but i don’t care. you’re smart and funny and beautiful and i want to get to know you more, but i’m leaving. i’d kill to have you by my side.”

“brian...”

your head is spinning, your throat gone dry. someone knocks on the door in the hall—room service—but he keeps talking.

“it’s north america first, then europe, then asia. it’s long, i know, but you don’t have to stay the whole time. i couldn’t ask you to leave your studies like that. you can leave any time you want.”

“brian,” you say again, this time more forcefully, yet he continues.

“i just think that... after last night... fuck, i really like you, [y/n], and i’d hate to see some other guy swoop in while i’m gone.”

he stops at last, breathing heavy, his wiry frame practically trembling with anxiety. you smooth your hands down his neck and across his shoulders, smiling softly. and maybe you’re just as crazy as he is because you lean in, kiss his lips, and say, “okay, i’ll come with you.”

you don’t think twice. don’t have to, really.

he grins, his fingers squeezing your thighs. “really?”

you nod. “really. but only so long as we can go to a disco every now and again. i think john would like that.”

he laughs and delves his fingers in your hair, kissing you hard. you forget about the breakfast waiting in the hall. it doesn’t matter.

a month and a half later, you’re stood outside the record company’s london office, thumbing through your hastily-acquired, perhaps-not-totally-legal passport. crystal had gotten it for you. there being no record of your birth, you aren’t sure how he managed it, but you don’t ask any questions.

the last month and a half have been a whirlwind, to say the least.

you’ve been, largely, happy. any chance you get is spent by brian’s side, and he seems just as eager to pass his free hours with you. you were able to snag a job at a corner diner to make some money for basic necessities—a change of clothes, for starters—and anna, also invited on the tour, gave you free reign of her pull-out sofa without asking for an explanation.

but despite spending more time in brian’s hotel room than anna’s living room, and despite the blissed-out evenings and comfortable mornings and long chats and shared moments of quiet, despite everything that makes you happy here, you still know it’s not right. it’s not where you belong.

so as you’re standing outside the record company, heavy suitcases at your feet, roadies and groupies alike milling about, you can’t help but feel on edge. it’s that same feeling you had the first night you arrived: your heart is in your throat, your chest tight.

maybe it’s the clothes: the tight, flared jeans, white prairie blouse, chunky tan heels. it’s cute, but it’s not you. not yet, anyway.

maybe it’s the hair: you’d had to get it cut earlier in the month, anna dragging you to a salon after claiming your hair was too dowdy. when you look in the mirror now, you feel like farrah fawcett, and that’s not totally bad, but it’s taken some getting used to.

maybe it’s the lack of technology: you’re so used to your phone being attached to your palm, or your car keys jingling in your purse, or your earbuds falling out of said purse at inopportune times. now, you just have a bag with a book in it and a few pieces of really uncomfortable makeup.

all of it serves as a reminder that this is not home.

“ready to go?”

you look up from your passport and squint as the sun hits your eyes. brian stands in front of you, and he moves to block the sunlight. you laugh. “you’re like my own personal sunblocker.”

“it’s a gift and a curse.” dropping a duffle bag, he bends to unzip it and pull out a box wrapped in plain brown paper. “here, i got you something.”

you frown. “brian, that’s not necessary.”

he pushes the box toward you. “just hush and take it.”

with a sigh, you take the box from his hands. over your shoulder, gerry stickells, tour manager, calls for everyone to load the bus with their belongings. the flight to dallas doesn’t leave for several hours, but he likes to be punctual, and the band plus thirty-odd crew and three or four extra girls makes for a hard group to wrangle at once. you don’t envy him his job.

brian leans a little closer, dropping his voice as he watches gerry herd stragglers toward the bus doors. “open it before he comes to shout at us.”

“fine, but you still shouldn’t have gotten me anything.”

you rip the paper from the box then slide your nail under the edge. pushing back the cardboard folds, you find a camera nestled amongst sleeves of tissue paper. it’s a small camera, the name canon etched along the silver rim. a thin leather strap is curled around the black casing.

“brian,” you breathe. you meet his eyes, which shine and sparkle and send a thrill to your chest. “this is too much.”

“when we met you said you liked photography. i figured there might be things you’d like to take pictures of while we’re gone.”

cradling the box against your chest, you rise to your toes to press a firm kiss to his mouth. your fingers wind in the hair at the back of his neck, and his hands come to rest on your sides. as has become custom, you feel his smile on your mouth.

“does that mean you like it?” he murmurs.

drawing back, you nod. your cheeks hurt your smile is so wide. “yes, of course! thank you!”

gerry’s voice interrupts brian’s response, and you turn to see him, red in the face, pointing to the running vehicle. “hey, you can do that on the bus! get a move on!”

by the time you find your seat on the bus, the tour is already running behind schedule. gerry blames brian, who only shrugs in apology. there’s a brief speech of general safety and schedule from gerry then one of excitement and giddiness from freddie. then the bus rolls out of the parking lot.

you’re nestled on brian’s lap, his arms around your stomach, a game of scrabble on the table in front of you. to your right, john pulls at a cigarette.

“fred, we haven’t even left the country. i don’t want to be sick of this game before tomorrow.”

freddie sticks his tongue out. he places a letter square down and rubs his hands together. “ha! that’s... sixteen points. deaky, write it down!”

brian shifts to glance over your shoulder. “no, that’s not a word, fred.”

“of course it is!” he points to you. “[y/n], please tell him it’s a word.”

instead, you smile and take a picture of him, consternation on his face, finger pointed in the direction of the camera. he groans and rolls his eyes, dropping back against his chair. brian snuggles you close, his breath ghosting over your neck.

as the bus heads for the airport and the game of scrabble continues, crystal leaning over your seat to add his two-cents, you lean back and sigh. there’s a warmth in your chest, in your heart, that you haven’t felt in a long time. you intertwine your fingers with brian’s and squeeze his knuckles.

maybe... maybe this where you belong after all.

~*~*~*

taglist: @bhmay @grigorlee @teenagepeterpan

#brian may #brian may fic #queen #queen fic #j writes #brian may x reader

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charged-wanderlust · 3 years

Note

If its okay, can I request a little something for Jett and Remy? And the prompt is sharing!

you absolutely can, kind anon! my ask box is real empty so yall pls do keep these requests coming!

this is a self indulgent poly au in which the events of jett’s s1-2 happened alongside remy’s s1, probably when jett and mc were focused on the glass heart, since a whole lotta nothing happened then, the parker con happened at the same time?

send me a character and/or a vague prompt and i might write a ficlet!

“Okay, but if you’re in love with her, and I’m in love with her, who the hell is driving the car?”

“Jett, be serious.”

He sighed. “Okay, okay. Serious face.”

His face was not serious.

The two of them burst out laughing, as if the tension wasn’t thicker than all the layers of their collective baggage just a moment before. It was easy, with him. It always has been. Being fellow extroverts and idiots, it didn’t take long for the two of them to form a solid bond. So why strain it? What happened to the sloppy cons together, tussles amongst the sheets followed by deep pillow talk that goes on for hours, wine tasting dates in every city - well, maybe date was too strong of a word. Not-dates? Maybe-dates? Sort-of dates. Dates with the homies?

Oh come on Jett, why think of that now of all times?

Yet he couldn’t deny the appeal of the images popping up in his head. Old memories, sure, but they’d look so much better with you in it, naturally. The only thing triggering every sort of self-preservation alarm system in his mind was the fact that Remy was still in the picture. With you. Oh my god.

“This is gonna sound a little crazy, but I want you to hear me out.”

“Don’t bother.” Remy waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not... I’m not gonna get in the way of you two if you don’t want me to. She’s clearly quite fond of you, too, I just wanted to tell someone and I know Niko is awful with feelings and I should’ve probably asked Leon or Zoe but you were my first thought so-”

“Aww, Remy, I’m your first choice?”

“-and it’s more important to me that the two people I love most are happy and you’re both very good for each other and I want you both to be happy and yes I might be a bit of a jealous bastard sometimes but I promise I won’t do anything stupid and-”

“Remy.”

“Yes?”

Jett softened, the corners of his lips pulling up ever so slightly. “You’re doing something stupid right now.”

“I-I am?”

Communication. You’ve always been hammering it into him since day one, and he admired that about you. That you were able to speak your mind and not regret it. That you could express yourself and feel no fear, or feel it and stick to your guns anyway. You really are the queen of thieves, after all, but he’s a mere explosives expert and the way he expresses himself is through action. Whether that be blowing up a building, blowtorching a lock, diy-ing fireworks or pinning Remy to the nearest wall and kissing him senseless, he-

Yeah, he went with the latter.

He honestly expected him to push back, tell him to be serious again, talk it out. But Remy was better at avoiding heavy conversations than he was at looking at Jett’s handsome face and resisting the urge to jump his bones, so neither of them made a move to stop. At least like this, they didn’t need to think about how complicated everything got. At least like this, all they needed to focus on was the softness of one another’s lips, the warmth of the other, pressed up chest to chest, the firmness of their grips in each other’s hair, and... ignore the hammering of their heartbeats.

That’s when you walk in.

“I fucking knew it! Vivienne, you owe me five hundred euros!”

Remy freezes up. Jett doesn’t care.

He just moves down to mouth at his neck, eyes flicking to meet yours. Dark, hungry.

“Congrats on your bet, care to join in?”

The frenchman almost yelps in surprise, eyes rapidly darting between you and Jett. “I-I can explain. It was me who talked him into it, I’ll lea-”

“Yeah real convincing, with him marking up your neck like it’s his private property,” you snort, not at all upset with the scene in front of you. Swinging the door shut, you hear wild hollering in the background of the remaining Poppy members, but you pay them no mind, sauntering up to the two of them.

Only then does Jett detached his lips from Remy’s neck, humming, “Don’t worry love, I can share. Can you?”

“Sh...share?”

Remy seemed absolutely gobsmacked at the suggestion, like it was a possibility he’d never even thought of, let alone considered. But when you placed your hands on him, leaning in close, he didn’t have it in him to pull away. With Jett on his neck and you on his lips, he felt like he could almost crumble, were your grips on him not so strong. So solid, so... reliable. You and Jett had always been spontaneous, but in the end... reliable.

He’d never liked the idea of sharing a partner with someone, but to be fair, he’d never seen the other side of the coin. To not have to choose, to surrender himself, to see those he loved at their happiest, loving him as well - oh dammit, he dropped the L word. He said it back when he was with Jett, too. Who was he kidding?

Remy didn’t like sharing. But it was alright if it was Jett and you.

#IS THIS MY LONGEST DRABBLE YET LMFAO #CAN YOU TELL IM DESPERATE FOR MY POLY JEMC AGENDA #this was so indulgent im sorry if this isnt what you wanted #that being said im rly proud of this #queen of thieves #jett x remy #jett x mc x remy #jett slater #remy chevalier #lovestruck voltage #qot mc #qot jett #qot remy #nikolai stirling #vivienne tang #zoe banks #leon kwan #Anonymous

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veinsandknuckles · 3 years

Text

Break the cutie, pt 1

Ruben Patterson/f!Reader (Shootfighter: Fight to the Death) Explicit Content warnings: bdsm, hair pulling (with the assumption that the reader has long enough hair to make that possible), rough, unsafe sex... everything’s consensual but the powerless position the reader ends up in (and enjoys) might be upsetting to some. lmk if I missed anything. It’s not very kinky yet, I’m planning to take my time with the descent. Thank you @kingkarate for beta reading, concrit-ing and encouraging this! I owe you one <3 On the surface, Ruben seems like the gentlest, kindest red-blooded man you could hope to date but you have a hunch there’s a playful, rough, slightly selfish side of him that you’re determined to draw out. Ruben is perfectly willing to let you open that door, but whether he’ll be able to shut it again is another story. (Basically, the gimmick is this: what if his road to ruin began with sex instead of violence?)

“Here we are.” You stepped lightly onto the veranda and turned to watch Ruben.

His eyes glittered under the porch light and he smiled up at you. “I really hope you had a good time tonight. I know I did.”

“Of course. You really know how to treat a lady.”

“Well, I do my best...”

This was the moment for him to kiss you goodnight or ask to come in. You’d had two dates already, you’d given him every encouragement but he hesitated. It wasn’t strange - his and Cheryl’s engagement had only ended a few months ago and she’d been his childhood sweetheart. Maybe most men in his position would’ve been on the rebound by now, but the more you got to know Ruben, the more you started to believe he really was as good as he seemed.

He stepped in close, shook his hair out of his eyes and pressed a soft kiss against your lips. Tonight, he didn’t pull away immediately, not even when you let your lips part and teased his tongue with yours. He let his hands rest on your hips and sighed into your mouth, then broke away with a shy little laugh , just as it was getting good.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t get carried away.”

“No, I... I kinda wish you would.”

“Right.” It didn’t look as if he believed you.

“I don’t want to scandalize you, Ruben, but I mean it. If you want to come in for a cup of coffee or something, all you have to do is ask.”

“On the second date?”

“It can be a literal cup of coffee, you know. Nothing has to happen.”

“Uh... yeah, alright.” He deliberated for a moment and then smiled. “As long as you’re sure.”

You laughed and fished out your keys. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Why? Not every man is a dog.”

As you led him into the house, turned on the lights and shrugged out of your coat, you couldn’t stop yourself from silently wishing he was wrong, at least in this instance. Could he really not see how gorgeous he was? Or did he believe all that bullshit about women not having a real sex drive? “I’m not so sure. You may very well be the only exception.”

“Oh shit, sorry to hear that.” The look on his face was completely sincere. “You must’ve dated some real jerks.”

“Hmm. Maybe. But making a move wouldn’t mean you’re one of them.” You took his hand and led him into the sitting room, then ducked into the kitchen and brought back a bottle of wine and two glasses. “It’s not as if I’d mind it.”

Ruben accepted the drink gratefully, took a sip and sat down on the sofa, watching the light as it reflected off the glass. “I just, I... It’s not that I don’t want to. But after everything with Cheryl...” He trailed off with a vague gesture and looked so uncomfortable, you felt like kicking yourself.

“The last thing I want is to make you feel like there’s any pressure to-”

“No.” He looked up at you again, then took another deep drink. “No, I’m ready to move on. But, uh... we met when we were both really young.”

“I know.”

“And... I haven’t really been with anyone else.”

You smiled. This was easier territory. Somewhere deep and dark inside you, something stirred... he was so sweet, he seemed so innocent despite his experience and from what you’d pieced together, it sounded like the two of them had been the clean, wholesome romantic American ideal come to life.

There was a whole world out there and you could be the one to show him. If he wanted you to, of course.

God, you hoped he wanted you to. “That’s the opposite of a problem, Ruben. It’s sweet.”

“Yeah?” He set his drink down and slowly moved in close, gently, as if he worried he might startle you if he didn’t take every care.

You met him in another kiss. This time, he slipped his tongue in without waiting and pulled you to him to feel you close, with his hand running up your side and his pretty hair tickling your forehead. It was clear he had habits in how he moved and rather than taking the lead, you let yourself be soft and yield to him.

Even though he made you moan and you shifted in your seat to give him access, he didn’t press further. You put your hands to his chest and slipped them up to hold on to his shoulders and soon you heard him gasp. When he pulled away you saw lust written all over his face and heard his breath coming faster, and still he seemed nowhere closer to going beyond kisses.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered.

God, the idea of making out on the couch all evening like a pair of teenagers was absolute torture. Getting hot and heavy was one thing, but with the way he made you feel already if it didn’t build to any sort of release it might be less painful to just end it here.

“So are you.” You pulled the hem of his t-shirt between your fingers. “I bet you’re gorgeous all over...”

Ruben swallowed, hard, then tugged his shirt up over his head and let it fall to the floor.

You gasped. Forget your idle daydreams - he really did have the chest, shoulders and stomach of some sort of god. If he was shy, it wasn’t because he had any doubts about his appearance; his smile convinced you of that.

Well, you couldn’t let yourself fall behind. With slightly shaky hands, you reached around your back and unzipped your dress, too eager to feel self conscious.

“You don’t have to,” Ruben insisted but the look in his eyes betrayed how much he hoped you would.

This mutual, misplaced concern could get in the way all night, no matter how much you both wanted this. “How about we agree that if either of us wants to slow things down or stop, we just say so? That way we can skip past all this second guessing.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” His voice was so affected it sent a shiver down your spine.

“Then...” you held up your dress with the front pressed to your chest and considered your options. “You grab the wine and let’s take this to the bedroom.”

Ruben followed close behind you, shut the door and didn’t wait before helping you out of your dress. He watched you strip down the rest of the way in mute wonder and if he’d ever made you worry if his mind was on his ex, that ended now. Still, even though he felt achingly hard when he pulled you in for another kiss, even though he couldn’t tear his eyes from you, he undressed slowly and laid you down on the bed with such care.

Not every man liked it hard and fast, you knew that, but this was different... it was as if he’d made love a thousand times but had never even thought about fucking.

He didn’t try to hide that he was eager. When you reached for him, he moved into your touch and when you stroked and kissed him, he sighed out loud. There was nothing stoic about him, he just kept himself firmly in control and that was the very last thing you wanted. When he lay beside you and started kissing his way down your stomach, your patience finally wore out.

“Please, Ruben... I want you.”

He smiled. “I want you, too.”

It was one thing if your interests differed, but another thing entirely if he didn’t, or wouldn’t, understand what you meant. “I want you inside me, already. I want you to fuck me.”

His smile faded a little. “Am I going too slow? I just want to please you...”

You’d both promised to say if anything went too far. “You want to please me?”

“Of course.” The look on his face was so open, so sweet and pure.

It was wrong, but it only made you want to ruin him quicker.

“Then don’t hold back, just hold me down and fuck me.”

It was hard to tell in the dim light, but it looked as if he was starting to blush. His voice was a little rough as he forced himself to respond. “I-I really like you, I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

God, this was wrong. Which was a ridiculous thing to think - he was twenty eight years old, he was in no way a virgin and it wasn’t as if you were trying to force him into doing something he didn’t want. He’d promised to tell you if he wanted to stop. But it felt wrong because you wanted to break him and you didn’t want it to feel right. “Not even if I like it?”

Ruben gasped as if he’d been hit in the gut. His eyes darted across your features, searching for a clue to whether or not you’d meant it. Now he was tense, his confidence seemed to have vanished, but there was no way for him to hide it - the thought turned him on. After an agonizing pause, he whispered, “how?”

Wordlessly, you reached for him and he crawled up until his face hovered above yours. The hunger in his eyes was blended with conflict and shame and you felt your cunt tighten and something foul twisting in your gut. He let you guide his hand to your hair, he held on to it and when you nudged his grip, he took the hint and pulled. He pulled hard and watched as you twisted to follow the movement, then pulled harder.

You moaned and let your eyes roll back. If you thought you’d been wet before...

Ruben eased off. “...You really do like it.”

It wasn’t a question, even though he sounded like he couldn’t believe it - he could see how your legs fell apart wider and how your spine arched.

“Yeah, I do,” you whispered and looked up at him, making sure he knew that if there was any doubt, it was his alone. “I-I’ve fantasised about you, like this... getting you so hard you can’t help yourself, you shoving me into some dark corner and just ripping my clothes off and taking me.”

He made a noise like something between a sob and a moan. His lips parted and his shoulders tensed - you could almost see how he strained against his self-control . Before it’d been a matter of course, now it was a struggle. “This is so wrong,” he managed, his voice cracking as he spoke.

“Maybe.” You tried to keep your smile playful and worried that it just looked mean. “But it doesn’t seem like you mind that part.”

Ruben had told you himself one of the first times you’d talked that he trusted too easily. Maybe that’s what he fell back on now - whatever his justifications, he resumed his grip and, before you had the chance to steel yourself, yanked your head by your hair in the other direction and kept pulling so far you had to follow with your whole torso.

You kept your attention fixed on him while he forced you to cry out. It looked as if something in him snapped when he heard it.

His breathing quickened and his lips twisted into almost a smile. There was danger now, sooner than you could have hoped. You thought you’d wanted him before but now it felt as if you couldn’t go another second without feeling him inside you. He kept his gaze on you - you couldn’t tell whether it was to make sure you were alright or to drink in the look of pain and pleasure blended on your face - then reached down with his free hand to force your knees even further apart.

Ruben swallowed and for a second it seemed like he was about to ask again if you were certain. You held your breath waiting for it but he proved you’d been right about him - he didn’t even touch you to make sure you were ready, just rubbed the head of his cock against your soaking cunt until he’d lined himself up, then forced himself inside you, all the way, with one rough push.

“Oh, fuck,” you moaned, but it wasn’t enough for him. His grip on your hair tightened and his other hand pulled up your knee, too rough and strong for you to deny him access, and pinned you there with half his weight on his arm.

“How does it feel?” he whispered. A voice that soft had no right to sound so menacing.

“God, Ruben... it feels perfect.”

He pulled out slowly, then snapped his hips and buried himself back in so hard it hurt. You made sure to let him hear it and Ruben smiled, shocked and exhilarated.

“Oh yeah? What feels perfect?”

“When... when you fuck me like this.” You might not need to talk him into this any further, but the fire was lit and you wanted to stoke it. “When you’re rough with me...”

“Isn’t it painful?” And he twisted his grip in your hair again until it felt like he might pull it out by the roots.

“Ow, please! Yes, yes it’s painful...”

“God...” His pace was settled now, hard and fast, especially when he gave you those last couple of inches and sent the headboard bouncing off the wall. “You look even more beautiful when you’re hurting.”

“Just... don’t stop, Ruben, please don’t stop...”

He let go of your hair, ran his hand up along your side, caught one of your nipples between his fingers and with his eyes locked on yours, tweaked it roughly until you sobbed.

“Why would I? You’re giving me everything I want.”

When he shut his eyes and lost himself in the moment, you watched him carefully for any lingering doubts and found none. With your leg up and your knee almost pressed against your chest, he could bottom out fully with each thrust and really, you should have warmed up a little more before taking him so deeply. You were sure he knew that.

Just to test him, you tried to push your thigh against his arm to ease his pressure. As soon as he noticed, his eyes met yours again and he tested you right back by shoving it back down even further than before. You gasped out and he smiled.

You felt your wetness trickling down to your ass and whined in embarrassment, “oh, god...!”

“You asked for it.”

It’d never crossed your mind that things might actually go this far the very first time you slept together and so you hadn’t worried, at least any more than you usually would, about the fact that he was so much stronger than you and there was no one in the house tonight besides the two of you. In the short time you’d known him, he’d never said or done a thing to make you doubt him but even if you’d waited longer, there was never really any way to truly know what any person was capable of. Right up to the moment they showed you.

You felt a shiver rush through you and it had nothing to do with the feeling of his body against yours. You’d hoped Ruben had it in him to cut loose and live a little but you couldn’t tell anymore if he was rough with you and loved the way you loved it, or if you loving it was nothing more than a bonus. Seeing him now, the way he looked at and past you, the way he ignored how you moved under him, you realised you had no idea what he was capable of, and worse, neither had he.

The smart thing to do would be to ask him to stop, just to make sure he’d listen, but the bigger part of you didn’t want to. He’d never looked more perfect to you and knowing you’d broken his resolve like this was exhilarating. Figuring out what that said about you could wait.

“Oh god... I need you to keep fucking me like this.” You reached for him and ran your hands across his shoulders, wanting him closer. He didn’t seem to even register your touch but the desperation in your voice made him shiver.

“I guess... I guess you’d better beg me, then.”

Jesus.

“Please, Ruben...”

He actually laughed and somehow found the willpower to slow down. “Try again.”

“Please, I need your cock in me, I want you so badly...”

Ruben just smiled, deceptively sweetly. He’d taken to this quicker than you’d dared hope and the cold glint in his pretty eyes made you feel almost shy.

You took a deep breath and tried again.

“Just take me, fuck me... I promise I’ll do anything.”

“Mmh...” He pushed back inside you, so achingly slow it was almost worse than if he’d stopped altogether. “Anything? You need it that bad?”

“Of course.” You swallowed. God, he’d better hold you to it. “You’re perfect, I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.” All you wanted was to know everything he pictured when you said that, every wrong and selfish fantasy he’d ever tried to ignore, everything he’d refused to admit he wanted, even to himself. “Please take me, I’ll be good... I’ll let you fuck me raw, fuck my throat, any time you like... I’ll swallow it all...”

Ruben groaned out loud and rested his forehead against your shoulder. “...You’re filthy.”

And still he barely moved. It wasn’t enough - it wasn’t fair that he still held back after all that. Without thinking it through, you ground down on him just to get the slightest bit of friction, anything.

Ruben lifted himself up onto one elbow and his eyes narrowed. “Don’t do that.”

His look chilled you.

“I’m sorry...”

“Are you gonna behave?”

That was a tough decision. The thought of him restraining you, or punishing you, was enough to make your cunt tighten around him and your heart skip a beat, but it would mean an even longer wait before he fucked you properly. Besides, it was a little soon to play it like that. It was hard to read him now; he might very well lose his nerve.

You kept your voice sweet and soft when you replied, “I’ll be a good girl, I promise.”

“Oh, fuck,” he gasped.

“I want to be a good girl for you, please let me. Let me take it for you...”

“Yeah, you’re gonna take it.” Ruben pulled away from you, lifted you and flipped you over, then pulled you towards him by your waist until he had your ass in the air and your face buried among the pillows. You barely found your bearing before he pushed inside you again. One of his hands held on to your hip, almost hard enough to bruise, as if you’d ever try to move away from his rough, ruthless thrusts.

The other gripped your hair again and yanked your head back so far you had to arch your spine as much as it would let you and even then it was difficult for you to breathe. Every time his hips slapped against your ass, the head of his dick pushed painfully against your cervix and the discomfort and pleasure blended together, both getting so intense it made you feel almost sick. You needed relief and Ruben didn’t object or slow his pace when you reached up between your legs to tease your clit with your fingers. Perhaps he didn’t even notice.

“You like that?” he growled, as if your yelps and moans and pleading wasn’t proof enough.

“It’s-it’s so good... it feels so good...”

“And you’re gonna take it like this for me again?”

“Oh, any time you ask, ah-any way you want it...”

“You’re... you’re gonna regret saying that.” His rhythm was getting erratic. You wanted to pull him even further down into the dirt and keep him there as he came...

“I could never, Ruben... all I want is for you to use me.”

Your words made him whimper. He pushed all the way inside you, his fingers dug deep into your flesh and you felt his hot come fill your cunt.

He shuddered, gave one last push and held still until his orgasm was fully spent. Then with a soft sigh, he finally withdrew, let go of you and sank back exhausted onto the bed.

As soon as you could find a bit of strength you rolled over and turned towards him.

The pleasure was slowly fading from his expression and shock crept in to take its place. With every deep breath, he seemed to regain more of his senses and you couldn’t have seen his guilt more clearly if you’d been able to read his mind. You reached for him, but he pulled away with a hand pressed to his mouth.

“What did I...”

“Ruben, it’s alright.” You moved closer again but as you did, you brought your side into view and his eyes widened and started to glitter at the sight of the bruises he’d left on your hip.

“Oh, god. I’m-I’m so sorry...”

“I told you I wanted this, we both wanted this -”

As soon as you said it, you wished you hadn’t.

“You’re right, I knew what I was doing. I just didn’t care.” He drew away now as if he couldn’t move fast enough and scrambled to pull his pants back on. “I... there’s gotta be something wrong with me. I have to go, I shouldn’t be here.”

It was pointless to try to talk him into staying and you reluctantly gave him room and stopped protesting. You hadn’t expected such a strong reaction but now it was here and you couldn’t help him through it. He turned from you, but not before you’d seen a tear spill out and tumble down his cheek.

“Of course you should go if you need to be alone. But Ruben...”

He forced himself to meet your gaze.

“I don’t regret it.”

He nodded. “It’s fine, I just need to think.” When he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment. “I’ll call you, alright?”

“I hope you do .”

With one more nod, he shut the door and padded down the stairs. Before you’d even caught your breath, he was gone.

#shootfighter #shootfighter: fight to the death #ruben patterson #billy zabka imagines #billy zabka #my fics

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