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katnissmellarkkk · 3 years

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Hiiii! Here’s part two of my Katniss and Peeta Taking Of Each Other bookcomb! It’s pretty long so … sorry 😬. There was a lot I didn’t include and a lot I wasn’t sure about including, because so much of Catching Fire and Mockingjay is about them wanting to protect the other but I tried to narrow it down to actual acts that were caring, or times they at least tried to care for the other.

Then, as if I can’t stand it another second, I start running. He catches me and spins me around and then he slips — he still isn’t entirely in command of his artificial leg — and we fall into the snow, me on top of him, and that’s where we have our first kiss in months. It’s full of fur and snowflakes and lipstick, but underneath all that, I can feel the steadiness that Peeta brings to everything. And I know I’m not alone. As badly as I have hurt him, he won’t expose me in front of the cameras. Won’t condemn me with a halfhearted kiss. He’s still looking out for me. Just as he did in the arena. Somehow the thought makes me want to cry. Instead I pull him to his feet, tuck my glove through the crook of his arm, and merrily pull him on our way.

“We’re going!” says Peeta, shoving the Peacekeeper who’s pressing on me. “We get it, all right? Come on, Katniss.” His arm encircles me and guides me back into the Justice Building. The Peacekeepers follow a pace or two behind us.

Effie starts giving me pills to sleep, but they don’t work. Not well enough. I drift off only to be roused by nightmares that have increased in number and intensity. Peeta, who spends much of the night roaming the train, hears me screaming as I struggle to break out of the haze of drugs that merely prolong the horrible dreams. He manages to wake me and calm me down. Then he climbs into bed to hold me until I fall back to sleep. After that, I refuse the pills. But every night I let him into my bed. We manage the darkness as we did in the arena, wrapped in each other’s arms, guarding against dangers that can descend at any moment.

“He was poaching. What business is it of hers, anyway?” says the man.

“He’s her cousin.” Peeta’s got my other arm now, but gently. “And she’s my fiancée. So if you want to get to him, expect to go through both of us.”

When my mother has locked the door behind them, I slump against the table.

“What is it?” says Peeta, holding me steadily.

“Oh, I banged up my left foot. The heel. And my tailbone’s had a bad day, too.” He helps me over to one of the rockers and I lower myself onto the padded cushion.

My mother eases off my boots. “What happened?”

“I slipped and fell,” I say. Four pairs of eyes look at me with disbelief. “On some ice.” But we all know the house must be bugged and it’s not safe to talk openly. Not here, not now.

My mother gives me a cup of chamomile tea with a dose of sleep syrup, and my eyelids begin to droop immediately. She wraps my bad foot, and Peeta volunteers to get me to bed. I start out by leaning on his shoulder, but I’m so wobbly he just scoops me up and carries me upstairs. He tucks me in and says good night but I catch his hand and hold him there.

Peeta sits on the side of the bed, warming my hand in both of his. “Almost thought you’d changed your mind today. When you were late for dinner.”

I’m foggy but I can guess what he means. With the fence going on and me showing up late and the Peacekeepers waiting, he thought I’d made a run for it, maybe with Gale.

“No, I’d have told you,” I say. I pull his hand up and lean my cheek against the back of it, taking in the faint scent of cinnamon and dill from the breads he must have baked today.

Each afternoon he carries me downstairs for a change of scenery and I unnerve everyone by turning on the television.

Effie, shining in a wig of metallic gold, lacks her usual verve. She has to claw around the girls’ reaping ball for quite a while to snag the one piece of paper that everyone already knows has my name on it. Then she catches Haymitch’s name. He barely has time to shoot me an unhappy look before Peeta has volunteered to take his place.

“Why would he paint a picture of me, Effie?” I ask, somehow annoyed.

“To show he’s going to do everything he can to defend you. That’s what everyone in the Capitol’s expecting, anyway. Didn’t he volunteer to go in with you?” Effie says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I lock my fingers tightly into his and say, “Watch my feet. Just try to step where I step.” It helps. We seem to move a little faster, but never enough to afford a rest, and the mist continues to lap at our heels.

Peeta and Finnick and I position ourselves in a triangle, a few yards apart, our backs to one another. My heart sinks as my fingers draw back my last arrow. Then I remember Peeta has a sheath, too. And he’s not shooting, he’s hacking away with that knife. My own knife is out now, but the monkeys are quicker, can spring in and out so fast you can barely react.

“Peeta!” I shout. “Your arrows!”

Peeta turns to see my predicament and is sliding off his sheath when it happens. A monkey lunges out of a tree for his chest. I have no arrow, no way to shoot. I can hear the thud of Finnick’s trident finding another mark and know his weapon is occupied. Peeta’s knife arm is disabled as he tries to remove the sheath. I throw my knife at the oncoming mutt but the creature somersaults, evading the blade, and stays on its trajectory.

Weaponless, defenseless, I do the only thing I can think of. I run for Peeta, to knock him to the ground, to protect his body with mine, even though I know I won’t make it in time.

While I help Peeta coat his skin with the ointment, Finnick deftly cleans the meat from the shellfish.

I stretch out, pressing my hot cheek on the grass mat, staring at the thing in aggravation. Peeta rubs a tense spot between my shoulders and I let myself relax a little.

I know it’s stopped when I feel Peeta’s hands on me, feel myself lifted from the ground and out of the jungle. But I stay eyes squeezed shut, hands over my ears, muscles too rigid to release. Peeta holds me on his lap, speaking soothing words, rocking me gently. It takes a long time before I begin to relax the iron grip on my body. And when I do, the trembling begins.

“It’s all right, Katniss,” he whispers.

“Katniss!” I hear his voice though he’s a far distance away. But what is he doing? Peeta must have figured out that everyone is hunting us by now. “Katniss!”

I can’t protect him. I can’t move fast or far and my shooting abilities are questionable at best. I do the one thing I can to draw the attackers away from him and over to me. “Peeta!” I scream out. “Peeta! I’m here! Peeta!” Yes, I will draw them in, any in my vicinity, away from Peeta and over to me and the lightning tree that will soon be a weapon in and of itself. “I’m here! I’m here!” He won’t make it. Not with that leg in the night. He will never make it in time. “Peeta!”

I’m rattled by the turn in the conversation. The implications that I could so readily dispose of Peeta, that I’m in love with Gale, that the whole thing has been an act. My cheeks begin to burn. The very notion that I’m devoting any thought to who I want presented as my lover, given our current circumstances, is demeaning. I let my anger propel me into my greatest demand. “When the war is over, if we’ve won, Peeta will be pardoned.”

At the mention of my name, Peeta’s face contorts in effort. “Katniss . . . how do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe. Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts. And you . . . in Thirteen . . .” He inhales sharply, as if fighting for air; his eyes look insane. “Dead by morning!”

Off camera, Snow orders, “End it!” Beetee throws the whole thing into chaos by flashing a still shot of me standing in front of the hospital at three-second intervals. But between the images, we are privy to the real-life action being played out on the set. Peeta’s attempt to continue speaking. The camera knocked down to record the white tiled floor. The scuffle of boots. The impact of the blow that’s inseparable from Peeta’s cry of pain.

And his blood as it splatters the tiles.

I poke around in the pile, about to settle on some cod chowder, when Peeta holds out a can to me. “Here.” I take it, not knowing what to expect. The label reads LAMB STEW.

I press my lips together at the memories of rain dripping through stones, my inept attempts at flirting, and the aroma of my favorite Capitol dish in the chilly air. So some part of it must still be in his head, too. How happy, how hungry, how close we were when that picnic basket arrived outside our cave.

In the fluorescent light, the circles under his eyes look like bruises. “There’s still time. You should sleep.” Unresisting, he lies back down, but just stares at the needle on one of the dials as it twitches from side to side. Slowly, as I would with a wounded animal, my hand stretches out and brushes a wave of hair from his forehead. He freezes at my touch, but doesn’t recoil. So I continue to gently smooth back his hair. It’s the first time I have voluntarily touched him since the last arena.

“You’re still trying to protect me. Real or not real,” he whispers.

“Real,” I answer. It seems to require more explanation. “Because that’s what you and I do. Protect each other.” After a minute or so, he drifts off to sleep.

“Katniss!” He whips his head toward me but doesn’t seem to notice my bow, the waiting arrow. “Katniss! Get out of here!”

I hesitate. His voice is alarmed, but not insane. “Why? What’s making that sound?”

“I don’t know. Only that it has to kill you,” says Peeta. “Run! Get out! Go!”

It’s a long shot, it’s suicide maybe, but I do the only thing I can think of. I lean in and kiss Peeta full on the mouth. His whole body starts shuddering, but I keep my lips pressed to his until I have to come up for air. My hands slide up his wrists to clasp his. “Don’t let him take you from me.”

Peeta’s panting hard as he fights the nightmares raging in his head. “No. I don’t want to . . .”

I clench his hands to the point of pain. “Stay with me.”

His pupils contract to pinpoints, dilate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. “Always,” he murmurs.

I help Peeta up and address Pollux.

While Cressida and Pollux make fur nests for each of us, I attend to Peeta’s wrists. Gently rinsing away the blood, putting on an antiseptic, and bandaging them beneath the cuffs.

By the time I make it back to the fence, I’m so sick and dizzy, Thom has to give me a ride home in the dead people’s cart. Help me to the sofa in the living room, where I watch the dust motes spin in the thin shafts of afternoon light.

My head snaps around at the hiss, but it takes awhile to believe he’s real. How could he have gotten here? I take in the claw marks from some wild animal, the back paw he holds slightly above the ground, the prominent bones in his face. He’s come on foot, then, all the way from 13. Maybe they kicked him out or maybe he just couldn’t stand it there without her, so he came looking.

[…]

Out of nowhere, the tears begin to pour down my cheeks. “She’s dead.” I clutch my middle to dull the pain. Sink down on my heels, rocking the pillow, crying. “She’s dead, you stupid cat. She’s dead.” A new sound, part crying, part singing, comes out of my body, giving voice to my despair. Buttercup begins to wail as well. No matter what I do, he won’t go. He circles me, just out of reach, as wave after wave of sobs racks my body, until eventually I fall unconscious. But he must understand. He must know that the unthinkable has happened and to survive will require previously unthinkable acts. Because hours later, when I come to in my bed, he’s there in the moonlight. Crouched beside me, yellow eyes alert, guarding me from the night.

Peeta, bearing a warm loaf of bread, shows up with Greasy Sae. She makes us breakfast and I feed all my bacon to Buttercup.

I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway.

Peeta says it will be okay. We have each other. And the book. We can make them understand in a way that will make them braver.

#everlark #thg #thgagain #bookcomb ♥��🔎#hunger games #katniss everdeen #Peeta mellark #catching fire #mockingjay #long post

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bts-hyperfixation · 3 years

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Why Not Then? 18+

Here it is in all it s 4327 words.... This one kind of got away from me.

angst/fluff/smut

I hope you like it!

Warnings: unprotected sex

pic found here

Tonight’s the night. At least that’s what you were telling yourself. Senior prom. It’s now or never. Tonight is the night you are going to tell Jungkook how you really feel about him. He has to feel the same way, you are inseparable. There is no doubt in your mind that the only obstacle in the way is fear, not wanting to ruin the friendship you had worked so hard to build. The doorbell sounds through your house and you take a deep breath. For the hundredth time that day you look in the mirror. Curls frame your face, makeup done to perfection, and the seafoam A-line dress you had chosen made you feel like a queen. Your mother calls you downstairs, you can hear your father making polite conversation with your date as they wait for you. Another reason you are so sure Jungkook feels the same, he is your date. He could’ve had any other girl in school, but he asked you.

The moment you descend from the top of the stairs is like a movie. His goofy little bunny smile lights up his face when he sees you. You try as elegantly as possible to parade down the stairs, using one hand to lift the hemline of your dress, as the other glides along the bannister. You take your time. Eyeing him up as you go, the tuxedo was such a stark difference to his usual gym shorts. He was stunning. His short dark hair quaffed and gelled. Everything was going to go as planned tonight. You could just feel it.

“You look beautiful as ever” he laughs taking your hand and spinning you. You can’t help giggling.

“Not too bad yourself.” You pull on the lapels of his jacket. He bats you away a straightens himself back up just as the flash goes off on your mother’s camera. She arranges the two of you in to ten different poses before letting you leave. Jungkook had driven his beat-up convertible to pick you up. To anyone else that car would be an eyesore, but he loved it, and so did you. So many nights spent just talking and looking up at the stars, cuddled up under an old picnic blanket. To you it was a pumpkin carriage.

He opens your door for you and helps to fold your skirt so it wouldn’t rip in the limited space. He runs to the other side and jumps over the door and into his seat. Your parents wave you off as you pull away. It’s a short drive to the school. 10 minutes at most. He parks like a pro, doing that thing that guys do when they reverse into a space. The twisting just so you can see more of their neck and watch how their arms flex around the back of your headrest. You start to climb out of the seat when suddenly he is in front of you, hand extended to help you. It’s hard not to laugh at how hard he is trying to be a proper gentleman tonight.

“Come on Y/N-ah, the night of our dreams awaits.” He quotes the prom theme. The unbelievably cringy and cliched ‘night of our dreams’. Walking through the doors, it was still blatantly obvious you were in the school gym, but the prom committee at least tried their best. Tacky streamers in blues and silvers, star themed props, a solar system themed photo booth. Its clear they had to use some of the previous year’s decorations, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The butterflies were building in your stomach. Anxious and excited about where your confession could take you.

All of your other friends are already here, dancing to the catchy pop music blaring over the sound system. The path to them is crowded with other sweating high-schoolers, so Jungkook decides just the two of you should go and take photos. He pulls you towards the photo booths, lining up with the other groups and couples waiting their turns. It hasn’t escaped your notice that he is still holding on to your hand. Tight.

“Don’t you want to go dance with the others?” you gesture towards those in the middle of the floor, laughing as one of the boys loses his balance mimicking a slut drop.

“No, I want to take some stupid pictures with my best friend and date for the evening.” He winks at you, a move that should come off as light -hearted and cringy. Instead it feels like he has shot you in the heart. The response you come back with shocks you.

“Just because you’re in love with me.” You accompany the remark by sticking your tongue out at him. He grabs your chin and makes you look him directly in the eyes. Your heart beats double time. It looks like he is going to kiss you. Before his face gets close enough to yours, he ruins it.

“You wish Y/N.” he laughs it off, but you see it as your chance. Now or never, tonight’s the night…

“Actually…” and then it’s your turn for pictures. You don’t get a chance to get the rest of the sentence out. Whether he heard or not you don’t know but now he is excitedly rummaging around a box of props. He pulls out a silver feather boa and oversized-blue sunglasses for you, finding a matching set for himself. It’s a strip of four photos. One smile, one where he jabs you in the ribs, one with silly faces, and one where you kiss him… only on the cheek. Not enough to throw yourself in the deep end, just enough to gauge his reaction.

His ears turn bright red and he stammers about going to find the others as you exit the booth. It has to be a good sign if you make him flustered, right? The next hour is spent ruining all the work that had gone into this evening. Hair stuck to sweaty foreheads, makeup creasing around the eyes, lipstick wiped on the backs of hands. When the live band comes onto play, you and your friends head outside for air. It’s nice feeling the wind, a slight chill in the late hour. Most of your friends can’t hack it for too long, choosing to return to the dance floor in time for the party tracks to come on. Eventually it leaves just you and him. You hear the opening chords of the cha cha slide start up inside and decide now is a good a time as ever, more than eager to avoid the choreographed dance portion of the evening.

“Can I talk to you?” you reach for his hand. He turns to look at you properly and sees the serious look on your face, his brows furrowing to match.

“What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing’s wrong, just come with me.” He lets you drag him away from the gym. You head toward the school greenhouse, no one is going to come looking for you there.

“This is weirdly private Y/N, are you sure everything is okay?” he feels your forehead as if he is worried you have suddenly fallen ill.

“I’ve been trying to tell you this for the longest time and I can’t not anymore, it’s time.” He opens his mouth to speak again, the confusion evident in his eyes. You raise a finger to his lip to stop him. “I’m in love with you.” The words escape more like vomit than a statement. It feels so freeing to get the words out. You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. Finally admitting how you feel is an amazing feeling. Until you take in the way he is looking at you. You might as well have grown a second head. Your about to speak again when he turns on his heel and makes a run for it.

He walks briskly away from the concealed shed and back inside of the school. You don’t know if you should laugh or cry. Of all the responses you thought you’d get; abandonment was not one of them. It takes you a moment to snap out of the shock he had left you in. you follow the trail he took back into the main hall. Spotting him even through the crowd, people parted as he passed them. He beelines straight through the gym and though the doors into the main corridors. When you make it into the hallway, he is at the other end about to disappear around a corner.

“Stop running away from me!” you yell a little too loud, other lingering students stop and stare at you on their ways back from the bathroom. Unfortunately, you can’t bring yourself to care. Jungkook faulters for a moment before continuing. “Jeon Jungkook! I said stop.” You kick off your heels and run in the direction he disappeared. You nearly run full force into his chest as you turn the corner not expecting him to be there.

“Why?” his voice is small and harsh, not the usual bubbly tone he always has for you.

“Why what?” your more than a little annoyed that you had to chase him only for him to ask you a question.

“Why do you love me?” it’s not the question you thought he’d ask. Why now? How long? What’s your ring size? Those were the questions you had been prepared for. Not why do you love him. you thought that was obvious. “Seriously, why do you think your in love with me?” that stung ‘think’ he doesn’t believe you. Thinks its some silly girly crush you have.

“I love you because you’re you. You’re my best friend, you make me happy when no one else does, my heart hurts when I don’t see you for more than a day.” You reach for his hands, trying your best to convey your sincerity. He flinches in response. Pulls way back out of your reach.

“I don’t feel the same way.” Now it really does feel like someone has stabbed you. Run you straight through with a sword. Your stomach twists so hard you might throw up. This wasn’t an option. In all the ways you had imagine your prom night going, this hadn’t crossed your mind. You taste the tears at the corners of your lips before you realise your crying. “You can’t just spring something like this on someone Y/N! we were having such a great night, why did you have to do this.” He is not only rejecting you, he is blaming you for having feelings. It’s all too much.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. The lump in your throat makes it hard for you to speak at all. “I just thought…”

“You thought wrong.” His response is so fast, cutting off every chance you might’ve had to put a band aid over the situation. Maybe held it together until the night was over. Now there is no chance of that.

“I’m sorry.” You try again but he just rolls his eyes. Instead of making you sadder, this reaction makes you angry. How dare he. How dare he just dismiss you like you never meant anything to him. Like you weren’t even a friend.

“I should take you home.” He gestures towards a nearby exit. He doesn’t reach for your hand to guide you like he would’ve any other point in the night. You shake you head and walk back in the direction you came, picking up your shoes as you passed them. You walked straight out of the front gates and all the way home. That was the last conversation you’d have with Jungkook for a long time.

Graduation came and went. He tried to talk to you a few times in person, but you just walked away. Still seething at the way he reacted. He texted you constantly, left voicemails until you blocked his number. Your other friends never found out exactly what happened. They pieced bits together from what the two of you were able to talk about but never the full picture. When he started coming to your house to apologise you decided it was time to move on and headed to college early.

You were in town for a wedding. One of your high school friends had managed to meet the love of their life while away at college and asked you to come. It was a nice excuse to visit your parents. You didn’t come home as often as you would’ve liked. The town felt a little haunted after you finished school, so you tried hard to avoid it. Especially at times like this.

You were standing in your childhood bedroom, dressed to the nines once more. This time knowing that Jungkook was not going to be waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs. But he might be at the wedding. Getting over the boy you had never really been with was more of a challenge than you could’ve ever imagined. It took you almost the entire first year away to truly get some peace on the situation. You even started to understand his point of view. He was just an 18-year-old boy trying to enjoy one of the last nights he’d get with his friends. The you had gone and dumped a whole load of new information on him. It wasn’t fair of you, just as much as it wasn’t fair of him. Truthfully, a little part of you would always wonder what if. What if he had felt the same way, would people be coming home for your wedding instead? Or would it have fizzled out long distance?

You are pulled out of your thoughts by your phone signalling the arrival of your uber. Taking a deep breath, you grabbed you clutch and headed out, eerily reminiscent of that night.

Five years later.

The wedding is at a fancy hotel on the other side of town. You are escorted by the ushers into the main room. you quickly scan the area for him. You don’t even know if he is coming but you don’t want to be caught off guard. Coming up empty you thank the groom’s men and find a seat in the back of the bride’s section where you can survey the room.

It feels ridiculous being so on guard around the person that used to mean the world to you. Your eyes meet as soon as he walks through the door. He seems genuinely surprised to see you there. He tries a weak smile and lifts his hand to wave in your direction, but you put your head down, choosing to focus on the intricacies of the program instead. 4 hymns and a sermon. For a nonchurch wedding it sure seemed religious. You roll your eyes and settle in for a long one. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he skulks away. Sitting a few rows in front of you. You allow yourself the luxury of looking at him now that he can’t look back. His hair is a lot longer now. The suit he has chosen definitely fits a lot better than his prom tux. His shoulders are nicely outlined, strong and broad. It’s a nice visual.

The wedding seems to happen around you. Old friends come over to catch up. Vows are exchanged everyone is shuffled into a banquet hall. All the while you are watching Jungkook out of the corner of your eye. Seeing him go through the motions just as you are. Three tables away. Clearly your friend has been smart enough to think that through when creating two singles tables in her seating plan.

The night wore on. Speeches were made, drinks were spilt. More than one groom’s man ripped his trousers on the dance floor. You were getting some air in the gardens when he found you.

“You look beautiful as ever.” His voice is soft, but it still makes you jump, not expecting him to approach you at all.

“Thanks.” You move to brush passed him, eager to put some space between you. Very Much not wanting to exchange awkward pleasantries with the man that, after today, you were sure still owned your heart. He steps back into your path, and makes you meet his eyes. It hurts all over again. Every feeling you had that night rushes back, every bit of progress you’d made since then erased in a matter of seconds.

“Can we talk? Please?” he sounds almost as desperate to talk to you as you are to leave.

“Talk about what Jungkook? It’s been years, just let it lie.”

“Exactly it’s been years and I know how I feel about you now, know how I felt about you then… please just let me explain myself.” He pleads with you. You stand firm, half of you longing to hear him out, the other half wanting to run the way he had.

“Why should I let you talk now? You didn’t let me talk then.” You can hear the venom dripping in your tone but can’t bring yourself to adjust your voice.

“I was a kid back then Y/N, and I was scared I was going to lose you” he chuckles darkly “I guess I did that anyway.” He grabs for your hand, this time you get to pull away from him. None of this is fair, where was this person when you needed him five years ago? He sighs at your reaction. “Look I was terrified okay? I didn’t know how I felt about you. I just knew everything was changing and I didn’t want us to change. But I know who I am and what I want now, and that’s you.” He closes the distance you had put between you in one stride. His mouth heavy on yours trying to prove a point.

You can’t bring yourself to pull away this time. Instead melting into his embrace. Letting yourself indulge in the boy that was all you ever wanted.

“Why now? Why not then?” you ask when he finally pulls away.

“Because you wouldn’t speak to me until now. I wanted to tell you the day after, but you wouldn’t talk to me. And you were right to do so. I was such an asshole to you about it. Let me make it up to you.” He peppers your face with kisses.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have cut you off like that. I was scared too.” He holds you tight cradling you into his chest. You stand there for a while. Taking in everything about him that you’d missed. The smell of fresh cotton, the warmth he always radiated. All of it.

“I have a room upstairs if you want to go. Maybe we could watch a movie?” you pull away to look straight up at him. he must have realised what it sounded like then because his mouth formed an o and his eyes widened. “Wait no, I really did mean a movie.” He tries to backtrack.

“What if you didn’t mean a movie?” as soon as your meaning sinks in, he is sprinting away. This time with you in tow, struggling to keep up. Eventually he decides you are slowing him down. He lifts you bridal style into the nearest elevator. He refuses to put you down, even though you are forced into a standstill. As soon as the door dings, he is through them. Balancing you and opening the door isn’t even a challenge as he bursts through into the luxurious hotel room. He throws you unceremoniously on to the bed before discarding his jacket on the floor. You watch, propped up on your elbows, as he loosens his tie and kicks off his shoes before helping you with yours. He runs his hand up the back of your calf, rolling down the stockings you’d worn in an effort to avoid tights.

His hair falls into his eyes as he meets your gaze, and you can’t take the teasing anymore. Grabbing him by the collar, you pull him on top of you. Your lips finding his, unwilling to let go until your lungs hurt. He has one arm by your head, supporting some of his weight while the other trails down your waist. He drags his fingertips along your thigh as he moves your hemline. With your skirt out of the way his hand moves in between you bodies finding its way to your clothed pussy.

“I’ve wanted to taste you for so long… can I?” he kisses down your neck as he asks, leaving you barely able to respond. You just about manage to squeak out your approval. He wastes no time, biting into the soft flesh of your thighs as he wraps his hands around your panties. They are disposed of quickly, likely ruined by the slick you can feel pooling between your legs. He licks along your slit, barely delving between your folds. The tip of his tongue flicking at your clit briefly before he goes back and starts the motion again. Each time he gets close to your clit he brushes it slightly, so you shiver with anticipation, but he waits until you are practically panting to go any further. His right hand joins his talented tongue. Two fingers slipping inside of you. The slight stretch burns so good. His mouth moves up, biting gingerly at the sensitive nub he had been teasing for so long. Your thighs clamp involuntarily around his head. He wraps his free arm around your leg, driving you apart to give him better access. His tongue comes back into play drawing little shapes on your clit as he sucks down. He curls his fingers in just the right way to have you coming undone underneath him. Biting your lips to keep yourself quiet. He swats at your thigh until your teeth let go, forcing your moans out into the open. When you stop writhing, he lets your leg go and wipes his face with the back of his hand.

Sitting back on his feet he won’t stop looking at you weird. Its an expression you can’t ever remember him making before, and that worries you.

“What? Why are you looking at me? Were the noises too weird? I tried to keep them in…” he pulls you up to him by the wrists and kisses you before answering.

“I love you… please shut up. Your moans are the sexiest thing I think I have ever heard. Now I just really want to get you out of the rest of your clothes. He reaches around to unzip your dress, fumbling for a moment until you take pity and take it off yourself. His shirt is already unbuttoned by the time the fabric is over your head. You help him to push the sleeves off his arms, taking great pleasure in rubbing your hands across his toned arms. You marvel at the amount of muscle he has gained for a moment before he drags you back to him, falling onto his back so you straddle him.

You make quick work of the clothing on his lower half. Perhaps a little too keen to see what you were working with. He does not disappoint. His cock is above average in length, immediately evident as it slaps against his stomach when released from it’s confines. You shuffle back for a moment to admire the full image. His hair falls haphazardly around his head, lips swollen from the kisses. Perfectly chiselled abs leading into an arrow to what you can only describe as the motherlode. Everything about this moment was worth the wait. But you refused to wait any longer. You stroke your hand softly along his shaft, pumping a few times before moving to sit yourself on top. You sink down slowly at first, having to take extra precaution to not hurt yourself. His eyes pinch shut and his nose crinkles as a little whimper escapes his mouth. You slap his chest.

“If I’m not allowed to stay quiet, neither are you.” He nods enthusiastically and opens one eye just as you reach the base of his dick.

“Fuck.” His voice low and breathy. Sounds more like he just ran a marathon than had a girl sit on him. As you feel more comfortable, you start to wriggle your hips, not thrusting away, just enough friction to tease him like he did you. You don’t get away with it for quite as long though. His hands are on your hips and you are powerless to stop him as he makes you bounce, meeting each thrust with one of his own. Soon it’s not enough for him. Too worked up to relinquish any control. He flips you quickly, now on your knees. He barely gives you time to orientate yourself before driving into you from behind. Fast, sloppy thrusts used to reach his own end. He snakes one arm underneath you. Skilled fingers finding your clit, playing with you until you tighten around him. making it difficult for him to keep going.

Soon he spills over, cumming deep inside of you. Holding onto you with all he has. Instead of pulling out, he falls over with you in his arms. Cuddling into the back of you as he comes down. You wiggle experimentally on his softening cock, earning you a growl. You giggle at his oversensitivity and try to get free as painlessly as possible.

“Don’t go” he is whiny when he is tired, it’s so endearing. He makes a grabby hand at you as you clamber of the side of the bed

“I’m only going to the bathroom; I’ll be right back.” You kiss him on the cheek as you round the bed.

“Good because I never want to be without you, ever again.” he admits as you walk into the bathroom.

February request - open

Masterlist

#purplearmynet #bts fic #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #jjk smut #jungkook smut #jeongkook smut #jeongguk smut #feb 21 #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #kpop smut #kpop fic #jeon jungkook x y/n #100

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lovehugsandcandy · 3 years

Text

the stories we tell (and the stories we live) (Coltx MC, RoD)

Pairing: Colt x MC, ROD

Length: ~2400 words

Rating/Warnings: N*FW (Not explicit but it’s there. And swearing.)

Summary: Colt’s story isn’t his own until it is.

When Colt thinks of stories, he thinks of the stories of his youth, hazy memories of sitting on his father’s lap and listening to tales of Kanekos past. He thinks of scenes from movies, car chases and explosions before the guaranteed victory, ending scenes and credits rolling with the hero beating the odds and riding off victorious into the sunset.

And then he gets older.

And learns that stories are myths, hiding lies and false promises, wrapped in the guise of happy endings that will never happen.

Not to him.

And when he thinks of stories, he tries not to think of his own.

And when he does, when he thinks of the story of Colt and crew and the Kaneko name, he can’t of the beginning.

It hurts too much to remember a time when he was a welcome fixture at the shop, when Pop greeted him with a smile, sometimes even a pat to his head. This was before, before those hands became angry and harsh, before the smiles turned to glares, before the words turned hateful and vicious, echoing the nightmares that creep into his sleep, shocking him awake in a cold sweat.

There are other stories,

He steals his first car when he’s 11. It’s the first time he’s ever driven as well, the tips of his toes only able to graze the pedals when he leans against the steering wheel. It’s a massive effort to peer over the dash, to not press his scrawny chest on the horn, but he manages, denting only the bumper against an unlucky mailbox. But when he pulls into the garage, his father is more shocked than awed and his mother furious.

So he first leaves California when he’s 12, hustled onto his first airplane, deposited in an unfamiliar city with scabs lining his knuckles and a bruise blooming on his jawline, the first transition of many marking the flow between scenery and characters.

He’s first suspended when he’s 13. Everyone at this new school is despicable, but he’ll be damned if some upperclassman is going to throw slurs at him amidst a crowded hallway. He’s sent home, his opponent sent for stitches, and his mother spends five of her limited vacation days making his confinement as miserable as possible.

He first has sex in the dingy bathroom of a dive bar that obviously doesn’t care about liquor laws.

It’s a story he never tells.

Stories are prideful things, lies portraying overcome odds and vanquished enemies until a triumphant, crescendoed victory. Curtains close on dreams attained.

His story has never gone like that and this memory is no different.

He’s 14, sipping something amber and toxic from a rocks glass because it makes him look cool, sitting alone as his knees knock against the stool because he hates everyone. His feet don’t even touch the ground yet, but it doesn’t seem to matter to the bartender, who keeps sliding booze across the slick bar top as long as the cash keeps coming from Colt’s pocket.

And apparently it doesn’t matter to the girl across the bar, all blond hair and glossy lips, pendant necklace dangling heavy above a low-cut shirt. She bats a heavy mascara gaze over her wineglass and it takes an embarrassingly long time before he recognizes the fire behind gaze.

His heart is racing when she perches on the stool next to him, and it’s with fumbling hands and drunken kisses that they weave a messy path to the bathroom.

Once they’re done, she buttons her jeans and smirks at him, waltzing out of the bathroom without a second glance.

It feels like a fitting end to his childhood, thrown from LA to end up staggering into the Bronx streets; his jeans are still unzipped but no one’s around to care as he turns the key in the empty apartment and sinks into freshly washed sheets.

If the saga of his childhood has ended (beginning as a worthy heir before being cast aside, thousands of miles away, lost boy and discarded son), then the story of his adulthood is beginning. Stories have beginnings and middles and ends, protagonists and supporting characters, events when second matter, where every step taken leads towards a goal, an achievement of some sort.

He hasn’t achieved anything.

Not yet.

His mom gets off work at 3am, footsteps light as she makes her way to the adjoining bedroom. Once the light snores start, he creeps out of bed to spew stomach acid into the toilet, lights off, stifling the shameful hacking and choking.

He slips back into bed, mouthwash still tingling on his tongue, but sleep doesn’t come that night.

It doesn’t feel like a fortuitous beginning.

~~~~~

And then it doesn’t get better.

The fights continue.

He comes home weekly with bruised knuckles and wounded pride, counting the days until he can free himself from the cast of characters around him.

Every teacher treats him like an adversary, every stupid social clique shuns him, and it’s fucking bullshit but he doesn’t need anyone, none of these assholes at this fucking school. It’s him against the world, at least until he can get back to LA, back to the home and the legacy that belongs to him.

His mother wants everything from him. They’re alone, the two of them, and he falls into the role of trusted confidant and then wayward son and finally complete stranger; none of the roles he tries satisfy anyone in this fracturing family of two.

The girls want one thing from him and it’s so simple, so easy, and the best part is that he doesn’t have to think, just for a moment.

His dad wants nothing from him, and his teeth dig into his bottom lip so his sobs don’t echo through the thin apartment walls.

~~~~~

Stories come in chapters and his next one takes him to LA. It’s inevitable that he ends up here, speeding aimlessly through the crowded streets, ending up on the outskirts of a crowd that should part for him like the seas.

The first time he sees her, she looks like a baby hawk. Not that he’s ever seen a baby hawk, mind you, but her eyes peer sharply around the lot even though her steps are stuttering and small.

He would never have guessed that she would be more than a supporting character in his fateful return, but soon, she becomes everything. His mind is consumed with their future, ruling LA as a team, owning the next stage of the Kaneko legacy. Her insightful mind and sharp wit are both challenging and refreshing; it feels like he’s met his match.

His story is finally beginning.

But the pyre in front of him is actually the conclusion. Flames lick at his eyebrows as he drives by, staring into the wreckage for something, anything; her arms around his waist are the only thing keeping him upright.

And if his father’s explosion is the end, then the blaze at the garage is the epilogue, the wreckage a fitting end to the Kaneko legacy.

~~~~~

It takes years, four to be exact, before he’s comfortable taking a brief vacation. Building up the fledgling crew has been challenging and painstaking, but, brick by brittle brick, he has finally created a crew worthy of the Kaneko name.

So he heads to New York.

Colt cares about two people in the world and the irony of them being in the same city at the same time feels a little like choreographed coincidence and a little like fate.

He starts with his mother. She’s moved to Manhattan, and he needs to Google the route, feet almost taking him into the gritty streets he knows intimately well. He recalibrates off the train, unfamiliar buildings flying by as he crosses the East River and straight into her new setting and her new life. They walk through the tree-lined streets; she lives in Soho now and every step is strange. She leads him through farmers’ markets and points out breakfast joints, each one a reminder of how far away he is. As they amble, she speaks of her job before turning the conversation to Pop; his every reply is halting, pain and truth veiled through clipped words and terse responses, his hands buried in his pockets and shoulders hunched to his ears.

For two people who share a bloodline and a language, they’re incomprehensible to each other. Colt realizes, with sickening clarity, how much better his mom’s life is now, now that he’s gone and vanished across the country.

She holds him close outside her new apartment building (this one doesn’t have bars on the first-floor windows) and her eyes well with a sadness she can’t name (or won’t, Colt thinks bitterly, shifting on his heels in her embrace). Her hands linger on his shoulders, and she presses a lipstick kiss into his cheek; he furiously wipes it off as he strides to the subway.

His palms flash pomegranate pink as he swipes his pass.

Langston is eighteen stops uptown. It takes thirty minutes on the A train, and he’s wasting away every second, an eternity spent watching subway tiles and grim faces blur past.

He blends in with the crowd, rowdy college kids streaming into her dorm, and he sneaks up the stairs and raps lightly on the door. They barely talk but he’s immediately understood, her hands gentle under his jaw, up his shoulder blades, then insistent up his sides, gripping his forearms, tugging his hair.

She curls against him, the slide of her skin both foreign and reminiscent, and shakes her head. “I can’t believe you just showed up here. You’re lucky seniors get singles.”

“I can’t believe you let me in.”

“You thought I wouldn’t?”

“I guess I was cautiously optimistic.” He craned his neck to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “Guess I was right.”

She grabs his hand, tracing up and down each finger as if she were relearning every knuckle, every tiny scar. When her inspection is complete, she stills. “I waited for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“For years I thought…” She trails off, and he wonders if they thought the same, that the other would reach out, bridge the miles and the trauma; he’s lost in the past until she curls over him and then there’s no time for thinking anymore.

They emerge the next morning, blinking away the sun, and she pulls him through her haunts, dragging him to the coffee shop where they know her order, her favorite path through the park.

She drags him with glee through the tourist traps and side haunts; they have beers at tiny dive bars, eat pretzels from rickety carts, and walk city blocks until his feet and cheeks hurt, hand in hand.

She glows here, radiantly beautiful, and he realizes that maybe she as well has been bolstered by his absence.

Even though it’s not Colt’s borough of choice, it’s hard not to feel comfortable as she pulls him down the packed streets, weaving through crowds with the same agility with which she wove through highway car chases.

She’s at home here as she is behind the wheel, and something in his chest tightens.

She belongs here, vibrant as the surrounding city, crafting her own story.

~~~~~

He needs to get back.

Empires don’t build themselves.

He doesn’t tell her but, apparently, he doesn’t have to. It’s achingly slow as he slides into her, savoring every moment to remember when he’s back home, alone. She rolls her hips against his and it’s almost painful, blinding light flashing patterns behind his eyelids as she takes her pleasure from him, quivering above him until he can’t stand it, flipping her over in one fierce motion to bury himself, again and again, world dissolving with her squeal of pleasure in his ears and his teeth in her shoulder.

“I can’t ask you to come with me.”

She starts, head jerking off his shoulder, and he can’t bring himself to look into her eyes. Instead, he focuses on the assignments scrawled on her whiteboard, each one a reminder of a goal to attain, and the graduation cap askew on her desk, a reminder of the path she had chosen, her story told in the golden tassels dangling to the floor.

“You don’t need to ask.”

This time, it’s him jerking up, head spinning to face her. “What do you…?”

“I was coming anyway.” She settles back against him, and he counts the puffs of breath against his skin as reassurance that this is real. “I told you… I waited for you. I had a go bag packed for two years,” he feels her lips tug into a rueful smile against him as she continues, “a backpack stuffed in my closet with clothes and stuff, just in case you asked, just in case you called.”

“I called. Once.”

“Wha… when?”

“February of your sophomore year.” His hand slides up her back to tangle in her hair. “From a payphone in Torrance. It rang once, and I hung up. I couldn’t… I thought better of it. I couldn’t mess it up for you.”

“You don’t mess anything up for me. You help me be great. We’re gonna be great together.”

He springs two thousand bucks for an additional plane ticket and upgrades to first class. She points out the NY landmarks as they climb into the air and then curls against him as she dozes. They land at LAX, falling into bed in the loft at the shop, and, the next day, she climbs aboard the back of his bike, arms warm around him as they pull over to the cliff.

This isn’t a story.

Stories have heroes and villains and everything is tied up nearly at the end, when the evil is vanquished and the hero gets the girl and the sun rises on a brand new day when everyone lives happily ever after.

This isn’t a story.

It’s real life and real life has real people, all their virtues and flaws, hopes and dreams, and there are no storybook saviors riding in to save the day --- at least not in Colt’s life.

There’s only him and this girl and the sun setting brilliantly beneath the ocean below, lighting the cresting waves in purples and blues, and this isn’t the end, not at all.

Tags:

Perma

@leelee10898, @client-327, @brightpinkpeppercorn, @choicesarehard, @burnsoslow, @zaffrenotes, @kat-tia801, @desiree-pow-35-1986, @ritachacha

ROD

@omgjasminesimone, @mskaneko, @alyssalauren

Colt x MC

@flowerpowell, @shondideaira-blog @isometimesplaychoices @romewritingshop

#colt kaneko #playchoices fanfiction #colt x mc #rodaw #amy writes #n*fw

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the-fiction-witch · 3 years

Text

A kid.

TV SHOW THE QUEENS GAMBIT

COUPLE BENNY WATTS X READER

RATING FLIRTY

Well that's all over and done with, time to get myself a cola. I headed off from the set up area with all the boards over to the small bar area in the hotel

"Hey, one cola please" I told him and he nodded getting one out the little fridge behind the bar I paid him and took the glass bottle having a nice sip, it was ice cold and refreshing. I finished up my bottle and left it on the bar before fixing my jacket and heading back into the hotel to the board it should be updated by now, and I'm going to be playing...

Arthur something or other I couldn't read the writing of whoever had done it, table sixteen.

So I headed over to the table expecting the usual some stuck up guy inna suit with greased back hair and a pocket protector for his pencil but as I got to the table I was... Admitedly surprised.

It was a kid.

About four if I had to guess, in little polished shoes, some black little kids suit pants a white button down and a black vest jumper over it, but he looked strange to me, he had a mop of blonde and brown hair and dark brown eyes.

"Hey you holding the seat or something kid?" I asked checking this was infact table sixteen

"Mr Watts I presume" he says getting up and standing on the peice of wood across the two chair legs to be higher offering his hand to me I shook it and sat down across from him still very confused

"So your arthur?"

"Yes, and your Benny" he says fixing his peices

"How old are you?" I asked him

"Five. Why?"

"Hu..."

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing, impressive being at this level at your age. I was ambitious at that age too"

"White moves first" he reminds me as he clicked the clock on I did a classic opening and clicked the clock back "I've heard alot about you" he says as he plaid on

"Have you know? Always wise to check up on a champion" I told him

"All bad" he says

"Was it now?" I laughed "who taught you if you don't mind my asking?"

"My mum"

"Your mum... Tell you about me?"

"Umm. She does not have a high opinion of you" he says "says you play like a defensive hack and dress like a cowboy"

"... I like your mother" I laughed I focused on the game I thought I could go easy on this kid but he was smart, tactful, intellectual, much like I was at his age, in fact the more I sat and looked at him the more it felt like... Looking in a mirror somewhat I saw so much of myself in him, he was just as I was in that age. He even kinda looked like I did at that age, "check" I told him he sighed and load his king down "good game," I told him offering my hand and he happily shook it "you uhh your good kid. I'm sure I will get to play you again, maybe I won't be so lucky that time" I told him making him smile

"Thank you Mr Watts"

"Your welcome," I smiled "ohh Arthur what exactly the boards unreadable"

"Arthur y/l/n"

"Hu... Y/l/n? Why does that sound so familiar?" I said more to myself "where's your mum anyway?"

"I'm not sure she went to get coffee" he says

"What's your mum's name?" I asked him still unable to get that thought out my head where have I heard that name before

"Y/n. Y/n y/l/n" another voice spoke up a voice I could have bet my life I knew

"Mummy!" He smiled jumping off the table and into her arms hugging her leg, I turned and saw her... Y/n y/l/n. A girl I met years ago she was trying to make it into the more professional chess circuit out of the things like the small state tournaments to more of the southern championship and beyond but I mentored her for a while and... We ended up getting close, she was... Just as I had remembered her, in her classic black heels, her black stockings, her little white dress with a black cargiden over it, her hair in those perfect curls I remembered, she looked... Good. I mean she always did but fuck she looked good, or maybe I'm just distracted by the fact her tits have grown like three sizes bigger. I was gobsmaked to see her I haven't seen her in years she gave arthur a cuddle Patting his hair "how'd you do kiddo?"

"I lost"

"Hey, no worries, once we finish up I'll get you some ice cream okay?"

"Okay" he smiled

"Go get your things then" she told him so he came back to the table to gather his paper and pencil and such "hi Benny"

".... Hi." I said with a gulp getting up going over and giving her hand a kiss "you... You look amazing, how are you I haven't seen you in years?"

"Doing okay, been busy with this little guy" she laughed

"I can imagine so, you have taught him well"

"Well, I had a good teacher" she smiled playing with my chains in that playful way she always would

"Humm hell yeah you did" I smirked as she rested her hands on my chest "surprised I had the time to reach you anything" I smirked wrapping my own around her to sit on her hips, fuck her ass is bigger too "you look amazing."

"Didn't I always?"

"You did but... You've improved with age my little flower, like a fine wine" I smirked "fuck have I missed you" I growled in her ear but then I remembered, as I caught Arthur out the corner of my eye stood with his stuff starting at us oh right... The kid.

"What's going on?" He asked

"Nothing kiddo, mummy and Mr Watts know each other" she smiled "don't we?"

"Uhhh yeah, yes I uhh do in fact know your mother, I uh I thought I did" I stuttered

"How do you know my mummy?"

"Ughhhhhh, your mother and I... Used to uhhh" I stuttered unsure what to say, the kids five I can't exactly tell him 'oh hey yeah sorry kid I used to bang your mother and she still looks hot so you mind fucking off while I see if she'll still let me hit that?'

"We used to play together, didn't we Benny?"

"Yes, we used to play together" I nodded "we just haven't seen each other in ... Roughly five and half... Years." I said as it all sort of clicked. "Oh my god"

"Yeah there we go" she giggled "kiddo, get mummy a ice water and get yourself something nice" she smiled handing him a few dollars from her purse he nodded and ran off all while my brain was trying to process this "so..."

"So... That's why you up and left?"

"Yep"

"Okay. You left because you were pregnant. I got you pregnant. That is my kid. Why am I just now hearing about this!"

"How so?"

"Hes five! Why am I just now getting news that I have a fucking kid?" I asked her "why did you not tell me? Phone? Letter? Telegram? Come to my apartment I literally haven't even moved!"

"I was under the impression you didn't want anything to do with me anymore"

"Anything to- y/n. Of course I did whatever made you think I didn't?"

"The fact you ran off to moscow with clio and didn't even tell me?"

"It was last minute, and I knew you couldn't because you didn't have a passport, ... I was heartbroken when I came back and you weren't there."

"I figured you where done with me, moved on to the next girl"

"Even if you did think that, and even if I was why wouldn't you tell me you where pregnant?"

"I didn't find out till months later, I knew the rut you where in after moscow so... I didn't want to bring it up, so I just made it on my own," she says "I've missed you benny"

"I've missed you more" I told her giving her cheek a kiss

"He loves chess, took to it as a baby, he liked pushing the peices around, he makes me read him chess books at night"

"Does he know? That I'm his dad?"

"No, not like he needs to"

"Y/n, have you... Got married?"

"No, still single, not dates anyone since our... Playing together" she laughed

"Then, if you'll let me, I'd love to take you out to dinner tonight. Both of you." I told her and her face lit up "he's my kid y/n, I wanna be a part of his life, and... Yours if you'll let me"

"I love to" she smiled hugging me tightly nuzzling into my neck

"I really have missed you y/n, I meant every word of it, and... You do really look good" I laughed

"Thank you, so do you" she giggled "you have another game to get to benny"

"Oh right, yeah. I will see you later then" I told her

"See you later" she smiled I went to go and see the board to see where I had to be next but she held my hand and brought me back to her giving my lips a gentle kiss I happily kissed back fuck her lipstick even tastes the same "lucky kiss" she giggled

"Thank you," I told her giving her a kiss too "see you later my little flower"

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brywrites · 4 years

Text

Flight Risk VI

Summary: An answer to the age old CM question, “who’s flying the plane?” And the story of a pilot and a profiler. Part VI: In which things are lost and found and borrowed.

(Series Masterlist) ( Previous | Next )

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The case is of a vengeful Cinderella is closed, but as they prepare to head to the airport, Kate isn’t feeling so well. Rossi offers to drive with her to a pharmacy to pick up some saltines and Dramamine, and the rest of the team heads to the airport to wait. Reid spots Y/N chatting outside the plane with Dobson, and he instinctively starts towards her. She must see him out of the corner of her eye because she turns to greet him, but before either of them can say anything a strong hand finds his shoulder, holding him back.

“Hold there, Pretty Boy. I wanna hear the details of your Prince Charming moment back there,” Morgan says.

Y/N raises her eyebrows and he can feel his face flush. “There’s um, not much to say,” he stammers.

“Spence, come on, you were totally prince-like,” JJ laughs. “Kneeling down on one knee with a glass slipper and everything?”

“A glass slipper?” Y/N asks. JJ describes, in detail, how he played the part of the knight in shining armor at the cemetery to get Claire Dunbar to leave with them. He’s embarrassed through the whole tale, but by the time JJ gets down on one knee to kiss Morgan’s hand as he did the unsub’s, he’s sure his face is scarlet. Y/N is laughing along the entire time at his fellow agents’ melodramatic reenactment.

“Anyways, it was all very romantic. He totally swept her of her feet. The poor girl fell for him in a heartbeat,” JJ says. For a moment, Reid tries to discern what Y/N is thinking. Her face is unreadable other than a bemused smile. Her body language tells him nothing. But he can’t help but wonder – hearing about his heroics in the field, would she be jealous? Hearing how he played Prince Charming for Claire and kissed her hand. Then he wonders if he wants her to be. Is he curious because there’s a part of him that wants her to want him? Is he secretly hoping that she’d feel slighted by any hint of romance towards someone else? And if he is hoping for that, what does that mean?

But Y/N just says, “I sure would have liked to see that.”

“Next time we’ll get it on camera,” Morgan teases, ruffling Reid’s hair. He swats his friend’s hand away.

“You know, I love a good fairytale,” Y/N says, turning to him.

“Well this one was more Grimm than Disney,” he admits, trying to push the memories of the men Claire killed out of his mind. The story is over now. No more dragons to slay. Kate and Rossi return seconds later and it’s time to go.

Y/N follows Captain Dobson up the steps of the jet, and he follows close behind her. Lost in his thoughts, he nearly loses his balance at the top of the stairs. Y/N immediately reaches a hand out to steady him. Her hand is soft around his. He holds tight, both to maintain his balance and to keep a connection to her. All his life he’s been uncoordinated, but he’s willing to fall over his own feet a million times if it means having the chance to finally hold her hand. With her help, he ascends to the top step, finally making it onto the jet. It strikes him, this sudden reversal of roles. Only a few hours ago he was offering his hand to a distressed damsel to lead her away, using his words to woo her. But now Y/N is the one coming to his rescue. She is steady. Confident. She doesn’t need anyone to save her. If she did, he’d be there in a heartbeat. But she’s saving him. Little by little. Maybe they’re saving each other. One thing is for sure – she sweeps him of his feet without even trying. Knocks him out with a single smile. Quite literally puts his head in the clouds. And that’s better than any fairytale.

----------------------------------------------

She’s turning the pages of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, so taken by the story that she jumps when he calls her name. She turns to see him standing there, offering an awkward half-wave. Y/N can’t help but smile at the sight of him. His cardigans and ties are becoming familiar. He always looks more like a librarian or a professor than a special agent. Not that she minds one bit. The clothes suit him well, though at this point she’s convinced he’d look good in just about anything.”

“Is it good?” he asks, nodding at the book.

“Extremely. The prose is incredible and the narration is really unique. It manages to make a story so painful sound so beautiful. You can borrow it when I’m done if you’d like. I’m sure you’d finish it in a single flight.”

“It’s quite likely,” he laughs.

“So I hear we’re off to New Mexico,” she says. The flight is long enough that she could easily lend him the book now, but she knows the trip there will be spent reviewing case files and preparing for the work to come.

“Yeah, there’s five women dead already.” Spencer sits beside her on the bench. “The unsub seems quite advanced. It’s not looking pretty.”

“We’ve got to find you at least one pretty thing to see on these cases,” she says. It doesn’t seem right for him to travel across the country and return with nothing but memories of police stations and a handful of nightmares. She still hates the idea of ferrying him and his team to and from monsters. To and from danger.

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh? Like that coffee shop you found for us last weekend?”

She laughs at his pointed accusation. When they made plans she had insisted on visiting a new pop-up that Yeeqin had shown her on Instagram. The drinks were dreamlike pieces of art with cotton candy fluff, impeccable latte art, ombre iced teas, and donuts carefully placed over the rims of mugs. The line to order had been long, and the shop was crowded with people taking photos in front of the murals and installations throughout the shop. When they finally got their drinks, they were both disappointed to find they were more watery than the sad coffee found in police stations and tiny airports. The coffee didn’t taste nearly as good as it looked, especially for the pretty penny it had cost.

“Okay, okay,” she giggles. “You have a point. I will refrain from taking food recommendations from social media influencers in the future. But I’m sure I can find a nice bookstore or a garden or something worth paying a quick visit to in Santa Fe.” She pulls out her phone for a quick search. “Oh, like this bookstore! It’s called Collected Works and it’s lovely.” Suddenly she can smell coffee and the sharp spice of aftershave. Spencer is leaning over to look at her screen. She turns her head towards him and he shifts his gaze from the phone to her and she realizes how incredibly close he is. There’s only inches between them and when his hazel eyes find hers any words she had die on her lips. Lovely, is all she can think.

After mere seconds that seem to slip into eternity, she quickly breaks eye contact and looks down at her hands, her heart thudding loudly in her ears. “Um, but, uh, maybe there’s somewhere else…” she says.

“Oh my god, Reid, you are not going to believe what I saw this morning!” A cheerful voice calls out from across the hanger and Spencer practically leaps up from the bench. The voice is familiar somehow. A brightly-dressed woman is heading towards them surprisingly fast considering the height of her stilettos. Her shockingly orange dress matches the bright hue of her lipstick and the flowers in her hair. When she reaches them, her eyes widen, and a neon grin spreads across her face as she regards Y/N. “Oh! You have to be Y/N! You look just like Morgan described!”

Y/N’s eyes flicker to Spencer who gestures towards the newcomer. “Y/N, this is Penelope Garcia. Our technical analyst.”

Garcia holds out a well-manicured hand. “Technical analyst, internet goddess, and oracle of all knowledge. But tomato, tomahto.” Y/N stands to shake her hand. “JJ was right, you’re totally cute.”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Spencer turn tomato red. She chooses not to question it and instead asks, “Why haven’t I met you before?”

“Well, usually when these crimefighters are flying all over to world to do their crimefighting thing, I stay hunkered down in my Quantico batcave ready to scour the interwebs for their every demand. But our creep of the week is particularly creepy – he’s hacking into his victims computers to stalk them and erasing almost any trace he was there. So I’m coming along for the ride to try and pull any data I can from their devices.” She grimaces. “Believe me I would much rather be staying put and calling them from my office.”

That explains why her voice is so familiar, she’s heard it in the background a million times as the team prepares for a case in the cabin.

“Well Captain Dobson and I will do our best to make the trip a little more comfortable. We restocked the galley and deep cleaned this weekend, so Geff should be in perfect form.”

“Oh my gosh I still love that our jet has a name. Geff is so cute. I’m never calling it the jet again.”

Y/N smiles. “Right? I feel like planes have a personality all their own. They deserve a name, too!”

“I feel the same way! I name all the things in my life, but none quite compares to Esther. She’s an orange 1975 Cadillac Eldorado and the one true love of my life.”

“An Eldorado? She must be gorgeous.”

“She absolutely is, and she drives like a dream. You should totally come take her for a spin sometime! If you can handle Geff you can totally handle Esther.”

“Hey!” Spencer protests. “You wouldn’t let me drive your car!”

Garcia rolls her eyes in mock annoyance. “See, calling her a car is exactly why I don’t let you drive her! Besides, you drove us to Comic-Con and your maneuverability did not exactly inspire confidence.”

“Well if you ever need a co-pilot for a convention, let me know,” Y/N offers.

“You’re into the con crowd?” Garcia asks.

“Please, I’m a total geek,” she laughs. “If it’s got a flying craft of any kind I’m in. Firefly, LOST, Doctor Who, Star Wars – you name it.”

“I totally love you,” Garcia declares, linking her arm through Y/N’s. “I love her!” she tells Spencer.

“Well I hope you have a little love left for me, Baby Girl,” Morgan teases, walking up behind them.

“Always, sugar,” Garcia throws back. She let’s go of Y/N’s arm but says, “We have to talk later.”

“Of course,” Y/N assures her, and she hurries over to catch up with Morgan.

“I didn’t realize you liked all those things,” Spencer says.

“Of course,” she laughs. “I guess it just never came up in conversation. We were too busy with books and stories. But I’m guessing you’re also a fan?”

He nods. “Although I’ve never seen LOST. Is it good?”

“Is it good?” she asks, incredulous. “It’s incredible. It revolutionized television. And it’s right up your alley. Mystery, psychology, recurrent numbers . When this case is over we are absolutely watching it together.” She only realizes after she says it that she’s practically inviting him over to her place. Or inviting herself over to his. Is that too much? They’ve been spending more and more time together, and she has yet to stop enjoying his company. If she’s being honest, she’s always looking for excuses to see him again.

“I would love to,” he says immediately. Relief washes over her. So it is okay. It’s okay that she wants more of these moments with him, that she’s trying to commit of these little conversations to memory for fear they’ll slip away and she’ll forget the butterflies she feels when he looks at her. And when Arthur calls her away to ready Geff for takeoff, the smell of coffee and aftershave lingers in her in mind long after she walks away from him.

----------------------------------------------

Three days later, the case is solved. The unsub is in custody. The victim is in the hospital with their family, where she will hopefully make a full recovery with time and with therapy. The Santa Fe sun is sweltering though. The team sits inside a small room at the little airport. The air conditioner is on full blast and everyone is sipping on water to stay cool. All of them are exhausted, and Reid wants nothing more than to take a long nap on the plane. Even Garcia is quiet. It’s a relief when Captain Dobson appears to inform them that the jet is ready for takeoff. They board Geff and settle down into chairs and couches, ready for well-deserved rest.

As soon as he does so, Reid realizes he’s left his book in the air-conditioned room. He quickly hurries back down the stairs and inside, grabbing the paperback that sits on the table where he left it. As he walks back out, he spots Y/N, standing at a locker in the hangar. She waves at him a with a smile.

“How was the case?” she asks.

“It ended as well as it could have,” he says. “But it was long. I think we’re all pretty tired.”

“I’m sure this heat isn’t helping. It’s worn me out. I’ve been putting off getting in uniform as long as I could.” She wears black pants and a short-sleeved white button-down, but the rest of her uniform is still in the locker. “So the missing woman is okay?”

Reid explains that she is, but he’s hardly aware of the words he’s saying. His focus is on her fingers as she buttons the top of her collar and ties her black tie with a careful and practiced knot. It’s looks far nicer than any of his slapdash crooked knots. She slips her blazer over her shoulders and adjusts the cuffs. He’s seen her in these clothes so many times before but he’s never realized before how good she looks in uniform. Or at least, he’s never let himself think it. It fits her well, tailored perfectly to her body. Reid is absolutely entranced as she buttons the front of her blazer, the little gold pair of wings shining above her pocket. He can’t explain why he suddenly finds this incredibly attractive, but when she puts her cap on and turns to smile at him, he completely loses track of any thoughts in his head.

It’s only when she closes the locker and says, “Let’s get out of here,” that he regains his ability to form coherent sentences.

“Wait,” he says. She does. Her cap is ever so slightly off-kilter. He reaches out to straighten it for her. As he does so, it catches a strand of her hair, and he brushes it out of the way. The gesture feels so intimate, and she stares at him the entire time. “There,” he says. “Perfect.”

“Thanks, Doctor.” The smile she gives him is different from the one she wore seconds ago. It’s softer somehow, and if he were to melt right now it wouldn’t be the result of the Santa Fe sun. They climb back into the plane. Y/N disappears into the cockpit. He puts his book back into his bag and then walks to the jet galley to grab another cup of water. Garcia joins him. As she pours herself a cup of coffee she says, “I had no idea you liked a girl in uniform.”

Reid nearly chokes on his water. “I – wait – what?”

“Oh come on, I saw you staring at Y/N. The way you were looking at her? Ooh you are in deep, loverboy.”

“It’s – it’s not like that,” he sputters. “Not at all. We’re just – she – she’s my friend. That’s it.” Garcia quirks an unconvinced eyebrow. Reid sighs. “Look, even if I liked her, it would never work out. She’s…” There aren’t enough words to follow that adequately describe her. “Her. And I’m me. And besides, I’m pretty sure there are rules. Even if I felt that way…” He couldn’t. He can’t.

Garcia’s mischievous grin fades. “Reid, do you really think that-”

“Please, Garcia.”

She bites her lip and grabs her coffee. “Hey,” she says quietly. “No one else was paying attention. They didn’t see. And I’m not going to say anything.” She takes a step past him. “I just wish–” But she doesn’t finish the sentence. Evidently deciding against voicing her wish, Garcia returns to her seat. Reid prepares to do the same, only to notice the book sitting beside the coffee maker. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. With a little note that says, you can give it back when I see you for LOST.

In spite of himself, in spite of all the things he can’t and shouldn’t do, he smiles. He can have this. Sharing words and stories with her, and wondering which ones resonated with her when she read them. He picks up the book and sits back down just as Dobson’s voice comes through the speaker to ask them to ask them to fasten their seatbelts and secure all loose items. Reid opens the book. That nap can wait until he gets home.

#flight risk #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #brywrites

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etherrealoblivion · 4 years

Text

A Joint Effort

Prompt: I just thought of this for some reason, but imagine everyone in the bau all high as fuck, in one room together.

Words: 1,905

A/N: for the bad b*tches in my MGG group chat. Love y’all.

Content Warning!!!!: Drugs (weed)

MASTERLIST

It had started out a regular Friday evening. Well, as regular as a Friday evening could be for the sorry few that worked in the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI.

After a particularly draining case, the team decided a night out would be the best way to unwind. More precisely, Morgan decided and convinced the others with much help from Garcia.

So that’s how a mother, a genius, a spy, a hacker, a playboy, a boss, and a millionaire all ended up stumbling home, drunk off their asses down the empty streets of D.C.

Sadly, J.J, who had been the designated driver, didn’t get the memo until after her fourth drink. Garcia, the messenger, was a little late on delivering it. By then, everyone else was already wasted so Hotch figured it was time to go home. Or, actually, to crash at Rossi’s place. He was nearby and had enough bedrooms for everyone to rest peacefully, although the team had a slight notion that the party wasn’t quite over.

This thought was confirmed quite quickly for as everyone plopped down amongst the plethora of cozy chairs in Rossi’s living room, Morgan found the millionaires liquor cabinet, shamelessly helping himself to the array of drinks there.

However, before he could indulge too far, a small wooden box caught his eye as he was about to select a fifty-year scotch.

Alcohol didn’t seem to affect his profiling skills as he deduced what was in the box as if there was a note written on it.

Smirking, Morgan wondered whether or not his team members would. Rossi would, for sure. Garcia, definitely probably. Hotch? Reid? Hmm.

“Hey, Rossi,” Morgan said, putting on a voice of drunken interest, “what’s this box, here?”

Rossi’s head snapped to where he was standing, confirming his suspicions. Before he could speak, Reid piped up, stammering slightly.

“That’s an 1870’s oakwood Captain James box. Collectors quality. Only four hundred were made.”

“Isn’t that a lot?” Garcia asked, taking off her heels.

“Yes, for the era. But three hundred and seventeen were lost to the ocean on the shipwreck of the Casterberous. Interestingly enough--”

“Actually,” Morgan butted in, slowly opening the box and smiling as he saw what was in it, “What I was more interested in was what was in the box.”

Rossi, always composed, shrugged and stood walking towards morgan.

“What can I say? In our line of work, one tends to need to . . . destress every now and again.”

Hotch snorted, finally realizing what the mystery box contained. Dave had told him of his habit, but Hotch never really given it much thought. Everyone had their vices.

“What’s in it?” Prentiss said, trying to steal a glimpse.

“Wait . . .” Garcia paused for a moment, shot Morgan a look to which he smirked knowingly, then burst into laughter, clutching her sides and rolling back on the couch.

J.J looked from Garcia to Rossi, the latter standing with his hands in his pockets, looking sheepish. She quickly put two and two together.

“Oh my god!”

“What?” Reid was still confused. “What, what is it? What have I missed?”

Morgan raised his eyebrows at Rossi questioningly to which the older man nodded softly. So Morgan placed the box, lid open, on the coffee table. So that everyone could see the set of pre-rolled cigarettes laying on purple satin within.

Prentiss smiled.

“Well, well, well. David Rossi, do my eyes deceive me, or is that Acapulco gold?”

Everyone but Reid laughed, who was looking at the cigarette curiously.

“I don’t understand. Cigarettes? Prentiss used to smoke, I don’t see the big deal.”

J.J. pat his head.

“You’ll learn, Spence. You’ll learn. May I?” she directed the last part to Rossi, gesturing toward the box.

He waved a hand.

“Be my guest. As long as no one is uncomfortable?” he phrased it as a question.

Murmurs of assent filled the room, everyone but Reid and Hotch reaching for one of the neatly rolled cigarettes in the box and Rossi going to fetch his lighter and put on a quiet record for background noise.

“J.J? You don’t smoke tobacco?”

Morgan laughed. Pretty boy was a genius at most things. This not being one of them.

“Spence,” J.J. took the lighter from Rossi and lit her cigarette, a pungent smell quickly filling the room, “it’s not tobacco.”

A look of comprehension finally found its way onto Reid’s face, causing everyone looking at him to shake with laughter.

“Oh.”

Morgan slapped him on the back, handing him a lit joint. “‘Oh’ is right. Now listen, no peer pressure, Pretty Boy. You get uncomfortable, stand up, and go to bed, no judgment. But, if you wanna chill out for a while, get that genius mind to calm down, take a puff of this.” And Morgan brought his joint to his lips, steadily taking a drag and blowing it out with practiced expertise.

A moment of hesitation was all Spencer needed, quickly reassured by the ease with which his friends and colleagues began to smoke. Then, he brought the joint to his mouth and took a deep breath.

As expected, he coughed immediately, a horrible hacking noise as blue-ish smoke expelled from his mouth and nose.

His friends started to giggle, already feeling the high hit them.

Hotch finally decided to join in after a few minutes of watching everyone enjoy themselves. Reid recovered surprisingly quickly, barely coughing the second and third times and not at all by the fourth.

It suddenly occurred to everyone that they’d all been silent the whole time. Garcia, of course, was the first to rectify this.

“Okay, when was the last time everybody got high? Go.” She pointed to her left where J.J sat sprawled out against her.

“Um. Oh god. Three months before I found out I was pregnant with Henry. Although I’m not sure you’d count that as ‘high’. It was one hit from a bong at this party I went to.”

“A party?!” Prentiss said, surprised. “When? Where?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes!” everyone exclaimed.

“Okay! Jeez. It was when we had that weekend off after the Garner case. I went down to New Orleans to see Will and . . . one thing led to another.”

“Is that why you kept texting me asking for pictures of my cat?” Garcia giggled, absentmindedly petting J.J’s hair.

“Yeah. . . I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a robot. Don’t ask.”

After a bit of laughter, everyone recovered and it was Hotch’s turn next.

“Four years ago. After the Nieman case in Tampa. Haley was the one who suggested it. It did help me relax, but the taste is something I couldn’t stand.”

Everyone nodded slightly, accepting this answer as valid.

Rossi shrugged, gesturing to the now empty box. Clearly he had smoked recently, probably within the month so the question passed to Morgan.

“I’m gonna be honest. I . . . partake whenever we have free time.”

“So. . . ?” J.J asked.

Morgan sighed.

“Last weekend.”

Wow. Garcia started to laugh which caused a domino effect on the rest of the team. Reid was finally relaxing into the feeling, laughing along with his friends.

“Y’all think that’s real funny, huh?” Morgan said, unable to stop the smile forming on his face.

“Yep,” Reid said through another puff, suppressing a cough. “Only because it makes so much sense.”

“Oh yeah?” Morgan got a mischievous look in his eye. “Okay, Prentiss. Your turn.”

Emily, who had been laughing heartily, suddenly froze, looking nervously around the room.

“I, er, I don’t recall.”

Morgan chuckled.

“Well then, allow me to refresh your memory. Last weekend I’m minding my own business when I get a call from Emily here. She’s going off about how expensive movie tickets are and how it’s cheaper to buy back-alley weed. I tell her not to worry, I’ve got my hands on the good stuff right here. Needless to say, within the hour we were both high off our asses.”

Prentiss had turned bright pink, taking a sip from a water bottle she’d withdrawn from her purse. Looking back, she should have known better than to hide her face from a group of seasoned profilers.

“Oh, damn, Emily!” Garcia bounced on the couch, shaking J.J who groaned. “Why didn’t you tell me! You know I am always one phone call and thirty-five minutes away.”

Emily glanced at Derek, smirking. “That’s the problem, Pen. Sometimes you can be a little . . . much.”

Garcia gasped softly, “Emilia, you offend me. I’m offended. I’m chill! I’m a chill person,” she added, a little shrilly, sending the group into yet another fit of laughter.

“What? Look at me now! I’m relaxing on the couch, totally at peace.”

In her defense, she was. Absentmindedly braiding J.J’s hair and working out the knots in it. One sharp pull made J.J wince.

“Ow! Yeah, ‘at peace’ my ass.”

“Shush! Reid, go.”

Spencer opened his mouth but Morgan spoke first.

“Aw, come on, Baby Girl. You saw how Pretty Boy here coughed. He hasn’t touched a drug in his life.”

“I-”

“Oh, come on. People don’t only cough when they’ve never smoked before. Besides, he went to Caltech AND got a doctorate at MIT. Those Ivy Leagues have the most toked up students anyway.”

“Well, I-”

“Nah,” Morgan interrupted. “Pretty Boy’s been sober his whole life.”

“Actually . . .”

Morgan’s head snapped to Reid, as quick as he could under the influence. Which, in retrospect was not all that quick.

“Kid. You’re telling me you’ve done this before?”

Reid went even pinker than Emily had.

“Not, uh. Not exactly. I’ve certainly never smoked a joint with anyone. But, well. That wasn’t the question.”

“What was the question?” Garcia asked.

“You’re the one who asked it!”

She simply shrugged, reapplying her lipstick smoothly. The high was slowly wearing off everyone.

“You asked when the last time everyone got high was,” Reid explained, his hands gesticulating wildly. “While I have never smoked - really no one should, the things it does to your lungs - I have ingested marijuana before.”

“What!?” Morgan and Garcia exclaimed, prompting an even louder Shh from Rossi. Hotch was smirking softly, lighting several candelabras around the room, attempting to clear the air of the stench.

“What?” Reid asked, annoyed at their shock. “I might be nerdy but I’m not a prude.”

Prentiss laughed and remarked to J.J, “Next thing he’s gonna be telling us he’s not a virgin.”

“Actual-”

“Stop, right there, kid,” Morgan butted in, settling down on the couch for the night. “That’s not the kinda thing I wanna hear about right now.”

“But you were curious about me getting high before!”

“Yeah, that’s your business.”

Prentiss butted in, “Besides, we should just focus on the now. It seems while we’ve all partook before, but never together like this. This time it’s a… a…”

“A joint effort,” Reid said, glancing around the room with a playful smile.

A collective groan followed his quip and several pillows were thrown his way.

“You’re lucky I’m barely stoned,” Garcia said. “I’d come over there and give you a proper pillow fight.”

Rossi leaned forward over the old box.

“Ladies, gents,” he lifted the purple satin lining revealing several more pre-rolled marijuana cigarettes, “the night is still young.”

And so, the FBI profilers hotboxed David Rossi’s living room, laughing about nonsense and learning much more than they’d wanted to about Spencer Reid’s sexual history

#criminal minds #spencer reid #emily prentiss #derek morgan #jennifer jareau #aaron hotchner #hotch #penelope garcia #david rossi #fanfic #fanfiction #thank you alanna

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daydream-believin · 4 years

Text

Sure Took You Long Enough, Babe

Summary: (wlw) Reader pulls an all-nighter with coworker Zoe

Warnings: swearing, alcohol, uh i think i remember mentioning people doing drugs, that trademark wlw obliviousness

Word Count: 4374

a/n: g-g-gorlfren... *slaps roof of fic* this baby can fit so many gay fantasy tropes in it. yes, the bars in cali stay open till 4am idk

Your alarm blared it’s cheery tune, startling you awake. Strangely enough, the happy melody never inspired happiness, just rage. Yet, ever the eager beaver, you shot right up and slammed the button as you slid out of bed, not allowing yourself to dilly-dally. As much as you’d like to stay asleep for three more hours at the least, you forced yourself into a good start for the day. Today was the first day of your new part-time job at Hextech, and lucky you, you got the morning shift. Curse of being fresh meat, you supposed. As long as you could make it through the day without getting too terribly hazed, you’d be fine.

Back home in Arcadia Oaks for the summer, you’d needed a new job or you’d go crazy. What were you supposed to do? Relax? Nah. You’d start taking double shifts as soon as you could. It was a bit tricky finding somewhere that would be a good fit for you. Okay, that was a lie. It was a bit tricky finding somewhere that would even be willing to hire you, apparently. Really knocked your pride down a few pegs.

By a strike of fortune, you had been catching up with one of your old high school buddies over coffee yesterday. You know, the one you used to hang out in the graveyard and practice tarot reading with? Yeah, Evan. It was nice to be able to talk to someone who was just as excited as you were that My Chemical Romance was back. When you two ordered, he pulled out that old joke about taking his coffee black like his soul and it still made you laugh as much as it did in high school. Evan was doing good, new boyfriend, new job, new band. You felt happy for your friend. You were happy that he was happy. He deserved it.

After you’d lamented that you couldn’t find work, he told you about how lately he’d been working for that electronic store Hextech. Not subtly named, was it? He’d told you about how it was run by hedgewizards like you two. They only hired through connections, since they were a magical company run by magical people. You, thankfully, had one of those connections. Your buddy put in a good word for you and, just like that, you were in. They put you on the schedule crazy fast. Like, the first shift of the very next day fast. Good. You were going out of your mind having so much free time. Your relatives were starting to ask you *shutter* questions about your personal life.

You looked in the mirror, slicked back your hair into a neat style, and admired how you looked in your new work shirt. Of course, it would eventually join the trophy quilt of old work shirts you were making, but for now it was nice and new. A pretty baby blue, it will go well sewed next to the royal blue Domino’s shirt from last semester. You added about a dozen earrings to your ears as a finishing touch and headed downstairs. After downing your coffee and hastily scarfing down a still-warm blueberry muffin, you kissed your grandmother’s cheek goodbye as you headed out the door. You tossed a crumpled muffin to the crows waiting by the front door. The greedy bastards inhaled every crumb. As much as you loved having a job again, the sun was still asleep when you started your walk to work. Fuck that.

As you walked through the door at Hextech, you were astonished to see the absolute angel who was waiting there for you. An absolute angel who looked kinda hungover, actually. Well, it was 6 AM on a Sunday. The doors didn’t actually open to customers until seven, but you were here at the ass-crack of dawn so she could train you some before throwing you to the customer wolves. Said pink-haired angel introduced herself as Zoe. What a fitting name for someone as cute and feisty as her. You had to catch yourself from staring too much into her striking blue eyes, that reminded you of lightning, pure electricity, before she caught you. And really, they were distracting. It was hard to focus on what she was telling you, which was a bad thing since she was giving you vital information. You forced yourself to focus. As much as you could.

After going over the ropes of working the wizard-bar, she took you through a cool hidden door to show you around the back. The back had such wonderful rooms as the kitchen that someone microwaved fish in yesterday, workrooms, one of which had a poor guy who looked like her never left last night, tinkering away at some techy-thing, the room Zoe introduced as the room she went to scream in, and a common-room type thing with a sick floor to ceiling screen (or was it a window?), depicting a soothing nature scene. She told you that after you had been working in the front for a while and proved yourself, your bosses would move you up to the repairs and phone troubleshooting. Maybe even invention if you were talented enough. That filled you with dread, despite the inspiration it was supposed to be. You had to admit, you knew almost nothing about the technical/repairs side of electronics and you did not belong here. You were more of a coding/hacking type of hedgewizard. You’d have to fake it till you make it. You were sure Zoe could tell you were bullshitting through this, but thankfully she was gracious enough not to call you out on it. Although, you didn’t mind that impish grin that found it’s place on her face.

Damn. You did not need to get involved with a coworker. No matter how enchanting she was. Or how pretty. This was just a summer job. You would be moving back across California for school soon enough and you were not going to do long-distance again. Although, is a few hours really that long? Definitely not as long as your last relationship. Shut up shut up shut up. No. You don’t even know if this chick is into girls, don’t get ahead of yourself. Mmm, she is very pretty though. You can admire from afar. What’s the harm in that?

There was much, much harm. Stars, you had it bad. You had only been at Hextech for a month now and it felt like hell. Perhaps it was hell. Maybe you were dead, and this was your eternal punishment. Damned to forever pine after the loveliest wizard you had ever met. She took a liking to you instantly too, inviting you out for drinks that first night, and every weekend after that. And she’d invited you over to her place for movie nights and to hang out with her friends. Some nights she’d take you to go dancing with her. She’d taken to calling you Baby. Perfectly normal things for gals being pals right. You guessed this is what girl besties do. You wouldn’t know, you’d only ever really hung with guys. Really feminine goth guys, sure, but guys nonetheless. She seemed hellbent on spending time with you. Not that you were complaining, but it just made your emotions stronger. And harder to shove back into the abyss.

~ ~ ~

One Friday night, you two were just chilling up in your bedroom. A rest before one of coworker’s birthday party tomorrow night. Zoe was telling you that she really wanted to try out a new makeup technique. And you told her she could try it out on you. The joy that painted itself across her features is something that will be burned into your memory forever. But not as high a degree of burn as what came next. Zoe straddled your waist, eyeliner pen in hand, and pushed you back against the headboard so she could better reach your eyes. Your breath caught in your throat. You were helpless to do anything but stare at her face that was in super close proximity to yours. You were caught in a trance as you obeyed when she told you to do this or that so she could properly apply the makeup. Her pink lips were pursed in concentration, and her pink banged strayed into her face. Her signature pink style matched the pink of your cheeks. You were sure she could feel your heart pounding, her elbows were on your chest, basically. She moved on to eyeshadow. Weird, you were always an eyeshadow first kinda person but who were you to critique this goddess’s methods. As she rolled on the perfectly matching lipstick onto your lips, you couldn’t help but think about this being an indirect kiss. This lipstick has been all over her lips and now it’s on yours? Stars.

Once she was finished with her masterpiece, she leaned back to take a good look at it. You felt the heat blaze under your skin as her blue eyes scanned your face. Finally, she seemed satisfied and nodded. Zoe helped you up and you went to go check it out in the mirror hanging on your wall. It was brightly colored, garish even, yet perfect, in your opinion. Like Zoe’s personality distilled into something you could wear. She crept up behind you and put her hands on your shoulders as you both admired her skills.

“My best work yet if I do say so, Y/n,” She grinned like a Cheshire cat, “Hmm, I know it’s already like, 3 in the morning and we’re supposed to be relaxing, but we should go and show this off.”

You both had a shift in four hours but you didn’t know how to say no to those eyes. “Alright, Zo,”

You grabbed your jackets on the way out, careful not to wake any of the other inhabitants of the house, but unable to keep the giggles in. Zoe had thought it would be fun to swap jackets, and you weren’t going to say no to that. Her jacket was cozy, black leather, and smelled of her rosy perfume. You never wanted to take it off. When you put it on, her eyes lingered on your form, commenting how good it made you look. You were very thankful for the cover of darkness that hid your flush, rosy like her perfume. You thought she looked marvelous in yours too, but you weren’t as brave in order to say that out loud.

Suddenly you were in some club across town, being introduced to Zoe’s friend Mimi who was working the bar that night. Mimi looked you up and down, then cocked her brows and clicked her tongue, while nodded to Zoe? Who turned pink and angrily said something under her breath to her friend. You couldn’t make out what she said over the music, you were too busy trying not to put too much weight on this interaction. Telling your heart to stop jumping. Jumping just gets you hurt. Mimi snickered as she scurried off to the other side of the bar to fix up your drinks after Zoe finished her rant. She turned back to you and laughed nervously, leaning on the bar.

“That Mimi. What a card.” You nodded in response, not sure what to say.

You three chatted while you sipped at your drinks. Zoe had ordered you something fruity, sweet, and vibrantly colored. It was very tasty, whatever it was. Must have had a high percentage because your head was already fuzzy with just this one. You stopped after finishing it, not fancying being drunk at work, but Zoe got another. Her alcohol tolerance was way stronger than yours. You fucking lightweight. Mimi had started cleaning up since the bar closed soon. Zoe grabbed your hand unexpectedly.

“How about we dance until we get kicked out, Babe?” She said with a sparkle in her eye.

“Uh- y- yeah,” was all you managed to get out before she pulled you over to the dance floor. It was almost vacant, since it was nearing 4am and most people had either moved on for the night, passed out on one of the club’s couches, or were getting their fix in the bathroom. Nice. It was like the floor was just for you two. Zoe was really jazzed, spinning you around to whatever trashy party song was playing. It was infectious. Her energy, not the song. You were having a lot of fun with the pink girl dancing with you. She tossed her hair back laughing at one point. Right then and there, you decided to throw all those things stopping you out the window. If you missed her come fall, you’d just drive the trip to see her. It would be worth it.

The other trio of people who had been dancing left, and now it really was just you two. It would have felt like just you two even if the floor was full. As the current song ended, the DJ looked at you in sympathy. “Alright guys, this is the last song okay, we close in ten.” He switched it to a Viper song.

“OH! I love this song!” Zoe’s smile got even bigger. You didn’t know that was possible. Somehow, she got an energy boost too. You had completely no idea how the firecracker you were with could stay lit well into the morning. If it wasn’t for your manic pixie dream girl here, you’d be groggy by now. She flittered around you, having a blast. It was adorable. She mouthed the words of the song to you, which would have been rather cute if they hadn’t been considerably sexual lyrics. You felt that blush come back for the umpteenth time that night. And she had that impish grin plastered across her face again, like she knew what she was doing. Zoe had gotten closer to you as the song winded down, you hadn’t noticed until it faded out altogether. Your eyes were wide. She booped your nose, giggling. You blinked, surprised. You felt your heart squeeze at how fucking cute that was.

She took your hand again as she pulled you over to go give Mimi a quick hug goodbye before you two left. You still had two and a half hours to kill until your shifts started at six thirty. Zoe’s favourite coffee house wouldn’t be open until five. As much as a nap sounded good right now, you both knew that it would just make you sleepier. And grumpier from being woken up after such a short time. Might as well pull out an old goth kid staple.

“Wanna go hang around in the graveyard?”

~ ~ ~

Zoe tossed her head back laughing so hard she hit the gravestone she was leaning against.

“Oof, you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” She rubbed her head and turned back to look check the name on the engraving, “Sorry Howard.”

“It’s too late, he’s offended now and he’s gonna haunt us,” you snickered, “Nice going, Zo.”

“Don’t worry Baby, I’ve been working on my exorcism skills. You know, since a certain dumbass brought spirits into the party last week.” Ah, Douxie, what a guy. Of course he hadn’t meant to ruin everyone’s night and release those ghosts. It just sort of happened. He was accident prone and you didn’t understand why people trusted him with cursed stuff like that to begin with. Luckily, within the number of wizards gathered, you guys were eventually able to find a way to banish all the spirits before any real harm came of it. It wasn’t a bad way to spend a Friday night. You got to live out your childhood dream of being a ghostbuster.

You looked around. The cemetery wasn’t as spooky as most people thought it was. Sure, there were strange noises, and endless headstones with disembodied names that meant nothing, and creepy mausoleums that cast big shadows in the moonlight, and a creaky gate that swung back and forth whether there was wind or not, but it wasn’t scary. Well, maybe that was just because you’d spent most nights of your teen years here, so you were desensitized to it. Zoe didn’t seem to mind it one bit either.

You glanced up and saw three of your crow friends on the top of the mausoleum across from you and Zoe. If crows could smirk these would be smirking. Fuckers. They were always around whenever you’d go out with Zoe. Watching so they could tease you later. Damn nosy birds. Why did you ever start feeding them. They were even there in a set of three, just to mock you. They may as well be singing “Y/n and Zoe sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

You ignored the crows, pulling out your phone and flipping to your ebook app. Because you know what would make this just like old times? Some dramatic goth poetry. What a way to woo a girl. Zoe was fond of the idea of some poetry reading too. She told you that you could pick. At first you thought to read some Poe, perhaps starting with ‘Serenade’, but decided against it lest the bastards on the roof started demanding you read them ‘the Raven’. It’s happened before. You settled on some Keats instead. And you knew the perfect poem. A poem you could put all your emotions into. The most sapphic poem ever written by a man, in your opinion. If she didn’t feel the same, you could always deny it and say that you were just getting way into character. Either way it was going to make work weird, but you didn’t think you gave a fuck anymore. Here goes nothing.

“Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs

Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell

Thine ear, and find they gentle heart; so well

Would passion arm me for the enterprise:” You took a big gulp of air. Zoe’s gaze was locked on you, and that didn’t make this any less nerve-wracking. You could feel your hands shaking. “But ah! I am no knight whose foreman dies;

No cuirass glistens on my bosom’s swell;

I am no happy shepherd of the dell

Whose lips have trembled with a maiden’s eyes.” With those words, a sudden burst of boldness in your heart caused you to take her hand. Must be the alcohol. Yes, that which hath made them drunk hath made you bold. Zoe didn’t appear to be breathing anymore. You looked back into her electric blue eyes. “Yet must I dote upon thee, --call thee sweet,

Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honied roses

When steeped in dew rich to intoxication

Ah! I will taste that dew, for me ‘tis meet,” Your voice became breathy as you uttered these last verses. “And when the moon her pallid face discloses,

I’ll gather some by spells, and incantation.” You just froze there, breathing. The ball was in Zoe’s court now. Speak of the devil, she was really close, like really close. When did she get so close. You hadn’t realized. She lifted a finger to your face and brushed a loose strand of hair behind you ear. Your breath caught in your throat. She drew closer, your noses touching now. Her eyes slipped down into a half lid. Your eyes flicked to her lips and she watched you. It occurred to you that she was waiting for you to close the gap. So you did.

It was fireworks. Of course, you were kissing a firecracker herself. It was a sweet kiss, but laced with that fire. You both pulled back for air, but quickly returned to each other’s lips. Zoe’s hands drifted down to your hips and she pulled you into her lap, leaning back up against that headstone. And now you were snogging in the cemetery. Mary Shelley would be proud. Howard, however, was probably pissed off for sure now.

Your breaths mingled as you gasped for air. Zoe caressed your cheek, cupping your face. She chuckled, “It sure took you long enough, Babe. I was starting to think I’d have to spell it out for you.”

You all but collapsed back into her arms, exasperated. Stars, it sure did take you long enough, didn’t it. You could hear and feel Zoe’s snort through her chest. You raised back up to gaze into those baby blues. A pang of adoration shot through your heart like one of cupid’s cursed arrows.

“How about I buy coffee, for our first official date?” Zoe agreed to your offer. You got off of her, legs wobbling like a baby deer. Speaking of deer, you were happy to see that the herd that usually hangs out here in the graveyard in the early hours was peacefully grazing around you two. You hadn’t noticed them come in, too busy snogging. You reached out a hand and helped Zoe up. You two brushed the grass off your clothes and gave one last apology to Howard before setting off for the coffee shop. Zoe checked her phone for the time. It was 5:23, you two still had almost a full hour to spend lounging in the coffeeshop before you had to head off to Hextech. Zoe reached for your hand as you walked back to Zoe’s bike. You threaded your fingers together. Something as small as that shouldn’t have felt as nice as it did. But it did.

You completely adored riding on the back of Zoe’s motorcycle. You got to cling to her, arms around her waist, pretending that you were holding her for romantic reasons and not so you wouldn’t fall off a moving automobile. You wouldn’t have to just pretend any longer now. The thought made you giddy. And now that you think about it, that was probably why Zoe had insisted on giving you rides everywhere for the past month. You were so fucking oblivious. It was painful. Thank the stars above she was patient with you. You snuggled further into her back, inhaling that rosy perfume. It truly was intoxicating, Keats. A girl could get used to this.

~ ~ ~

The coffee house barista recognized you two as you walked in and started making your orders that he had memorized. He greeted you cordially as you handed over the cash. He looked down at Zoe’s hand joined with yours, raising his eyebrows teasingly but not saying anything. Did everyone in this fucking town know about you two before you did? You think you might have beaten that Parisian catboy at his own game. How embarrassing.

Zoe got cozy on you guy’s usual couch while you carried over the coffee. After you set the mugs on the coffee table and plopped down, Zoe swung her legs up onto the couch, and over your lap. Didn’t exactly take you by surprise. Zoe often sat like this. You were used to it. Wait, was this also flirting? Stars, you didn’t even know anymore. This was so confusing. She noticed the face journey you had taken with the internal struggle, and grinned, shrugging her arm around your shoulders to ease you. You snatched your cup of the table and downed as much as you could handle before it got too hot. You were still really nervous, despite her being very clear about how she felt, and Zoe thought that was pretty funny.

“So, we’re gonna have to say something to people tonight,” Zoe started.

You just nodded in response. Hopefully this wasn’t going to make anything weird. You hadn’t been working at Hextech long enough to know how the dynamics worked. Maybe someone had been pining after Zoe too and now hated you. Maybe someone was Zoe’s ex and now hated you. Maybe someone was just really homophobic and now hated you. There were plenty of possibilities, you could go on.

“I was thinking we should wear these matching dresses I found last week, and sort of bought already, to double our cute couple factor.” She had murmured that middle part but you still heard it loud and clear. You had to hold back a squeak. That was so sweet. And adorable. She just saw the dresses in the shop and thought to herself ‘I want to wear that with Y/n’? You could die right now. You settled for downing more of that coffee.

“Yes! That’s so cool? I- What color are they?” You didn’t know how to handle this.

Zoe pulled out her phone and leaned over to show you the pics she took of them. They were matching, made of the same brown floral-patterned fabric, but different styles. Either one would go great with Zoe’s leather jacket, which you were still wearing. You’d go for your denim one. Not the purple jacket that currently hung off Zoe’s shoulders. The colors wouldn’t clash but the style of it would. This was going to be awesome, anyways. Matching dresses, telling your friends the best news you’ve had all year, having fun at the party, not having to spend the whole night miserably shoving your feelings aside? You couldn’t wait.

“Which one do you want?” You picked the looser, more flowy one. Zoe was more comfortable with tight stuff that showed off her body. You had a sneaking suspicion she already knew you’d pick that one, and was giving you the illusion of choice. It was sweet, really. Your phone alarm went off, alerting you that it was time to start the walk for work. All the relaxing time was gone. A crying shame, but you’d still get to spend the day with your favourite person just the same, so not truly that big of a loss. Albeit, Zoe didn’t look too pleased to have to go back to work. Laughing, you stood to your feet, and held out your arm for her to link through.

“Shall we go milady?” You two waved to the barista as you headed out the door. “I think you should do our makeup for the party again, really show off this time.” Zoe perked up, excited at the prospect as Hextech neared.

“And I’ll show off my hot new girlfriend too.” There was that damned blush again.

#why does she not have a last name #how do i tag this #toa zoe #tales of arcadia x reader #toa zoe x reader #toa zoe imagine #zoe x reader #tales of arcadia imagine #zoe imagine #my writing

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bgyulix · 4 years

Text

— just another edgy teen rom com

-> pairing: min yoongi x reader

-> genre: bad boy!au, high school!au, slightly inspired by the end of the f***ing world

-> tags/warnings: domestic abuse, child abuse, underage drinking, implications of drug use, also they smoke some weed but only a little, smut in future chapters, suicidal thoughts, despite all these its rather soft and yoongi is whipped

-> word count: 2,896

-> summary: min yoongi is typically someone you’d avoid, and definitely not someone you’d want to run away from home with. OR: having an existential crisis together on a bus stop bench in the middle of the night was not exactly the meet-cute you’d always dreamed of.

-> a/n: here it is!! i hope you guys like it, and if you want to be on the tag list just ask! im thinking there’ll be three parts, but there might end up being four, we’ll see lmao

-> chapter: 1 | 2 | 3

You’d been hit one too many times that night. It was inevitable that it would happen eventually; that a perfectly angled slap or shove against the wall would knock something loose, and you’d end up lying on a bus stop bench like a homeless person letting your wounds fester in traffic fumes.

The cold metal of the dirty bench bit into your thighs and the part of your shoulders where your jacket had ridden down. It registered somewhere in the back of your mind that you could just adjust your jacket and maybe shimmy your shorts down a bit, but you ignored it. You were perfectly happy lying here freezing to death.

Somebody had stuck some gum in the corner of the roof. Maybe you should take it and chew it and get a disease or something. That might be interesting.

Two buses came and went. The night grew longer, and colder. Less and less cars went past. Your shitty little neighbourhood had never been the busiest, and eventually the streets fell quiet and empty, with only the sounds of traffic in the distance and a moth buzzing around a streetlight to keep you company.

The pain of the cut on your lip and your black eye dulled down to a steady throb. It almost felt separate from you, the part of you that cared and the part of you that didn’t two different people arguing with each other while you listened in.

You heard footsteps, trudging up the street through sludgy puddles. They reached the bus stop and hesitated, like everybody else had when they saw your depressed beat up ass suntanning in the dinky fluorescent light. The part of you that didn’t care won out yet again and you didn’t even bother to look up.

They came and sat at the other end of the bench, by your head. You could see a tuft of shaggy bleach blonde hair in your peripheral vision. They shifted and grunted, their voice surprisingly deep. A sigh, and then they simply sat next to you in silence, and you absently wondered if they were waiting for a bus, or if they were going to mug you, or if they were having as bad of a day as you were.

“Rough night?”

You finally managed to move, arching your neck and looking at them upside down. It was a guy, maybe your age, with a nasty scrape on his cheekbone, in a camo jacket smirking around a split lip. He looked vaguely familiar, like you’d seen him around before.

Stranger danger! the little voice in your head that was still sane yelled at you. You ignored it.

“Yep,” you said.

“Yeah,” the guy muttered, “me too.”

He thumbed at his lip. It was bleeding a little.

“What happened to your face?” he asked.

“I got punched, I guess. What happened to yours?”

He snorted. “I got punched, I guess.”

“Welcome to the club, then.”

You settled back down, staring at the roof again. Your butt hurt.

“So, what brings you to my bus stop?” he said, his voice smug. You prickled at his tone.

“Your bus stop? This is my bus stop.”

“Nope, sorry. Definitely mine.”

“I was here first!”

“I’ve been having mental breakdowns here long before you have, sweetheart.”

You scoffed, sitting up to glare at him, your cold, tired bones groaning in protest. You noticed now the bruises on his knuckles, and the dirt stains - or what you hoped were dirt stains - on his shirt. His eyes were dark and catlike, watching you intently with something like amusement.

“I am not…” you grumbled, feeling suddenly pinned down by his gaze, “I am not having a mental breakdown.”

He quirked a brow.

“You’re lying in a bus stop in the middle of the night.”

“And you’re sitting in a bus stop in the middle of the night. You can’t talk.”

He chuckled, pointing at you. “Touché.”

A car went past. You sat side by side, hyper aware of his presence and the way his choppy blond bangs fell across his face and the way he was twisting the ring on his finger in his lap.

“You come here often then?” you said, casually.

“Occasionally,” he replied, casually. Just like you were talking about the weather. “Yourself?”

“Nah. I was just walking past, thought I might go somewhere.”

“But… you didn’t?”

“Don’t have the guts, I guess.”

“I get it,” he rasped, nodding sagely, “I always come here thinking I’ll get on the bus, and then I don’t.”

He pursed his lips, looking away from your face and to the road, glistening with dew and oil slick and hazy streetlights.

“Where would you go?” you murmured.

He shrugged.

“Haven’t really thought about it. Just…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the street. “Away.”

Away. The dream of away was a fantasy, had always been a fantasy. One you consistently came back to after every fight, every hit, every curse. You rub at your eye, wincing when it stung. You wonder who hit him.

“Yeah,” you said. “Away.”

He sniffed, scratched his nose. Suddenly he shifted, straightening his back and his shoulders and puffing out his chest a little, any hint of vulnerability gone and replaced with smug cockiness.

“So you gonna tell me your name?” he smirked. You rolled your eyes at his obvious display.

“___,” you told him.

“Yoongi.”

Your eyes widened. So that’s how you recognised him. “Like Min Yoongi? The drug dealer?”

He scoffed. “I am not a drug dealer.”

You raised your brow the same way he had at you.

“I am not a drug dealer… during school hours,” he clarified. You snorted.

“Anyway, how would you know unless you’ve bought off me, huh?”

“We go to the same school. You’re a consistent source of locker room gossip. Everyone's scared of you.”

Min Yoongi rode a motorcycle and smoked under the bleachers and once told a teacher to fuck off. Min Yoongi could set you up with anything if you were willing to pay. Min Yoongi ran with gangs. Min Yoongi had fucked his way through practically the entire school. You either hated him, wanted him, or were scared of him. The rumours and chatter surrounding him was endless, and he did nothing to discourage it, getting into fights and into detention, showing up to every house party with arms full of weed and leaving one too many hickies on a girl’s neck.

And here he was in front of you, staring at his boots and shaking his head almost bashfully, you dare say.

“You don’t look so scared,” he huffed. You shrugged.

“I’m having a bad day.”

“Yeah, no shit. You look terrible.”

“Hey!” you cried indignantly, “speak for yourself, asshole!”

He laughed then, a deep, carefree rumble from deep in his chest. Your lips rose on their own accord, and you had to fight to keep the smile down.

He didn’t seem so scary. Apart from the blood, of course.

“You wanna get a milkshake?” he asked abruptly.

“A milkshake?”

“Yeah. I know a place that stays open late, not far from here.”

“Oh. Uh… yeah, okay. Yeah, that sounds nice.”

The place he led you to was a small, rundown building next to a service station, trash littering the footpath out in front, with a guy leaning against the wall puking on his shoes.

JO’S DINER, screamed the flickering neon sign. OPEN LATE!

You screwed up your nose and hesitated, eyeing the guy warily.

“That’s just Heegun,” Yoongi said, nudging you, “‘sup, Heegun!”

Heegun raised a hand, before he doubled over and continued to hack his guts up.

Yoongi barrelled through the door, gesturing for you to follow. You hurried in after him, giving Heegun a wide berth.

The inside of the diner was vintage 50’s style, with a checkered floor and red vinyl chairs, and records and pictures of old cars hanging on the walls. It smelt of motor oil and fries, and scratchy music was playing through the speakers. One of the lightbulbs above the counter was out, leaving a weird dark spot, and there was a puddle of… something collecting in a spot where the floor dipped. The waitress at the counter was chewing gum and scrolling through her phone, her classic white apron covered in grease stains.

“Jisoo,” Yoongi drawled, sidling up to the counter. Jisoo, an older woman with extremely thin, overdrawn eyebrows, sighed heavily.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. She had lipstick on her teeth.

“It’s me! How’s it going?”

Jisoo raised one of her fake eyebrows, very, very slowly.

“You two look like shit.”

“Yes, we know. Thank you. Could we get two milkshakes, if you please? ___, what flavour you want?”

You started. “Oh, uh, just chocolate.”

“Two chocolate milkshakes. And a large curly fries, I’m fucking hungry.”

Jisoo marked it down on a little notepad, and somehow even made that sarcastic.

“Sir, yes sir,” she grumbled, and pulled out her gum and stuck it behind her ear, “take a seat.”

Yoongi sat you down in a little booth by the window and slid in opposite you. The table was covered in crumbs and the vinyl stuck to your bare legs.

“You‘re a regular?” you asked.

“Well, they know me by name,” Yoongi replied. He leant back and rested his arm up on the top of his seat, a dark blot against the garishly bright diner, somehow more intimidating in decent lighting than he had been in the dark. It finally hit you; you were in a shitty restaurant with Min Yoongi. You were having milkshakes and curly fries with Min Yoongi.

Why not, you supposed, it’s not like your life wasn’t already a disaster. You put your elbows on the table, the crumbs digging into your skin. You didn’t have the energy to be disgusted.

“So…” you began, and then came up blank.

“So…?” Yoongi urged.

“Uh… how much were the milkshakes? Because I have like…” you fished around in your pocket, “two dollars. And five cents.”

He chuckled again, rich and gruff, and you swear you felt it in your bones.

“Relax, it’s on me. Like you said, you’re having a bad day.”

“And you’re not?”

He shrugged. “Eh. I’m used to it.”

“That’s not a good thing,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him. He smirked.

“That’s life, doll.”

Life, indeed.

“So…” you said again.

“So…?” Yoongi urged, again.

“Is this what you do for fun? Come to…” you lowered your voice, just so Jisoo wouldn’t hear, “come to shitty diners in the middle of the night?”

He seemed amused, his smirk growing a little wider and his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Yeah. This is all I do. Just this, nothing else,” he teased.

“Well, what do you do then? Other than this. And drugs.”

He leaned forwards conspiratorially and cupped his hand around his mouth, like he was about to deliver a secret, and you found yourself leaning into him.

He opened his mouth and whispered, “sell drugs.”

You scoffed and sat back, brushing the crumbs off your elbow.

“Right, of course. Typical.”

Jisoo appeared, a cigarette hanging from her lips, balancing a tray with two milkshakes and a basket of curly fries on her hip. She brought it down on the table hard enough to make both milkshakes spill over the sides of the glass.

“There, you little shits,” she grated, her voice like sandpaper.

“Thanks, Jisoo,” said Yoongi, going straight for the fries. “Heegun’s throwing up out the front again, by the way.”

“WHAT?” Jisoo roared. You flinched. She stormed across the diner, her thunderous footsteps making the table rattle, and swung the door open with so much force it was a miracle it didn’t come flying off its hinges. “FOR FUCK’S SAKE, HEEGUN, YOU DICK, THIS IS THE THIRD TIME THIS WEEK!”

Yoongi chuckled at your shell shocked expression. “She’s a real piece of work, huh?”

You nodded mutely, and hid the way your hands shook by grasping your milkshake and bringing the straw to your lips. It was pretty good, all things considered.

The second the food hit your stomach, it rumbled audibly, and your head went light and frantic. You reached for the curly fries and shovelled the greasy things into your mouth like a starved man.

“When was the last time you ate?” Yoongi asked, eyeing you cautiously. You shrugged, which was a lie. You knew exactly when the last time you ate was; last night at 10:24 pm, sitting across from your father, listening to him rant about how much he hated his job. People yelling at mealtimes seemed to be a trend.

You both ate in silence for a moment, the sounds of Jisoo shooing Heegun away and an overhyped pop song in the background.

“We go to the same school, then?” Yoongi said, with a mouthful of food. You wrinkled your nose at him.

“We do. Don’t talk with your mouth full, it’s gross.”

He snorted. “Yes, ma’am.”

You elected to ignore him. “We have literature together.”

“Literature, huh? I’ve never noticed you before.”

“I try not to be noticed.”

“You some kind of social recluse or something?” said Yoongi, raising a brow.

“No, I just don’t like making a scene, unlike some people,” you told him. “Beside, I sit up the back, and Mr. Ahn makes you sit up the front, so.”

“Huh,” he hummed, tapping his ring against his glass. Jisoo came back inside muttering under her breath, huffing cigarette smoke everywhere. “It seems like you know plenty about me, but I know nothing about you.”

“Not much to know. I’m not nearly as interesting as you.”

“Oh, you think I’m interesting?” he drawled, smirking.

You rolled your eyes. “Well, you’re always up to something.”

“What are you up to?” he asked, jabbing a finger at you.

“Me? Not much.”

“Aw, c’mon. You got no friends, no hobbies? Nothing?”

He was watching you in that peculiar way again, like you’d just said something funny but he couldn’t quite understand the joke. He looked… interested.

“Why do you care?” you demanded, narrowing your eyes.

Yoongi put his hands up in mock surrender.

“Pardon me if I wanna know a bit more about the random chic I found at my bus stop,” he exclaimed indignantly, gazing dangerously at you from under his bangs. You faltered and your cheeks heated, and he gave an amused little huff.

“Um… well…” you stammered, and sipped your milkshake to compose yourself. “I, uh… I like music.”

“Music, huh? What kind?”

“Uh… any kind, if it’s good.”

“You’re really not giving me much to work with here.”

“I’m… I’m in a choir?” you offered.

“Oh, you’re a choir girl,” Yoongi said, “that’s cute.”

You scoffed. “Cute? Excuse me, that shit is hard. Do you know how to tone deaf 70-year-old people are? Extremely. Painfully. And they pinch your cheeks after they subject you to their dying cat noises! Choir takes a lot of effort, thank you!”

Yoongi laughed and grinned, so boyishly that for a moment he almost looked like a different person.

“I’m more into rap myself.”

“You rap?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you any good?”

“Well, that’s - that depends.”

You snorted.

“Huh. I didn’t know you rapped,” you said.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Yoongi told you, and wiggled his eyebrows at you. You choked on a fry with laughter.

“Ooh, mysterious. Let me guess, let me guess - you’re addicted to anime. No, no! You cry at cat videos.”

“I do not,” Yoongi grumbled, “I have not once - not once - cried at a cat video.”

“Bullshit, you have too. I can see it in your eyes.”

Jisoo, from her place back at the counter, coughed loudly and pointedly in your direction, and you realised you’d been raising your voice. You lowered yourself back into your seat sheepishly.

Yoongi was still smiling, shaking his head in amusement. He was handsome, you thought. You’d never quite understood why girls threw themselves at him despite knowing the extent of his shady business practices, but you understood now; his mouth was soft and his jaw was sharp and his aura, while commandeering and a little intimidating, was relaxed and calm and familiar. You were having the strangest urge to reach over the table and brush his hair from his face, or maybe tap his nose.

He was… oh, he was cute.

He was smirking at you again. You were staring. Fuck. You looked down at your milkshake.

“You’re cute,” he said, and the milkshake went down the wrong way.

“What?” you spluttered uselessly.

“You’re cute. I can’t believe we’ve never met before.”

“Well…” you began, pausing to collect yourself, “...we have now.”

He grinned. You grinned back.

Yoongi walked you back to the bus stop, and when he asked you if you wanted him to walk you home, too, you refused.

“You homeless?”

“Just for tonight.”

He didn’t push.

When the sun rose, and you finally slunk back home like a dog with its tail between its legs, your father rushed forwards and drew you into his arms and cried apologies into your shoulder, like he always did.

I’m so sorry, ___. I didn’t mean it. It’ll never happen again, I promise.

He even bought you pizza for dinner - but then he got drunk, and then he did it again. Like he always did.

#min yoongi x reader #yoongi x reader #bts x reader #bts smut #min yoongi #agust d #jaetrc

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princess-of-riviaa · 4 years

Text

Stress Relief

Pairing: Syverson x OFC (Bek); August Walker x OFC (Bek); Syverson x Yennefer

Author’s Note: This takes place in an AU where Syverson, August, Geralt, Jaskier, and Yennefer are all members of a motorcycle club/bike gang. I have written another oneshot that takes place in the same AU called Let Him Watch with Geralt and Jaskier.

Summary: August has kept Bek tied up all day, and as a reward, he instructs Sy on how to fuck her.

Warning(s): cuckolding, cheating but it’s consensual (?), bondage

Word Count:

The White Wolves: Motorcycle Club

The Cast

August Walker: half-brother to Sy; second-in-command/enforcer; took on the heavy responsibilities of the gang after his “death” with Ethan Hunt; stays lowkey and doesn’t leave the compound unless necessary

Lucas “Sy” Syverson: half-brother to August; gang leader; retired from army after his 3rd tour and joined the gang, quickly rising to the top

Geralt Rivian: tactics specialist (teaches everyone how to operate handguns and how to beat people up); in a polyamorous relationship with Jaskier and some girl no one can ever remember the name of

Julian “Jaskier” Alfred Pankratz: in charge of gang inventory and negotiations (when needed); in a polyamorous relationship with Geralt and some girl no one can ever remember the name of

Walter Marshall: the police lieutenant with an unhealthy obsession with taking down The White Wolves after the bike gang “accidentally” killed Marshall’s daughter in a fire

Yennefer “Yenni” Venger: transport specialist, since she’s more obsessed with bikes than anyone in the gang; cousin of Jaskier and ex to Geralt, now married to Sy

Rebekah “Bek” Hunt: the gang’s whore with a secret knack for hacking; is August’s unofficial girlfriend, though she’ll get with any of the gang members if they ask (and they have)

...

The ropes are beginning to dig into Beks’ skin. She’s lost track of how long she’s been like this, how long it’s been since the gang left. Her throat is dry, her muscles sore from a late night of being fucked by August, but above everything she’s bored. There’s only so much time she can spend tied up--alone and waiting like the good whore she is--before she loses interest.

The day started a lot better than it ended. Beks woke up this morning to a pleasurable wetness between her thighs. Only when she’d opened her eyes and looked down had she realized it was August, eating her out with such skill that she was coming in her sleep. He’d held her down with his body weight and forced her to take everything he gave her. He ate her out for a good half hour, clearly trying to get his fill of her. She’d lost count of how many times he brought her to orgasm. When she thought he’d finally relent on her sore, swollen pussy, he pulled his cock out and began fucking her. She was in tears by the end, completely overstimulated, but the sight of her like that had only urged August to continue. He’d left her alone only because his gang--The White Wolves, which he was the second-in-command of--had needed to take care of some business with another bike gang. That’s when he’d decided to tie her up to his bed, leaving her naked body sore and trapped until he returned.

That was six hours ago. The men haven’t been back yet. The only noise heard in the compound had come from Geralt’s--and now Jaskier’s--girlfriend. What was her name again? Beks never talked to her (both of them were usually too busy being fucked to get to know each other) and didn’t feel as bad about not knowing the girl’s name as she probably should. All she knew about the nameless girl was that she’s the only woman, save for Yenni, that Geralt had ever really let himself fall for. He’d started sharing her with Jaskier lately, something that surprised Bek. Geralt was known around the compound for being territorial about the few things he let himself claim as his. But him and Jaskier were also best friends, so them divulging in a polyamorous relationship with a beautiful woman kind of made sense.

Beks used to be Geralt’s whore. Well, technically she wasn’t his. She was shared amongst the men of the gang, but Geralt had used her services the most. Especially when Yenni and Sy had first started dating; that had been a rough, lonely time for him. Beks had been happy to ease his hurting and warm his bed on nights when he needed someone. She loved talking to him late into the night, too. He’s such a closet genius about everything; it’s always fun to pick his brain about things.

But now she unofficially belonged to August. Once he’d faked his death publicly--he used to work for the CIA, but ran into some trouble with an agent named Ethan Hunt that August couldn’t recover from--he basically moved into the compound. Before that, Beks had only seen him a handful of times. But once he became a permanent resident here, he set his sights on her. She tried playing hard to get but he didn’t take no for an answer, and with a body like his and the dark, kinky mind inside his head, she couldn’t resist for long. And once he had her, neither one of them could get enough. He became her regular client. And though it had never officially been stated, she was more his girlfriend now than just the gang’s whore.

A door slams shut and Beks jumps, the ropes around her wrists burning her already-sore skin. Her heart begins to race at the thought of August returning to her. Only now does she realize how wound up she’s been. Despite him more than satisfying her needs this morning, she still craves for him to be deep inside of her again.

There’s voices in the hallway--Geralt’s, she thinks. And maybe Sy? They sound angry. She wonders what happened today. Butterflies make her stomach turn. August always fucks her so good when he’s pent up about something. She’s going to get it good tonight.

The door to his room opens and she tenses, already anticipating the marks he’s going to leave on her body.

“I’ve waited for you all day, just like you wanted--” she begins, then freezes when she sees Sy walk into the room. She’s completely naked, everything on display, and though he’s seen her naked a few times, he’s a married man and the leader of their group. He’s never anything less than professional and the thought of him seeing her like this…

He freezes in the doorway, unable to keep himself from taking in her naked body. Goosebumps rise on Bek’s skin as he eye-fucks her.

“Uh… Sy?” She clears her throat, suddenly catching herself. “I mean, Syverson? Where’s August?”

He appears in the doorway behind Sy, looking as coy as the devil. “Hey, beautiful.”

Beks looks between the two men. They’re half-brothers--same dad, different moms--and you can see the resemblance in their body shapes. They’re both tall and thick with muscle. It makes them intimidating to everyone, even people who are on their good side. But that’s where the similarities stop.

Sy’s beard has grown since Beks last saw him and there’s obvious stress in his eyes. She imagines that, if he’d let his hair grow out, he’d be losing most of it from the stress of being the gang’s leader. Beks is happy he has Yenni to go to; only someone as level-headed and strong as her could manage to hold Sy up through all of his hardships. The jeans and red shirt he’s in are the same Beks spotted him in two days ago. She wonders how much sleep he’s gotten in the past few days.

August, on the other hand, is freshly shaven save for his beard. There’s a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there when he entered the room. Looking at Beks always made him brighten up a little, even if he was reluctant to admit it. He wore the navy shirt of his that you normally sleep in. He’d taken it today because, after weeks of you wearing it every night, it now smells like you and not him, and he’d wanted something of yours to keep close while he dealt with gang business. It fits him well, and by that Beks means it’s now a size too small due to all the wash cycles it’s survived, and August’s muscles are clearly defined under the material.

“What’s going on?” Her voice shakes with uncertainty. If there was a meeting going to be held that she needed to be a part of, wouldn’t August have untied her by now? Why are they just standing in the doorway, watching her? And more importantly, why does she like it so much?

August comes over to the bed and leans down to check the ropes on her wrists. “Relax, baby girl.”

Somehow those three simple words manage to calm her. She relaxes on the bed.

“You’ve been so good today,” he tells her, “waiting for me like this. I know it was hard. You did good.”

Beks feels her face warm at the praise. That’s always been her weakness, which is probably the only reason August--cold, sadistic August--says things like that to her, because he knows the effect those words have on her, how it makes her so willing and compliant for him.

“And as a reward, I’m going to let Sy fuck you,” August continues.

Bek’s eyes go wide as she glances at Sy in the doorway, watching her carefully. “What? What about Yenni?”

The corners of Sy’s mouth perk up, like he’s amused at Beks’ response. “She said she wants me to do this with you.”

Yeah, right. Beks trusted Sy, but she knows every trick in the book that men like to play. She’s not about to fall for that. “I’m going to need to hear her say it.”

“He’s telling the truth,” comes Yenni’s voice as she rounds the corner. She’s wearing a leather jacket and tight jeans. Her black hair is pulled back in a high ponytail and her red lipstick brings attention to her mouth. She’s stunningly beautiful, not even Beks can deny that. Yenni throws her a small smile as she enters the room. “I have my own reasons for agreeing to this, but you have my approval.”

Beks swallows, suddenly nervous. It’s not like she’s never been naked in a room full of people, but it’s still unnerving. Something about this feels wrong. That’s probably why it’s making her so wet. She looks back at August, reading his face for any signs of uncertainty or hesitancy.

“I’m going to tell Sy exactly how to make you fall apart,” August tells her. “Does that sound good?”

The little gasp Beks makes gives away how she feels about it.

August smirks at her. “You’re already so wet at the thought of this, aren’t you? Such a fucking slut, just how I like it.”

Before Beks can say anything, August takes a seat on the couch in the corner. Beks can see his slight erection with the way his legs are spread. She’s surprised cuckolding turns him on so much, but more surprised he’s waited this long to try it out. Yenni takes a seat beside August, her attention solely on her husband.

Beks swallows. “You’re staying?”

Yenni’s blue-purple eyes slide to hers. “Of course. I have to tell you how to please my husband, where and how to touch him to make him fall apart.”

Only now does Beks begin to realize that this had all been planned. The three of them had known about this, anticipated this, planned for this, all without telling her. Beks looks back at August. He can see the betrayal and hurt in her eyes. She’s more than willing to do anything in the bedroom, but she needs to know first. And he just threw this all on her with no warning. There’s a flash of regret in August’s eyes. Beks knows that’s the only apology she’s going to get from him.

Sy makes his way to the bed, tossing his shirt off on the way. Beks can’t help herself from staring at the thick expanse of muscle that is his arms, chest, and stomach. Dark hair swirls around his pecs and abdomen, disappearing below his pantline. His skin is a deep tan and Beks can feel the warmth radiating off of him. The way he crawls over her makes her simultaneously slick with arousal and still with nerves.

“What’s your safeword?” August calls out, sensing Bek’s sudden unease.

“Hunt,” she replies, her gaze locked on Sy’s. “My safeword is Hunt.”

“And yours?” Yenni asks Sy.

His gaze travels from Bek’s eyes to her mouth, and then to something above her. “Purple,” he says just as he pulls out a pocket knife and cuts the ropes that had been restraining Beks all day. He turns to cut the ropes at her ankles, too.

“Spread her legs,” August demands of Sy.

He complies before Beks can even process August’s words, and with a sharp movement her legs are spread wide, revealing her dripping pussy to Sy. His eyes are hungry as he looks at the arousal dripping between her legs.

“Kiss her leg,” August says. “Start at the ankle and move up to the hip.”

Sy begins to leave a trail of soft pecks up her leg. It feels so good that goosebumps rise on Bek’s body and she shivers with pleasure. He massages her calf and thigh as he kisses her, making her body so relaxed that she practically melts into the bed. When Sy gets to her hip, he pauses, awaiting further instruction.

“Do it again to the other leg,” August tells him. “Don’t give her cunt a second of attention.”

Beks resists the urge to whine at his words, needing relief from the aching heat in her core, but she knows August will make Sy punish her if she complains. So she holds her whine in and watches with half-closed eyes as Sy moves onto her other leg. August knows exactly what this is doing to Bek. He knows nothing winds her up more than when he touches the inside of her thighs. That’s exactly why he’s making Sy do it now, because he loves watching her squirm as her pussy gets wetter and wetter, desperate for attention.

“Now run a finger between her folds,” August orders when Sy kisses his way up Bek’s other leg. “See how wet she is. If she’s not completely dripping you’re going to do it again.”

Beks lets out a moan as Sy runs a thick, calloused finger between her folds, soaking up enough arousal from her that it begins to drip down his hand.

“Oh, yeah,” he grunts out, his pupils completely blown, “she’s fucking soaked.” He addresses Beks as he says, “You like being teased, don’t you? Yeah, you’re a beggar, I can tell.”

Beks bites her lip, trying to keep from squirming. There’s little she loves more than dirty talk. And the way Sy is looking at her, looking ready to devour her, with that thick Southern accent of his… oh, fuck.

“Lie on your back, Sy,” Yenni says, standing from the couch and putting something in Bek’s hand. She turns it over to see that it’s a cock ring. “It’s your turn to get wound up.”

Though he seems a bit reluctant to submit so easily, the soldier in him can’t resist following orders, and he lies on his back beside Bek. She sits up and turns to look down at him, enjoying the change of positions as much as Sy hates it.

“Put that ring on him,” Yenni tells Bek, “and give him the blowjob of your life.”

Beks doesn’t have to be told twice. She moves to straddle Sy’s thick thighs, his strong muscles brushing against her sensitive thighs as she slides the cock ring down his thick shaft. He has a slight curve and a prominent vein on the underside of his cock, and though he’s impressive in both length and girth, August is a bit longer than Sy. Beks takes note of this, grateful that she’ll probably be able to fit him in her mouth more easily than she can with August.

Sy watches Beks anxiously, waiting for the moment she first puts her mouth on him. But any good whore knows that to give a good blowjob, you don’t start with deepthroating the guy. She leans down and begins to suck on his balls, no doubt sending waves of pleasure through his entire body. By the time she’s done, his cock is covered in his own pre-cum, the tip completely swollen and red. She gives the head of his cock a few teasing kitten licks before licking right up the center and letting his pre-cum fall on her tongue. Sy curses under his breath. Beks smiles, knowing she’s wound him up enough to really go to town now. She slowly takes all of him in her mouth, swirling her tongue along the bottom of his cock as she bobs her head up and down his length. His hips are thrusting up in no time, desperate for release. But even if she wanted to give it to him, that ring won’t let him reach his climax.

“Are you ready baby?” Yenni addresses Sy. “Do you want her tight little cunt wrapped around you?”

“Fuck yes,” Sy growls as his gaze darkens on Beks, looking at her like an animal ready to devour its prey, and the look makes Beks burn with want.

“Straddle him,” August commands Beks. “Sink down on him slowly. I want you to feel every inch of him entering you.”

Beks is quick to obey and adjusts herself on top of Sy. He’s thick with muscle just like August, and her legs spread far as she straddles his hips. His erection rests between her folds. The meeting point of both their sexes sends tingles through her entire body so intense that she can barely breathe. They’re both tense with anticipation. Beks moves up on her knees and wraps her hand around the base of Sy’s cock, holding it at her entrance as she begins to sink down on him. They both let out cries and moans of pleasure as she slowly pushes him all the way inside of her.

“Fuck,” Sy breathes once he’s fully bottomed out inside of her.

“What do I do now, Daddy?” she asks August, unable to keep her eyes off of Sy’s blue ones.

“I want you to bounce on his cock,” August says, “and not stop until you’ve cum at least twice.”

And so she begins.

***

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#august walker #august walker smut #captain syverson #captain syverson smut #yennefer #yennefer smut #henry cavill #henry cavill smut

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imjustthemechanic · 3 years

Photo

The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake Part 4/? - The Stewardess Part 5/? - An Assassination Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - Face to Face Part 8/? - Deals, Details, and Other Devils Part 9/? - Baggage

We all knew Peggy was going to go look for Steve one way or the other.

Peggy’s call to Daniel was very brief. “It’s me,” she said to him. “I’m coming home.”

“You are?” He was surprised. “What about Dottie?”

“Thompson seems to believe he has everything well in hand. He certainly no longer needs me around to be somebody who ‘thinks like these Russian girls’.” She held the receiver away from her mouth as she heaved a frustrated sigh, not wanting to subject Daniel’s ears to the roar. “This is going to blow up in his face and I want to be as far away as possible when it happens, so that nobody can claim it was my fault. You don’t happen to have anything that needs investigating in Australia, do you?”

“No,” said Daniel. “The platypus is very odd, but scientists assure me it evolved on this planet.”

It wasn’t much of a joke, but jokes were not Daniel’s forte, and Peggy chuckled appreciatively regardless. “I have such a story to tell you, darling,” she said.

“Maybe you can tell it over dinner,” he suggested. “It’s been a while since we did anything outside of work. We’ve both been busy with the Underwood case, and now that it’s out of our hands maybe we can relax a bit.”

Peggy’s first reaction would have been to say that she was tired and annoyed and not looking her best, and to request that they put it off until later… but Daniel was right, it had been a long time. Peggy was not very good at ‘dating’. She was simply not the sort of person who could turn herself off for a romantic evening when there were other things weighing on her mind. She and Steve had never dated – they had worked together, enjoying each other’s company in that context until they came to an agreement that they wanted to continue doing so for the rest of their lives. It had been the same with Daniel. The ordinary sort of courting rituals were a bit of an afterthought.

“Dinner sounds lovely,” she said. “But nowhere fancy, please. I’m still not looking my best and I don’t want to have to dress up.”

“Just good ordinary food, I promise,” Daniel told her. “Tomorrow night?”

“It’s a date.”

Before she headed for the airport, Peggy did try to drop in at the Automat to let Angie know she had to leave again, but unfortunately Angie was not working. One of her co-workers, an older lady called Pearl, promised to pass on the message.

By the time she finally got off the last plane in Los Angeles, it was very late, and all Peggy wanted to do was take a long, hot bath and collapse into bed. She decided to forgo the former in order to give her face one more day, but unlike the night she’d first been sprayed, she managed to put off the latter until she’d at least changed into her nightclothes.

In the morning she did feel very much better, and since it was three hours earlier on the west coast than the east, she even managed to wake up at a reasonable hour. She took her bath, which stung only a little, and by the time of her dinner date with Daniel, Peggy was well on the way to feeling like herself again. As he’d promised, they didn’t go anywhere formal, just a little diner that served hamburgers and chips with milkshakes.

“You said you had a story to tell me,” Daniel said.

“Mmm,” Peggy agreed, her mouth full of strawberry milkshake. “Do I ever! I assume Thompson gave you at last some details of what happened at Sing Sing.”

“Only the bare bones.”

“Right.” She dipped a chip in mayonnaise. “Well, I and two men sat guard outside Fenhoff’s cell half the night, only to hear a fuss at the room next door. They determined the next day that she’d made herself a suppressor out of lipstick tubes…”

“That sounds like something you’d do,” Daniel observed with a smile.

“I am a bit hacked off she thought of it first,” Peggy agreed. She went on to tell him how Lake had been taken into custody more or less by accident, and the embarrassing interview that had followed. Then she told him something else.

“I went back in the middle of the night,” she said. “You see… when Lake came to see me here, pretending to be Agent Russel, she left a letter in my purse. I got fingerprints off it to compare to the ones we found in her room at the Botticelli Gardens so I know it was her. It had six numbers and a drawing.” Peggy grabbed a napkin and wrote them out, with the doodle of the shield below them, and pushed it across the table for Daniel to see.

“Does that mean what I think it means?” he asked.

“It can hardly mean anything else, can it? But it does – I spoke to her about it.” Peggy took the napkin back and stuffed it in her purse, intending to destroy it later as she had the original letter. “She said she’d been there, and she described the crash and the wreckage, and how we would find him if we looked. I know it’s a trick of some sort,” she added. “I asked her why she was telling me this and she insisted it was out of the goodness of her heart, which obviously isn’t suspicious at all… but she wouldn’t make it sound suspicious unless she wanted it to, and so…” She shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what to make of it all.”

Daniel nodded slowly. “And now it’s going to haunt you,” he said.

“It already is.”

“Peg.” He reached for her hand. “I know you’re still in love with him…”

She shook her head and pulled away. “Don’t start, Daniel. I’ve told you before, it’s not a competition. Steve will always have a place in my heart but he’s dead, and I love you. I’m not ‘settling’ for you, I’m not…”

“Peg,” he repeated, holding up a hand. “I’m not trying to compete with him. I’m just saying…”

“Sometimes I wonder if I even do remember him,” Peggy said, “or whether I’ve just overlaid him with some childish fantasy. A man who isn’t there can be anything I want him to be.”

“I’m not trying to compete with him, I know I can’t do that,” Daniel said, “but I also can’t ask you to forget him, and I know you won’t feel like you’ve done right by him if you don’t make every attempt you can to bring him home.”

Peggy hung her head. She knew that was where he’d been going, and she’d been hoping that if she talked about other things long enough, he’d give it up. She should have known better. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. ��Every so often I tell myself I have forgotten, I tell myself I’m over it, and then something happens like this, or like that bloody vial, and I find myself thinking…” She had not worn makeup, and now she was glad of that as she reached up to scrub treacherous tears out of the corners of her eyes. “Was there something I could have said or done to change his mind? It’s not that I didn’t try, but he didn’t need to die like that! Life could have gone on. Even if it wasn’t life with me, he gave so much, and he deserved so much more…”

Daniel wordlessly handed her a handkerchief. She blew her nose.

“So it’s… it’s not so much that I’m still in love with him,” she managed… though if she’d said she wasn’t she would have been lying. “It’s just that I listened to a good man die, and there was nothing I could do. He said it was his choice, but it wasn’t the same as Barnes. It just wasn’t. So I stood there at the Stork Club wearing that red dress he liked and hoping for a miracle but feeling like a fool. And of course, he never came.”

Daniel reached for her hand again, and this time she let him take it. “I think a lot of us were hoping for a miracle,” he said. “He’d been missing before and he’d reappeared, so it didn’t seem possible that this really was it. I always promised myself I’d find some way to thank him properly for saving my life, and then I never got the chance.”

Peggy didn’t trust her voice not to break if she tried to speak again, so she just nodded miserably.

“If I do want to repay him,” Daniel added, “I can think of worse ways to do it than by bringing his body back.”

She looked up sharply. “Daniel…”

“It’s a trick, I know, you said it’s a trick,” he held up a hand. “And I know you think the best thing to do is leave it alone, even if that’s not what you want to do, but now that we have this information, I don’t think we can just do nothing with it. Our job is to defend the security of this country, and if there’s a possibility the Soviets know where Captain Rogers’ body is and we don’t, that security is at risk.”

Peggy shook her head. “If they know, they have him already. They wouldn’t risk letting that leak to us.”

“Then we need to determine that,” said Daniel. “And honestly? If we don’t do something…”

“… it’ll eat at both of us for the rest of our lives,” she finished for him, wiping her nose again. “I wish I hadn’t told you.”

“No, I’m glad you did.” He paused. “You didn’t tell Thompson, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay, good.”

“The problem is, I’m pretty sure this is exactly what she planned,” Peggy said. “It’ll drive us batty until we go and check, and when we do there’ll be nothing there. We’ll have wasted the government’s time and money and we’ll look like fools.”

“So we’d need to secure private funding, then,” Daniel said thoughtfully.

Peggy’s eyes narrowed – there was only one thing that might mean. It was hardly an unreasonable idea. Howard had already spent months of his own time searching for Steve, and he still occasionally revisited the quest with new ideas and technology. He certainly had the money. There was just one problem. “If you think I’m going to let Stark go about this unsupervised you’re mad, Daniel Sousa – and you and I both know that I am out of vacation days.”

“You still have sick days,” he said.

“I’m not sick.”

“You were injured in the line of duty.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Peggy shook her head.

“You were attacked with a chemical weapon…”

“It was essence of paprika, Daniel, I will live!”

“… with a chemical weapon,” he went on in mock outrage, “and Thompson didn’t even offer you time off to recover! I am going to insist you take at least two weeks, to make sure there are no long-term side effects. Imagine what that stuff might have done to your lungs!”

“You’re hopeless!” Peggy informed him, but it was difficult to sound angry when she was actually so relieved. Daniel knew her far too well – it would have just gnawed on her mind until she finally had to sneak off and see for herself. She would be bitterly disappointed, she knew, when she got there and found nothing but ice and ocean, but at least she would know. “So… if we find the crash site, we take the credit, whereas if we don’t, Stark takes the blame? That’s very underhanded. Have you ever considered going into politics?” Her joking had just the narrowest edge of hysteria on it, but if that were what kept her from lapsing back into tears, so be it.

“Wow,” he said. “That may be the meanest thing you ever said to me.”

“You deserve it for taking me from tears to laughter and nearly back again in a single dinner!” Peggy waved a chip at him. “I’ll call on Stark in the morning. Heaven knows, if somehow he finds out about it through some other channel I won’t have to worry about whether I can sleep at night because he’ll never give me a moment’s peace about it as long as he lives.”

“Just tell him to keep it on the down-low,” Daniel said. “You don’t need a bunch of press following you. And we definitely don’t want Lake knowing we fell for it.”

“Don’t worry about Stark, he’s as subtle as an angry hippopotamus,” Peggy snorted. “And as for Lake… something tells me she already knows.”

That night, Peggy decided to try that bath she’d been wanting, and found it not too terrible. She felt an odd mix of dread and elation, a weight off one shoulder and a new and worse one on the other. Dottie really was still her responsibility, but she was so fed up with the affair that there was a level on which she thought if Thompson wanted the case, he could bloody well have it. As for the matter of the coordinates…

No matter how much Peggy wanted to hope they might find him at last, in her heart she knew whatever was at that spot in the arctic, it wouldn’t be the mortal remains of Captain Steve Rogers. The question was what it would be. The best possible outcome was just barren ice. The worst was… something Peggy probably wouldn’t be able to think of and couldn’t prepare for if she tried. She would just have to be ready for anything.

#fanfic #captain america #agent carter #peggy carter #steve rogers #steggy #fix it fic

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oswildin · 4 years

Text

What’s My Name? ~ Dhawan!Master x F!Reader

Summary: You had a best friend, who you thought you knew everything about... Turns out you didn’t know him at all... Let alone expect him to be your friends oldest enemy.

Warnings: Possible spoilers.

**EDIT**

There’s now a PART TWO: https://oswildin.tumblr.com/post/190148897825/unlucky-in-love-dhawanmaster-x-freader-part-2

“Where are you going now?”

(Y/N) rolled her eyes, turning round to see her friend giving her a knowing look. It had been a few months since she’d started travelling with the Doctor and the fam. She loved every second of it, but she wasn’t going to let it take over her life completely. She still had to work, keep her flat, and have a social life outside of fighting aliens in space.

“Out. Is that ok?” She retorted, seeing her friend stood with folded arms before her.

“Again? You only just got back.” Her friend, Mason, raised an eyebrow.

(Y/N) had met Mason through a mutual friend on a night out. Since then they were inseparable. Well, until she started travelling with the Doctor. She had to admit she was beginning to go AWOL on her friend. She felt guilty.

“I know- but- It’s really important. Like, really really important.” She tried to explain herself, but couldn’t give too much away. He’d think she was mad if she told him the truth.

“But I came round to spend time with you!” Mason insisted, standing from his seated position on her sofa. Oh no, he was giving her the puppy dog eyes. She hated when he used them.

“I’m sorry-“ She looked at her friend sadly before her phone started to buzz. “I promise, when I get back, we will play any board game of your choosing. As long as it isn’t operation cause by god you are awful at that game.” She laughed. “It’s almost like you want to kill the patient.”

“Maybe I do.” He teased, his eyes going dark for a second before smiling. She lightly hit him on the arm before her phone once again buzzed. She answered it.

“Yes! I’m on my way!” She ended the call, sighing to herself. “I’ll see you later ok? Let yourself out!” And with that, she left her friend alone in her flat, as she ran out the door, running to where the Doctor had told her to meet.

Hours later, (Y/N) finally had arrived home. She was exhausted, and quite frankly was ready for bed. She didn’t know how the Doctor could keep up with the adventures and not need rest. She knew Yaz, Ryan and Graham felt the same as her.

“You’re back late.”

(Y/N) jumped, her hand landing on her heart as she swore to herself.

“Jesus Mason.” She switched on the light, revealing her friend sitting in the dark on her sofa as she raised an eyebrow.

“What are you doing here? And why are you in the dark?” She asked confused, folding her arms.

“Just thought I’d make sure you got home safely.” She rolled her eyes at his antics.

“It’s 1am.” She looked at the clock. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping. Don’t you have work tomorrow?” She countered, sitting beside him on the sofa, sprawling out as she closed her eyes for a moment.

“You look exhausted.” He commented.

“Geez, thanks.” She laughed lightly. “You do know how to make a girl feel beautiful.” She joked, as he stared at her, trying to analyse her. “I just went out with a few mates that’s all.”

“Really? So what is that on your wrist?” He nodded to the device on her left wrist as she swore under her breath. She had forgot about the perception filter device the Doctor had given her and the others on their adventure.

“Oh it’s er, the new Apple Watch.” She shrugged, pulling her jacket sleeve down to cover it. Mason shook his head at her answer, knowing he wasn’t going to get anything else.

“Thought you should know, I’m going away for a bit.” He told her as she looked saddened by his words. “Going to travel to Australia. Spend some time out there. Got a mate out there. She’s coming to visit.” She couldn’t help but feel her heart sink at the ‘she’ in his sentence, but she soon recovered as she plastered on a fake smile.

“A she huh?” She teased, nudging him. “I’ve never heard of her.”

“We go way back.” He seemed to reminisce. “Grew up together. We’ve drifted over the last few years. Thought I’d get back in touch.” He wore a slight smirk as he spoke.

“Well... considering you’re going away for a bit, let’s say for old times sakes we play some Operation.” She reaches beside her sofa to grab the game.

“I thought you said I wasn’t allowed to play it anymore.” He inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah well... gonna miss you annoying me with your deliberate losing.” She smiled, setting up the game.

(Y/N) felt herself wanting to tell her friend how she felt. But she couldn’t. Not with her hectic life, she couldn’t drag him into it. Nor could she possibly ruin their friendship. So instead she stayed silent, playing board games with her friend until stupid o clock in the morning.

It had been a few months since Mason had left to go away. (Y/N) missed him massively, and found herself travelling more with the Doctor to cope with the quietness of her social life. The Doctor knew about Mason, she could tell how much he meant to (Y/N). She still had texts from her friend every now again, but not much contact since, which worried her. She thought they were drifting.

On their next adventure, Yaz, (Y/N) and Ryan were going undercover as journalists, to interview Daniel Barton head of VOR, as he seemed to be prime suspect in their latest situation. However, it didn’t just stop at them questioning him, oh no, they just had to break into his office to get as much information as possible from his computer. From nearly getting caught, they ended up in an even worse situation, confronted with the aliens who wanted to take over the planet.

The trio stood in front of the creature as it reached out, grabbing (Y/N) in the process, as the glow intensified, causing the girl to disappear before her friends eyes.

“Bring her back!” Yaz ordered the alien, which of course took no notice, beginning to also reach out for her. Ryan grabbed his friend, dragging her out of the office with him as he got on the phone with the Doctor.

(Y/N) found herself alone. She looked around as she was surrounded by what appeared to be large wires. Lights ran up the wires as she called out for anyone. She felt her heart rate increase as tears welled up in her eyes. Where was she? Was she dead? Was she inside some sort of giant computer? So many questions ran through her mind... but as quickly as she arrived, she had left, transporting elsewhere.

“(Y/N)! Turn the power off in there.” She heard a familiar voice as she opened her eyes, which she hadn’t realised she’d kept shut. “(Y/N)! How are you even here?” Her eyes focused as she saw the Doctor with her hands against the glass container. Her eyes scanned the room as she spotted her other friend, Graham, and a face she didn’t expect to see.

The container lifted as she was free, the Doctor instantly hugging her friend who still seemed terrified. Not much scared her, but the thought of being all alone in such a dark, empty space scared her to the core.

She looked over the Doctor’s shoulder seeing Mason, looking somewhat concerned before he held his finger to his lips.

A moment later, the Doctor was back at trying to work out the aliens plan, whilst Mason lead her over to a chair to sit down.

“What are you doing here?” (Y/N) quietly asked, sending him a confused stare. He sighed.

“Alright, shows over.” He sat opposite her. “I work for MI6.” He said bluntly causing (Y/N) to blink in shock. “I have done for a while now.”

“How- Why didn’t you tell me?!” She lightly whacked him on the arm, causing Graham to send a glance their way.

“Because I can’t talk about it! Being an agent kind of means being secretive.” He whispered, as he smirked. “Also you weren’t exactly telling me the truth about where you were running off to either.” She rolled her eyes, knowing he was right.

“Is Mason your actual name?” She inquired, swallowing the lump in her throat. He sent her a sad smile, which gave her the answer she already knew. “Yeah, I guessed not.” She laughed lightly. “I have so many questions.”

“I bet you do.” He stood up. “But we need to focus on the job at hand. Stopping whatever those creatures are.”

Whilst the pair were talking, the Doctor went to pick up Ryan and Yaz, as Graham and Mason, or O, should (Y/N) call him, had a chat. (Y/N) stood looking at all the paper work that was laying around, shaking her head in surprise at how much her friend actually knew about alien life. Small world. She thought.

“We need to pay Barton a visit.” The Doctor declared.

“Good thing he's having a party, then. We got invites.” Ryan grinned, looking proud of himself.

“Yes! Nice work, you three. Got invites for us all, have you? I'm sure I can hack a guest list.” The Doctor beamed, turning to O.

“What do you reckon, O? Fancy a trip in the box?” She nodded to the TARDIS as he began to grin.

“I really, really would.” He sounded like a happy child as (Y/N) smiles fondly at her friend.

“Be my guest.”

O walked in, taking in the TARDIS interior as (Y/N) watched from outside with everyone else.

“Shut up!” He mumbled to himself as he reappeared at the door. “Ridiculous.” He looked confused as (Y/N) laughed.

“Yeah well, get used to ridiculous.” She commented, walking towards the TARDIS. “Cause that’s the word I was use to sum up over 80% of the adventures we have.”

“Oi!” The Doctor retorted as the others smiled upon entering the ship.

They all decided they needed to change into clothing more appropriate. If they were going to crash a party, may as well look good whilst doing it.

(Y/N) decided on a deep purple velvet tux, pairing it with black heels as she put on a dark purple lipstick to correlate with her outfit. She had to admit, she hadn’t dressed up in a while. She’d never had the time or the energy to do so since travelling with the Doctor. As she exited the wardrobe, she headed back to the console, seeing everyone in their tuxedos. Her eyes landed on Mas- O, as she felt her heart skip a beat. Damn, he looked good. She’d never seen him dressed up before. O made his way over to (Y/N) after he spotted her reappear.

“You look... lovely.” He complimented quietly, not wanting the others to know they knew each other. “Never seen you dressed up like this before.”

“Not exactly had the chance over the last few months. Been a bit busy.” She commented. “Also I could say the same for you.” She smirked. “Suits you, this whole James Bond look.” She teased as he bashfully smiled.

“Right!” The Doctor exclaimed. “Let’s go crash this party!” She beamed as she pulled the lever.

The six headed into the mansion, as (Y/N) stared in awe of the size of the place.

“Barton has all this, and yet he’s still wanting the universe?” She muttered under her breath.

“Sometimes it’s never enough.” O replied, as they all split off to look for Barton, whilst of course getting distracted.

O and (Y/N) found themselves at one of the many gaming tables.

“It’s like they knew we were coming.” (Y/N) laughed. “Games are our thing.” She picked up the dice, shaking them in her hand before throwing them down the table. Everyone made noises around her as she cheered for herself, causing O to stare at her.

“Did we win?” She asked, confused by everyone staring at her weirdly.

“No.” O smirked, appreciating her enthusiasm.

“Didn't know what I was doing anyway.” She shrugged. “Im used to playing Operation.” She retorted as he smiled.

“You know what they say - lucky at dice, unlucky in love.” He commented as she raised an eyebrow. Her heart skipping a beat once more as they looked each other in the eye, (Y/N) being very conscious of how close their faces were.

“Do they really say that?” She said quietly, almost breathless.

“No.” He replied, causing her to shake her head at his antics.

“Well, I guess we should try another game then!” She exclaimed, pushing herself away from the table as O watched her admiringly.

The gang quickly ran out of the mansion as they heard Barton was getting away. They saw him enter a black car as the Doctor shook her head in defiance.

“Oh no you don’t.” She ran towards the bikes that were outside the front of the mansion. (Y/N)‘s eyes widened.

“You’re not serious, Doctor!” She shook her head running after her friend.

“Deadly serious.” She hopped on, putting on a helmet as the others followed suit.

“This is crazy.” (Y/N) shook her head, jumping on one of the motorcycles, O sitting behind her.

“Have you ever driven one of these before?” He asked, placing his helmet on.

“Would it make you feel better if I lied and said yes?” (Y/N) remarked.

“No.” O looked at her in fear.

“Then no I have never ridden a bike before.” She twisted the handle, the bike starting to volt forward. O tightened his grip on her waist, causing her heart rate to increase. She didn’t know if it was because she was scared to die, or because of the closeness the two were sharing.

The six followed the black car, before gunshots started being heard ahead. (Y/N) yelled as one bounced off her bike.

“Oh my god! We’re gonna die!” (Y/N) shouted, whilst Graham yelled in front.

“Is this always what it’s like with the Doctor?!” O shouted, holding on tight still to (Y/N).

“Believe it or not. This is one of the quiet days!” (Y/N) yelled in response, trying her hardest not to crash or get hit by a bullet.

They all managed to arrive at Barton’s destination without any injuries, surprisingly. As they all quickly jumped off of their bikes; running after the plane that was about to take off.

“Oh come on!” (Y/N) sighed, trying to keep up. “Stupid heels.” She quickly kicked them off, running barefoot after the others. O was a little behind as she saw he was struggling. “Mason come on!” She called behind, forgetting all about the fact he was an agent for the moment. She held out her hand as he grabbed it, sprinting as fast as they could towards the back of the plane. The others were cheering them on as they finally made it, O being pulled up first as he turned as helped (Y/N) up too.

“Sorry. I've never been good at sprinting.” O commented as he tried to catch his breath as they headed into the seating area of the plane.

“Never been good at sprinting?” The Doctor asked, face full of confusion.

“I was the last one in every race at school.” He continued as the Doctor shook her head.

“No, no, no. I read your file. You were a champion sprinter.” She replied as (Y/N) looked between the two before O’s face turned dark.

“Mmm.” He mumbled. “Got me. Well done.” He said lowly, causing everyone to look confused. He stared at the Doctor with dark eyes as (Y/N) suddenly felt frightened by her friends gaze.

“What's going on, Doc?” Graham asked, sitting in one of the seats.

“I don't know.” She responded truthfully, as (Y/N) started to get a sickening feeling to her stomach.

“You'd best take a look out of the window.” O told them as everyone glanced out the right side, seeing his house flying outside the window.

“How's your house out there?” Ryan asked, looking back and forth between the window and O.

“Bit Wicked Witch of the West, but you get the gist. Maybe.” He had his back to the gang as he furrowed his brows. “Maybe not.” Everyone looked on confused, as he turned back towards them all, sparing a glance at (Y/N) as she looked frightened. “Oh, come on, Doctor, catch up. You can do it.”

“Ohh!” The Doctor seemed to have a realisation as her expression turned to pure shock.

“That's... that's my name, and that is why I chose it.” O laughed. “So satisfying.” He clapped his hands together. “Doctor, I did say look for the spymaster. Or should I say spy... Master?” (Y/N) couldn’t describe it he suddenly looked menacing. It sent a chill down her spine. “Hi.” He waved to the Doctor as she shook her head.

“You can't be.”

“Oh, I can be. I very much am.” He walked towards her.

“So what's going on, then? He's not really O?” Ryan asked, brows furrowed, finding it hard to follow.

“I'm her best enemy.” He chuckled lightly as he smiled at them all. “Call me Master.“ He looked over to (Y/N) who looked hurt. Betrayed. Confused. “Not O. Not Mason.” The Doctor looked at (Y/N) as she gasped slightly at the admission. “Master.”

“You were Mason.” The Doctor looked at (Y/N).

“So you... You tricked me?! Twice?!” (Y/N) exclaimed, hurt in her voice as tears welled in her eyes. The Master laughed manically, clapping his hands.

“I know! Isn’t it brilliant!” He laughed madly, causing (Y/N) to recoil.

“Why?” The Doctor questioned.

“To get close to you, of course.” He said casually. “Thought that was obvious.” He smirked. “And it was so easy.” He smiled. “She didn’t suspect a thing! Don’t know if it’s stupid or just... endearing how trust worthy she is.” (Y/N) felt like time slowed down, like her world was crashing down around her.

“Leave her alone!” Ryan exclaimed, as the Master laughed lightly.

“And what are you gonna do? Huh? Cause I control everything.” He breathed out dramatically after his sentence.

“Why?” (Y/N) finally spoke again. “Why me?”

“Cause it’s a game... and you like those, don’t you?” He gave her an almost soft look. “Humans. So simple. So easy to please.” She let a tear fall. “But it’s not over yet!” He shook his head. “Oh no!” He clapped his hands together before revealing Barton was no longer in the cockpit. “Cause you have roughly 50 seconds before you all die.” He paused. “But let’s play a game, shall we?” The Doctor tried to figure out what to do, her mind racing as the others seemed to begin to panic. (Y/N) stared up at the man she once called her friend, the man she adored deeply, the man she had grown to love.

“If you can answer this right, you get to survive.” He looked down at (Y/N). “What’s my name?”

(Y/N) paused, looking at the others in confusion, before glancing at the Doctor.

“No help from the others! You can’t call a friend!” He exclaimed as she jumped, looking back at him.

“What’s my name?”

(Y/N) blinked as she looked away from the man, looking down at her hands in her lap.

“Master.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“Master.” She said louder as the others felt their panic rising.

“Is that your final answer?”

“Yes!” (Y/N) exclaimed. “Just stop this! Let me and my friends go.” He smiled bitterly at her.

“I never said I’d let them go.” He furrowed his brows as she felt her heart drop. He grabbed her arm, pulling her up with him.

“One last thing Doctor! Before you die!” He got close to her face, the cabin blowing up as the plane began to crash. “Everything you think you know, is a lie.”

He stood back up, pulling (Y/N) which him as he went towards the back of the plane, watching as the chaos unfolded. He laughed as he teleported off the plane with (Y/N) as she tried to shout for the Doctor.

#spyfall #doctor who imagine #sacha dhawan #thirteenth doctor #doctor x reader #13th doctor x reader #doctor who #the master x reader #master x reader #the master #dhawan!master x reader #dhawan!master #reader insert #fanfic

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beautyxobssessed · 4 years

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Makeup tips a girl should know

1. Using a Spoon to Easily Apply Mascara

Every lady has been through the pain of finishing her eye makeup only to realise she’s somehow ended up with mascara on her lids. Well, thanks to this hack, you can banish that pesky problem for good. All you need is a spoon from your kitchen, and you’ll soon have perfect mascara every time. Just place the end of the spoon underneath your lashes before applying your mascara as normal. Now, any residue or excess product will end up on the back of the spoon instead of on your face.

2. Using Tape or Spoon for Cat Eye Look

Creating the perfect cat-eye look with eyeliner can be tricky. Not only is it hard to get the ideal flick and shape, but you also need each side to match. For an easy way to nail the perfect feline flick, try using a spoon or some tape. Start by creating a straight line from the outer corner of your eye following the edge of the spoon. Then, trace around the curved edge from the end of your flick back down to your lashes and fill in the wing.

3. Shape Your Eyebrows

Shaping your brows needn’t be difficult, just follow these steps. Start by brushing your eyebrows with a spoolie, so the hairs sit naturally. Then, use a soft, waxy brow pencil to shape the outside of your brow with the thinner side of the tip. Using the flatter angle of the pencil, fill in your brows using short, hair-like strokes. Finally, blend some highlighter just below your brow bone for lift.

4. DIY Gel Eyeliner

If you’re ever in desperate need of some gel eyeliner and don’t have time to run to the shops, you can create your own. All you need is a regular kohl eye pencil and a lighter or match. Then, hold the pencil under the flame for one second before allowing it to cool for 15. The consistency of the pencil will change before your eyes as it becomes softer and easier to apply. Your new smudgier, gel eyeliner should now simply and smoothly glide onto your eyes.

5. Quick Smokey Eye

While a lot of smokey eye looks require several different shades of eyeshadow and a whole lot of blending, there is a fast and easy alternative. Simply use an eye pencil to draw a slanted hashtag above the outer corners of your eyes and blend with a smudger. Doing so will instantly create a killer smokey eye that’s dark and light in all the right places.

6. Make Your Lipstick Last Longer

Whether it’s a wineglass or your husband’s cheek, lipstick has a knack for ending up everywhere but on your lips. If you find that yours keeps disappearing before the end of the day, try employing this handy trick to give it a longer life. After swiping on your lippy, place a tissue over your lips and dust on some translucent powder. Doing so will help set your colour and make it instantly longer-lasting.

7. Luminous Skin with Your Foundation

Luminous skin appears youthful and radiant. To fake a glowing complexion on days when your skin’s looking a little dull, try this useful tip. Mix a small amount of golden or pearly white eyeshadow into your foundation before applying. You’ll quickly notice the incredible lift it gives your face

* if you want part 2 get this post to 120 likes and I’ll post it

#eyes makeup #makeup inspiration #makeportraits #makeup tips #makeup advice #makeup tutorials #eye makeup tips #beauty #beauty hacks #beautytrend #beauty tips #beauty advice #mascara #foundation #eye lashes #eye makeup #eye liner #eye shadow

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ellariasand · 4 years

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i’m not gonna teach him how to dance with you

pairing: frank castle x karen page summary: frank's helping karen with a story. some slight miscalculations put them in serious trouble. rating: t warnings: references to sexual situations & canon-typical violence - no actual depictions of either; swearing word count: 8.2k (sweet jesus) a/n: i’m not particularly used to posting my writing on tumblr (you can find this same piece along with others over on my AO3), so this is new for me! big props to @peoniesforfrankcastle for pitching me the softball of “what do you think would happen if frank and karen ended up in their own version of the landlord threesome situation from new girl??”, because that’s a normal thing to discuss at 1:30 in the morning on a saturday. enjoy!

“You’re sure this is the place?”

It’s pissing rain outside the pathetic blue Jetta Frank’s sitting in — because of course it is. It’s dark, it’s wet, and the only thing he can see properly is the profile of Karen Page’s face, highlighted by soft blue dashboard lights. It’s cold, he’s not dressed properly, and he’d be at home in bed if not for her. He’d be warm, comfortable, and not packing three different pistols on various parts of his body. He’d be, for as much as the Punisher can be, safe.

But Karen, despite every warning and caution and threat to her life, never quite knew when to quit.

She’s packing quite a different arsenal as she sits in the passenger seat, hands still covered in glitter from the bachelorette party she’d been at an hour earlier. Marci had insisted, she claimed as she checked the clip on her own gun, just an hour to say hi — but Frank knew better. Just an hour, he thinks as she makes sure her tape recorder’s working, is an hour she doesn’t have to think about what she’s about to do.

“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

She sounds absolutely certain as she speaks, even though Frank can see her hand shake as she stuffs the gun and the tape into her coat pocket. Her research is sound, her head screwed on straight, her plan well-equipped. (Well, perhaps not so much her plan as the plan Madani and Frank helped her make, but it’s all the same to her.) She’s Darius and Daniel all at once, throwing herself into the lion’s den without even a backwards glance.

She’s here for a story, and she’s going to get what she wants, no matter how it scares the shit out of her.

Or Frank, for that matter.

“You’re dead sure?”

His voice is as deadpan as it was the first time he asked - all bite, no bark. Someone once joked that he sounds like he gargles with rocks when he does that, pulls out the Marine voice. The voice meant for giving and receiving orders, not sitting in a Volkswagen with a Bulletin reporter helping her with a story. Apparently, it’s as intimidating as the bruises perennially darkening the orbitals of his eyes - not that he’d be able to tell, the way Karen responds to him.

“Yes, Frank.” She sounds as impassive as he does, if not more. He can’t read her expression in the low light, but he’s sure it’s as stolid as his. “Why are you so concerned about it?”

All he can think to do is scoff as she pats herself down in a quick double-check.

“Because I’d’ve appreciated it if you’d told me we were going to a Cooley gun club instead of having to hear about it from Lieberman.”

If he couldn’t read her expression before, he can now. It drops like a sack of bricks, and for all that his voice suddenly sounds upset, Frank can practically feel the weight of it hit his chest as the frown envelops her entire face. It dents her eyebrows, creases her forehead like some imitation of a child’s origami project. It’s a frown of surprise, not dissimilar to the ones he used to see on Lisa when he caught her reading past her bedtime. She’s been caught with her hand in the metaphorical cookie jar.

Even if Lieberman hadn’t tattled, Frank would’ve figured it out eventually. Anyone north of 119th this late was asking for trouble, if not pointing the gun at their forehead themselves. Even he didn’t stray this far if he didn’t have to. Not if he wasn’t on a job. Once Central Park was in their rear-view, he’d gripped the Weston under his jacket a little more tightly.

Karen’s parked herself right in the middle of a warzone, and judging by the loss of confidence in her expression, she knows it.

“I didn’t want to lose my chance at getting you to help,” she mutters. She sounds as much of a spitfire as she did before, but the way she’s gripping her coat sleeves betrays her real reaction. “David knew?”

“‘Course he did.” Frank scoffs. “Guy can hack the NS-fuckin’-A, you think your laptop’s any different?”

Karen’s frown deepens, the delicate origami construction of her face crumpling.

“So that’s why you agreed to come,” she says quietly. It’s almost enough to make Frank regret his choice of words. Almost, if not for the truth of what they’re about to do weighing down on his shoulders.

“You can’t just...throw yourself in with the Kitchen Irish, Karen,” he replies, firmly but carefully.

“I did it with Grotto.”

It’s like she doesn’t even think before the words are out of her mouth. She’s so sure of herself. It scares Frank. Just enough.

“Yeah,” he says, “And look how that turned out.”

“With you in the driver’s seat of my car, wearing a tape wire and helping me with a story.” Karen’s still wearing the frown, but she’s repurposed it now. Outfitted it to her advantage. Crumpled the paper and refolded it - treasure out of trash. “Not too bad in the grand scheme of things.”

She says it with a shrug and a nonchalant glance over at him, and Frank can’t muster much beyond an incredulous laugh in response. A small part of him knows he’d walk through all seven circles of hell with weights tied to his legs if it meant helping Karen with a story, but sometimes he wonders how she does it - looks danger in the face and laughs like it’s nothing more than a carnival clown, there for her amusement. Like the few inches of column space she’s afforded can be weaponized as much as the Ruger she keeps in her purse.

Karen dances with devils and comes out in first place every time, and Frank should know. He’s one of them.

“We get in, you talk to the guy, we get out, alright?”

He says it with a deadpan that hardly hides how much he’d rather taken Karen right back home, but he doesn’t stop Karen from fixing her lipstick in the mirror, doesn’t stop himself from checking that all three of his pistols are loaded and ready to go. The faster they’re in, the faster they’re out, and the less he has to feel his heart pounding in his chest like an animal trying to escape its cage.

“No funny business.”

Karen’s nod in response is perfunctory - she’s thirty-two, not twelve. She knows how this works. Frank knows that too, but the words come out anyway, in some vain attempt to reassure himself that what they were about to do wasn’t completely and utterly batshit. They’re more of a mantra than a command, and Karen’s response comes quickly on their heels as she pops open the door to the Jetta.

“People say my sense of humor is surprisingly dry.”

Frank Castle has, thus far, simply been too angry to die. No other way to phrase it. He’s been shot, tortured, run through, hit by cars, and electrocuted, amongst a handful of other, unmentionable things. He’s gone through more injuries than a child’s video game character, and yet he’s gotten back up, beaten and bruised, every time, without fail. Whether it’s stubbornness or just rage, no one can ever really tell.

But, he thinks as she smirks and hops out of the car, Karen Page might just end up being the death of him.

___________

The club they end up loitering outside of is dark, barely more than a husk of a building on the outside. It’s creative, the amount of effort these scumbags put into disguising themselves in plain sight, despite their existence being as common knowledge as the Harlem bus schedule. Decrepit storefronts, butcher shop basements, even the occasional apartment over a nail salon. Real estate in New York is slim, and Frank’s seen just about all of it - and a disproportionate amount of it with Karen at his side.

He doesn’t understand how he keeps getting dragged into these places, these undercover ops for information held so closely it might as well be fantasy. He doesn’t understand how Karen gets herself involved, much less convinces him on nothing more than a hunch and a prayer to follow at her heels, sneaking about like Zoey when she’s trying to dart out the apartment door before Karen can catch her.

He is, as Lieberman not-so-lightly puts it, built like a brick shithouse — sneaking isn’t particularly his style. Pretending to be someone else is something he’s done enough of in his everyday life. The life belonging to Pete. The life that doesn’t quite fit right - a present from an overbearing grandparent that collects dust in the basement from disuse. An old shirt, run through the wash one too many times that ends up stretched and worn, too grimy and ugly for everyday use.

The only parts of that life that seem to fit right are the ones with Karen in them. Even if they involve breaking the law.

The both of them are soaked by the time they’ve made it down the street, out of sight of their little blue getaway vehicle but in too much of a hurry to have bothered with an umbrella. Mercifully, there’s an overhang, and in some stroke of luck, the Irish at least have the courtesy to answer quickly when Karen knocks at the peeling wooden door with bare knuckles.

She’s good at that, sneaking right in the front door instead of prowling around out back. Good enough that Frank can only stare in silence as she barely blinks at a burly, dark-haired man opening the door, drilling her with enough questions to unsettle a Marine. He watches intently as she tosses around names Frank’s never heard, places he’s never been like she’s at some kind of fucked up family reunion. She calls him Robert and herself Harriet, and all he can think as they’re invited to cross the threshold is that at least it isn’t Pete.

The inside of the club looks more inviting than the outside, but Frank’s eyes are too busy scanning the interior for exits to notice the furnishings. He lets Karen do all the flattering as they’re dragged through room after room, past locked door after locked door, each one more and more concerning as Karen makes inane comments his ears barely hear. He’d been primed on all the exits - and that did mean all - but the anonymity of what lay behind those dark panels of wood doesn’t bode very well for them.

He manages to count sixteen separate doors by the time one of them opens to invite them in. The creak of it grates on Frank’s nerves, but he pays no mind as his attention zeroes in on Karen, whose blonde hair is disappearing into a dimly lit room, leaving him to chase after her like fool’s fire.

His eyes are practically evolved for low-lighting by now, but his pupils still blow wide as he ducks past a burly security detail and into the darkened room. He could swear he’s stepped into an old-fashioned parlor, one of those overly ornate ones from the PBS dramas Karen likes to watch. Velvety couch, paintings on the wall, the works - even that awful gold gilt that old New York money people thought was pretty, rather than like they’d plastered scrapyard salvage all over their walls. Frankly, his grandmother had had better taste in decor, but clearly the new Irish have money. And they want to prove it.

They want to prove they can defend themselves, too, based on the three men Frank clocks the instant the door snaps shut behind them. Strapped to the gills with firepower, looking like they could take a hit from a train and not move and inch, and angry to boot. Not too dissimilar from himself, in a way, aside from the way they mold themselves around the presence of a much slimmer man, in much better clothing, looking significantly more smug.

If Frank had to describe him, he’d say the man standing in front of he and Karen looks like one of those people mothers describe as “homely” when they’re young, but is really just the kind of person women cross the street to get away from on their commute home. Pasty, skinny, unsettling to a degree that Frank can visibly notice as Karen’s posture goes rigid. The suit he��s wearing is very obviously couture, as are his cufflinks and shoes, but it doesn’t offset the alarm bells that his general presence sets off in the both of them. Not enough to truly make either of them afraid, but enough to suck all the air out of the room in less than an instant.

Why do all drug lords remind Frank of the rats in the 34th Street subway station?

Perhaps because of the way they sneer like this one does, overconfident and cocky when Frank knows he could crush him under the heel of his boot in one step. Perhaps because of the way they carry themselves like they own the world, own the people standing in front of them and all that they’ll ever say simply because they’re on home turf. They’re leeches of the worst kind - vacuums of airheadedness and egos so big they could stop a truck.

Frank prays this isn’t the guy Karen’s come to see.

There’s a reason he stopped doing that.

“Ah, Miss Smith.”

His voice is as cocky as his face, dripping with something between venom and crude oil. His hand extends towards Karen, and Frank can only watch as she accepts it with a plastic smile.

“What a treat to finally speak in person. And this is Mister…?”

“Martin,” Karen replies. “My partner, yes.”

“Partner.” He says the word as if considering it, as if the answer is better than he’d been expecting...which is, ironically, the best reaction Frank’s gotten to his own presence in years. Clearly the beard he’d started growing in was doing its job as a mask. “Wonderful.”

He’s like a cartoon villain, this guy - if cartoon villains trafficked women and had bodyguards wearing enough firepower to set a building alight. All he’s missing is a mustache to twirl. Too bad he looks too young and skinny to be able to grow one.

“We weren’t expecting a third,” he jeers, “But in that case, would you prefer business or pleasure first?”

Karen shrugs, and Frank mirrors it. It doesn’t look as friendly coming from someone as broad-shouldered as him.

“I suppose we could do both,” Karen says. “It’s a bit late for shooting, but I’m not opposed to firing a few rounds while we talk about the--”

The laughter that cuts Karen off is even more jeering than the Bad Bond Villain’s voice. It’s high-pitched, off-key - like the vocal equivalent of nails scratching on a chalkboard. It takes a significant amount of Frank’s restraint not to flinch as he grins at Karen, far too boldly to simply be friendly.

“Oh no, my dear,” he replies as Karen’s mouth is left hanging open. “This isn’t that kind of club. Did Georgey not tell you?”

Karen’s mouth closes, then opens, then closes again as she blinks. Frank offers a quick “no sir” in place of a response from her, despite the fact that the closest thing he’d ever heard to the name Georgey was one of Karen’s silly pet names for her dog. Whether she’d crucify him for that, he couldn’t tell, but it was better than leaving the reject Lucky Charms man hanging. The expression on the man’s face tells him that’s a bad idea.

“His loss, my gain, then.” The man shrugs, sits up straighter in his seat. “You two are...swingers, no?”

Ah. So, not a gun club then.

Frank can feel Karen tense next to him. Not enough to alarm the asshole, but enough that he hears her breathing go shallow, notices the way she sits up that much straighter on the couch. She nods, refusing to break character, but he can see how far the comment has thrown her off course. He even goes a bit stiff himself - and not in the way the creep sitting in front of them would hope for - so he’s not sure he blames her. He can do guns, he can do knives...but this was new.

“It’s all part of the deal.” The creep sounds far too satisfied with himself, far too pleased in reaction to Karen’s nod that wasn’t any more than perfunctory. “We give you what you need, you give us...a little something in return.”

The look he shoots at Karen is enough to make Frank’s trigger finger twitch.

The locked doors suddenly make more sense, much the same as the furnishings that seemed slightly too impeccable for a mafia den. Everything is slightly too pristine, slightly too well-oiled for a bunch of amateurs fresh out of metaphorical diapers. No criminal gives this much of a shit about appearances unless they’re trying to impress - who that is, Frank doesn’t know, but he can only imagine the kinds of clients that run through here. A gun club in the middle of Harlem is bad enough, but this? Nothing wrong with a bit of fun if you aren’t psychotic, but...

“You traffic girls and you run a swinger’s club.” Frank’s voice sounds like he’s down an entire construction site’s worth of grave, disguising the sarcasm he can’t quite keep out of it. “Clever.”

The man nods, oblivious to Frank’s train of thought.

“We pride ourselves on it.” Pride isn’t exactly the word Frank would use, but the emotion shows on his face anyway. “The guns are a temporary cover. While we get our hooks in, so to speak. Clearly a good cover though, eh?”

He’s teasing Karen now, clearly trying to get under the thick skin of the identity she’s created for herself. It won’t budge, Frank knows that much, but the remark still makes him shift in his seat, fighting off the urge to throttle the bastard before they’ve even gotten a word out of him.

Frank’s never been good at holding his tongue, but he’ll do it for Karen.

She nods at the remark, a sound coming out of her mouth that’s as far from her real laugh as Frank imagines she can possibly get. It’s a hollow tittering sound, like hearing birds chirping through the metal of a roof they’ve nested on, but it’s convincing enough for their host, whose grin borders just the slightest bit on insane.

“We’ll give you two a moment,” he says. “Only reasonable to let you get...comfortable.”

There’s that teasing voice again, and Frank hardly has the chance to let it annoy him before one of the guards is swooping in on them, an ominous black-clad raven with an assault rifle strapped across his chest. He almost reaches out when he puts a hand at the small of Karen’s back, not quite pushing her but not letting her move of her own free will either. The cold stare Frank receives when his nerves jump is enough to tell him that he should follow, or suffer the consequences otherwise. He’s not particular to following the rules - not anymore - but he chooses to make an exception this time.

The creep stands by as the two of them are herded away, towards a door at the far end of the parlor that hangs just ajar enough to remind Frank too much of The Shining. The darkness beyond doesn’t look promising, and the results aren’t much better as they’re herded into some kind of dimly-lit antechamber, presumably a dressing room of sorts. Broom closet would’ve been a better term for it, given the fact that Frank and Karen are nearly chest to chest once the gorilla takes his hands away and leaves the two of them in relative dark, lit only by mood lighting that does about as much for Frank’s eyesight as a flashlight with mostly-dead batteries.

He can see about as much of Karen as he could in the Jetta, but he’s hesitant to say anything. Who knows how much of the club the Cooleys had bugged for posterity - he wouldn’t be surprised if there are cameras hidden in the tiny cracks of exposed brick he can see behind the swaths of fabric covering the walls. These types didn’t seem entirely beyond a bit of voyeurism at all.

“You okay?”

Frank Castle is not a man to whisper, but that’s how his voice comes out anyway; low enough that it would probably be unintelligible to cameras. It’s not as though he needs to shout in this broom closet anyway.

Karen shakes her head, less as a response to his question and more as if she’s trying to shake cobwebs from her brain that she’d missed when she dusted last.

“I swear to God I didn’t know this was going to happen.” She’s rambling, her sentences peeling off one after the other with no way of stopping them. “There was nothing in the notes about it. Not in the witness statements, not in the police reports...fuck, somebody should have told me or else I wouldn’t have brought you here into the middle of this—”

“Hey, hey, hey.”

Frank’s hands are on her shoulders before he can think to stop them, a grounding wire for his emotions and hers. He knows how it feels to have a plan go to shit, that feeling of the ground spinning underneath you without any recourse to stop it. He can see that feeling in Karen, the way her pupils are so blown with fear he can practically see himself in them. It’s not often that anyone can strike fear into Karen Page.

“Shhh. It’s okay.” He’s rubbing her arms now, though perhaps a bit more for his own sake than for hers. “Even Lieberman missed it. It’s not your fault.”

It really isn’t. He’s not sure how a sex club got confused with a gun league - all euphemisms aside, even Lieberman isn’t that stupid - but the Irish must be smarter than he thinks. Or, at least, clever enough to deflect attention away from themselves. It makes sense, in the long run of things, he thinks... if you’re that kind of subway track scum that traffics human beings.

“I’ll handle it,” he mutters. “You go out the back, call Nelson or Walker or somebody, get the hell out of here. I’ve still got the tape so you’ll still get what you need, I promise. I can take care of—“

“What?”

Karen’s voice interrupts the speech that he has memorized all too well, and he short circuits. Feels his hands squeeze her shoulders in place of a question. Watches her shuffle in place, shift her weight to her hip. He’s not prepared for this. This doesn’t usually happen.

She’s got her eyebrows raised, shoulders squared under his hands. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. He can’t focus when she’s looking at him like that. Can barely focus when she’s looking at him at all.

“Red door down the hall takes you out the back,” he sputters. Now was not the time for thought-out tactical plans. “I’ll get you what you need. You just get out.”

He’s not sure exactly how he’ll manage that, but he will. It’s the least he could do, in return for everything she’s--

“Frank, I’m not leaving.”

He can feel Karen’s enunciation down to his bones. It rattles her shoulders and moves the curtains that swirl around them, an energy not even Red could match if he tried. It’s an energy that speaks to the reason she’s good at her job, why and how she gets herself into situations like this, cramped in a tiny dressing room in a swingers’ club well past midnight when she could very well be at home, safe and secure without a second though otherwise. It’s an energy Frank knows all too well.

Here she is, looking as much like a scared rabbit as Frank’s ever seen, and Karen chooses now to be stubborn.

“You kiddin’ me?”

His arms flop down at his sides, and the air stings his palms where they’d touched Karen’s shoulders. She’s looking straight at him now, and that’s all he can focus on - the stinging and her eyes. Both of which flare when she shrugs.

“No, I don’t think I am,” she replies. “I don’t think “coercion via the Punisher” is a printable source. It’s my responsibility to get this information, and if takes going a little out of my comfort zone, then I’m more than willing to—“

“The guy wants you to strip down and have sex with him, and you call that your responsibility?”

It seems like an applicable moment to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, had he not broken it less than a week earlier. His definition of “responsibility” might be more muddled than the average New Yorker’s, but being propositioned for a threeway in exchange for information is certainly not in his dictionary.

“He included you in the offer too,” Karen protests, “And I’m pretty sure I just heard you say ‘I’ll handle it’.”

“Not by playing into whatever fucked up fantasy he’s got in mind!”

He might as well have pulled the pistol out of his waistband for all the good his words did. They ricochet off the walls like stray bullets, and he can see them lodge into Karen, though the way she rolls her shoulders and stands all that much straighter proves that she’s not in any mood to back down. She never is, and he knows it. Anyone who assumes otherwise is in for the shock of their life.

Being around Karen is like sticking your finger in an electrical socket, and Frank is a curious kid who doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.

“How badly do you need him to squeal?”

He chooses the sentence carefully, measuring his words as though they can remedy the situation all on their own. He’s not good with that, figuring out what to say. Actions speak louder than words, he’d always believed that, but this is Karen’s show. Karen’s livelihood. A livelihood she’d built on words alone.

Her expression doesn’t change.

“Enough that I’m willing to stay,” she says. “Frank, this story could wipe out a whole new generation of Kitchen Irish before they even get started. If I get this guy to talk, they’d be busted wide open within the week. Maybe sooner.”

“Same thing could happen to your head if you say the wrong thing.”

“I’m a journalist, Frank.” Karen squirms under his gaze, but doesn’t falter. “Saying the right thing is what I get paid to do.”

But you shouldn’t have to.

That’s what Frank wants to say. Wants to blurt it so loudly that the shit-for-brains in the next room can hear him loud and clear. Wants an excuse to bust them out of there, to avoid this situation entirely rather than subject himself to the burning gaze of this woman who doesn't know when to quit. He wants to shake some sense into Karen’s head, despite the fact that she’s about the only sensible person left in his life.

“I emptied a clip on a man,” she says. Her words are measured, careful. “I think I can handle...that.”

It suddenly feels like there’s not enough air in the room for both of them to breathe.

“Fine.”

Frank can’t tell if she’s being entirely serious, or if this is another facet to the facade she’s put on tonight - whether her bravery is manufactured entirely because she’s too persistent to walk away from a story unfinished. The room feels like it’s running circles around him, and he’s too dizzy to fight.

“You want it?” His voice is harder now, sharper. “Let’s go in there and get it.”

It’s not quite the Punisher persona she’s used to - it’s a little frayed around the edges, askew from being out of place - but Karen recognizes an irritated Frank when she sees one.

“I can do it by myself,” she sighs. Frank isn’t convinced - not when there’s half an army on the other side of the door and a creep who’ll undoubtedly take advantage of her the moment he turns his back.

“Like you said,” he replies, “he said both of us.”

Karen frowns.

“You’re really going to go in there and do this just to get me to admit that I’m wrong?”

“Could do worse.”

His shoulders are too heavy with the weight of their predicament to really make his shrug convincing, but he does it anyway. Tries his hardest to look nonchalant, despite the fact that his dominant hand still burns - this time for something a bit more significant than the air it’s currently grasping at.

“Too much longer in here and they’re going to get suspicious,” he offers. “Either we do this or we don’t. Your pick.”

He’s offering her an ultimatum. Karen fucking hates those.

“I do the talking.”

It’s the only thing she says while she’s shrugging off her jacket, loosening the top button on the starched, Wednesday Addams-looking blouse she’s got on. It’s the only confirmation Frank gets to shirk his own hoodie (how he’s going to finesse hiding the wire he’s wearing, he doesn’t know), before she slips out of the dressing room and back into the parlor, where Redhead Dr. No has shirked his own suit jacket, and the armed gorillas have all but disappeared.

He can’t tell if the feeling in the pit of his stomach is regret, but it certainly makes him nauseous all the same.

If it’s at all possible to have dimmed the already barely-lit lights of the parlor, that’s what they’d done in the time it’s taken he and Karen to argue their way into this mess. He can see the room for what it really is now that he’s removed the rose-colored glasses of playing along with Karen’s scheme: the way the room is laid out, with larger-than-usual couches, designed with open slats for things Frank didn’t even want to begin to think about. The fact that, despite being part of a much larger complex of rooms, there are no doors leading anywhere except the small antechamber, and no windows either. All that’s missing is some shitty Careless Whisper saxophone playing in the background, and even Frank wouldn’t do that song that much of a disservice.

“Ah, the lovebirds return.”

The phrase lovebirds makes the hair on Frank’s neck stand on end, but he beats the impulse to stir like a startled cat down just enough as their host approaches, clearly more keen than when they’d been whisked away. He’s rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, and Frank’s fairly certain he can see rope burns up and down the lengths of his arms - fresh enough that they might not even be a day old.

That is what makes him startle.

“It’s club policy for couples to...initiate proceedings,” their host says, with an eagerness that makes Frank want to beat it out of him. “To ensure all parties have a comfortable evening. Unless, of course, you’d like to…?”

“No, I think we’re fine.”

Karen’s face is red as she replies - not the kind of red it gets when she’s angry, but a brighter kind. It makes her look gaunt.

“No sense breaking the rules our first time ‘round, huh?”

The man smiles, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Very well,” he sneers. “I’ll be here. Whenever you’re ready.”

Whenever you’re ready.

The dealer’s voice is laced with the chill of dry ice, and that fact doesn’t escape Frank. This isn’t some jaunty weekend experiment, where consent is key and anybody who isn’t comfortable can bounce when they want to. This is payment, and he expects his full share, whether they like they like it or not.

That’s the thought that ruminates in Frank’s head as the dealer fiddles with the buttons on his perfectly-starched shirt, and Karen moves into his space enough that his vision is enveloped by her. That’s the thought as she steps in close, close enough that they can share the same breath, and that’s the thought as he considers the fact that nothing on Earth could possibly be more humiliating than this. The thought of touching and being touched in ways that don’t bear thinking about is worse than any embarrassment he’s ever suffered. Worse than any hazing his Marine buddies ever put him through, worse than any and every time he’s said something stupid and gotten himself landed in the wrong place at the wrong time. He feels stripped bare, down to the bone, and he hasn’t even taken off his clothing yet.

But for a moment, he looks at Karen, and thinks of the way his hands burned when he touched her, and a part of him thinks, Maybe if we spin this, we can get out mostly unscathed. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Not with Karen. He thinks that, of all the people he could end up stuck here with, at least it’s her. Their foreheads are touching, and he can feel Karen skate her own hands down his arms until she’s gripping his. At this distance, he could reach out and--

But then another part of him remembers Maria, remembers that he can’t recall the last time he used those hands to do anything but cause hurt. He remembers everything he buries deep inside, under layers of Kevlar and firearms and a voice so gravelly no one could ever think that it had ever belonged to a father. He remembers all the reasons why Karen shouldn’t trust him anywhere near her, and the situation morphs, molds itself into something that could only be a disaster, could only end with both of them hurt in a way that no stitches or antiseptics or trauma nurses could ever fix. It’s inescapable, and it’s all his--

“It’s the red door, right?”

Karen’s voice is a whisper, barely audible even when she leans in close (too close, too close, she’ll get hurt); it’s easily misconstrued as sexy, but really, it’s a well-practiced way of communicating in crisis, and Frank can hear the wobble in it even as she breathes.

He nods just enough that she can feel it, without looking like he’s doing anything but...well, setting the mood. Karen nods too, and he’s sure the both of them look fidgety - like nervous first-timers, not sure how to proceed. And it isn’t far from the truth - Frank’s got no idea how he’s going to proceed from here, but he’s nothing if not good at improvising.

“I, ah...think you should take charge.”

This she says at full volume, loud enough that their partner can hear. Like she said - she knows when to say the right thing.

And Frank knows enough about the fear on her face that his pistol’s out of his pocket before she can blink back tears.

And when he blows them out of there, it isn’t a euphemism.

_________

The sun is peeking out over the horizon line by the time the two of them stumble down the sidewalk to Karen’s walk-up. It plays peekaboo with them, reminding them that they've survived to see another day as Frank watches Karen digs for her keys in her purse. It’s stopped raining now, though the air is still muggy with its aftereffects, and they walk slowly as they approach the stairs to her building. She’s got cuts in three places on her face, and he’s got at least one broken rib, but they’re out. They’re safe.

She’s safe.

Her hands are still shaking though, vibrating ever so slightly as she attempts to find the right key to get them into the building. The ring jingles like an out-of-tune band, and Frank can see the frustrated, tired tears in her eyes as they slip out of her hand and onto the ground.

“Let me.”

He stoops before she can and dutifully ignores every protest from his tired, overworked muscles as he picks the bundle of metal up from the ground. They chime their high-pitched tune as he does, muffled by the size of his hand compared to Karen’s, like wind chimes in a distant open window. She doesn’t look at him - won’t look at him, maybe - as he straightens his back, but she can’t hide her frenetic blinking from him as he does. He doesn’t blame her. This is the longest night either of them has had in years.

He’s never sure how to fill long silences between them. He’s a man of few words, always has been, and the idea of saying anything when his entire body wants to shut down is beyond his area of comprehension right now. Is he supposed to hug her? Pat her on the back, tell her it’s alright after she watched him (not for the first time) eviscerate a handful of human beings like it’s nothing? Nothing he could possibly say can erase that. Erase everything else he’s ever done to her, every layer of hell she’s been dragged through and back out again. Silence feels like the only appropriate response, the only way to avoid dragging her through anything else.

She’s the first to speak up, naturally. Her voice comes out soft, a quiet monotone Frank suspects she uses to disguise the fact that she’s choking back a night’s worth of emotions all at once.

“Thanks.” She’s still not looking at him, but she doesn’t move to wipe away tears, doesn’t hide behind the high collar of her jacket to avoid him. “Do you want to…?”

She hesitates, and Frank can nearly hear her backtracking in her head as her sentence drops off. The missing word hangs in the air, heavy and loud despite the fact that it never leaves Karen’s mouth.

Stay.

“I’ll be up working on this damn thing to make the deadline.” She shrugs, as though overnight shootouts and going thirty-six hours without sleep are a regular part of anyone’s workday. The laugh that comes with it is watery. “Might as well have some company.”

The scoff that escapes Frank’s mouth isn’t entirely intentional, but it isn’t accidental either. He can feel the bruised muscles in his face sting as he lets the sound ring, ducking his head to fiddle with the glittering skull trinket she keeps on her key ring.

“Almost get your head blown off and you’re worried about a deadline,” he mutters. “Should be resting.”

“So should you. And I know for a fact you won’t sleep a wink.”

Karen shrugs, reaching a hand out for her keys. Frank obliges, and there’s something of a smile on his face when he does. The little skull glints in the light of the streetlamp, a sly reminder of just what kind of a mess she’d gotten herself involved with.

“I started this story,” she asserts, “And now I'm obligated to finish it. Just like any job.”

“You think you’re gonna be able to get anything outta that wire?”

“I’ll have to,” she says. “If not, I’ll pester Turk, see what else he can get me. Maybe do a ridealong or something. I know what’s there. We saw it. I just need proof.”

Frank laughs then. Not maliciously - not really intentionally, either. It just spills out, a soft, short bark of a thing that sounds off coming from him. Frank Castle doesn’t laugh, much less like that. It’s like interference on a radio; a negative side effect of pushing the wrong button or adjusting the wrong lever. The AM channel no one ever wants to use.

“Y’know,” he huffs, “I wonder if you don’t know when to let something die.”

It’s not that he doesn’t think before he speaks - Frank’s a smart man, he knows what happens when someone backs Karen Page into a corner. He’s seen it, from the moment she shoved that photo of his family in his face while he was chained helpless to a hospital bed, and he respects it. She’s a force to be reckoned with, a hurricane of immense proportions that doesn’t give a shit who you are or how much power you say you have if you’re in the way of the truth. Karen Page is not someone to be taken lightly.

But she’s more than that. She’s also a human being, a woman with a life, friends, family that cares about her. She’s got more than blood on her hands and a legacy so stained she can’t even use the name her family thought to give her when she was born. She’s better than that, better than this ugly, misshapen world they’ve both found themselves in whether they like it or not. She’s the best goddamn thing to happen to New York - hell, the country, probably - since god knows what, and to lose her to the storm of her own determination is something that Frank thinks might snap a lot of people clean in two.

Himself included.

He knows he’s said the wrong thing, knows he’s pushed that button of hers that makes her cheeks flare red and her voice hike up a few notches. He can tell as soon as the words are out of his mouth, as soon as she bunches her keys up in her fist in a way that’s got to hurt as she finally looks him in the eyes.

“Oh, you mean the hundreds of people that would die because I put myself over the truth?” She spits the words out like they’re shitty vodka from Josie’s, like if she kept them in she’d explode. “What am I supposed to do, just let this fall by the wayside? Tell Ellison I need him to switch me to the lifestyle section this week? I can’t just let it go. That’s not how this works.”

A part of Frank knows she’s right - knows that this shit won’t stop until the world can see the man behind the curtain - but a bigger part of him, the stubborn, protective part of him that he can never quite seem to fight down, can’t live with the idea of danger knocking at Karen’s door.

“You could’ve been killed before the truth ever got out!” He doesn’t mean to be as loud as he is, but that hidden part of him doesn’t like the quiet. “You really want to do that again? You want to put a gun to your own head like that?”

“I was hardly in danger of anything except hurting my own pride and you know that. I just let myself get scared.”

Frank can see her flex her hand where her keys are digging into her palm, but she doesn’t relent. She doesn’t look angry, but he can see the way her jaw clenches to fight back another round of frustrated tears threatening to spill over. He can see how tense she is, how close her shoulders are to touching her ears. She’s got every hallmark of a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but she refuses to move an inch.

“Don’t make this about my safety, Frank,” she says. “You can’t keep mothering me like this. I can handle myself.”

She stares at him like she bore a hole directly to his soul, and Frank’s skin burns when she looks at him like that. Not like fire, but like acid. Corrosive, stinging, sizzling. It’s a burning that seeps through his clothes, plasters them to his body so nothing he does can serve as escape. It’s the worst in his hands - pins and needles that suddenly makes that “reach out and touch faith” song make more sense. He feels the stinging down to his bones, and sometimes he wonders whether he’s just a skeletal ghost floating around anymore. Whether the rest of him matches the skull crudely painted on a vest in his closet.

No, it’s not like fire. Fire would be too easy, too instant. One splash of water and it’s out, wiped from body and from memory. It burns brightly but shortly, in and out of someone’s life with almost no passing thought beyond treating the wounds left behind. Fire is an easy solution. Fire doesn’t come from people who matter.

No, the burning Frank feels isn’t fire, because Karen Page never does things the easy way.

“‘M sorry,” he says, conceding another in a long list of arguments that neither of them would ever be able to win. He doesn’t know what to say, what to do to stop the burning. Isn’t sure if he wants to stop it. “Just didn’t—I didn’t want it to be like that.”

“Didn’t want what to…”

Her sentence drifts off before she can finish it, and he can’t be sure whether she understood what he was referring to. Her fists clench and unclench, and the burning worsens when she looks at him like she’s staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Frank, come on.” Her voice is tired - the groan of someone who’s been through far too much, far too soon. “You’re bleeding. I’m tired. Let’s just go up, and you can crash on the couch and we’ll talk about this—“

In the morning. Later. After. That’s always how it goes. Let things settle. Let them rest. Let the blood flow out of things, let the venom run its course. Take the rose-colored glasses off and let reality settle back in before anyone does something dumb. Karen wants an after for him, she’s said as much. She wants him to be able to walk out, as unscathed as a man with blood on his hands can ever manage to be.

What she doesn’t realize is that his after is already standing right in front of him.

Which is his only explanation for why his hand shoots out and closes around her arm like he’s pulling her away from some invisible danger. It’s the only explanation for the way he spins her like a top, until they’re close enough that he can see her eyes dilate in surprise. It’s the only explanation for the way he can feel his heart pounding in his chest, a feral animal broken free and running down the streets of Brooklyn with wild abandon.

It’s the only explanation for the way that he kisses her on her front stoop for God, the early morning garbagemen, and the rest of the modern world to see.

Karen Page, he realizes, is everything good left in the world. She is sun after a thunderstorm and a comfortable bed after a long day. She’s raucous laughter at a terrible joke, the kindness of a stranger when you need it most. She’s good friends and fond memories and the ridiculous way she dances to Lady Gaga whenever she finishes a piece that gives her trouble. She’s the beers they share on her fire escape after weeks away and the tight feeling he gets in his chest every time someone asks what the hell he’s still fighting so hard for. She’s everything he thought he’d given up the right to have a long time ago, and she’s everything he fights to keep.

Pulling away from her is painful. More painful than any gunshot, any gut punch, any knife wound he’s ever received. Pulling away from Karen is like pulling the skin from his bones, the air from his lungs. It’s like the burning he feels, only a million times worse. A million hot pokers on his skin, burning away anything that makes him who he is and leaving nothing but a shell, cradling this stubborn, beautiful, terrifyingly intelligent woman in its arms.

All that’s left is her. All that matters is her.

Her eyes are closed when he finally moves far enough away to see her face in full. For a moment, he panics, terrified -- too close, too close, fuck, did I make her cry again? -- but then she’s opening them, something he thinks might be glee or absolute horror written on her face. He can’t tell which is which, so he improvises.

“Didn’t want to do that in front of the Irish.”

Karen’s pupils are still dilated, and the glee-horror-something-else-maybe morphs. Becomes a little clearer.

“Oh.”

It sounds less like surprise and more like a smug question. He shrugs. He’s still got a hand at the small of her back.

“Didn’t want them to get a chance at it either.”

Now he sounds smug. The garbagemen can definitely see them now. He’s not sure he cares.

“Mmm.” Karen doesn’t bother to move. Doesn’t bother to separate herself from him. “Kinda glad about that.”

Frank quirks an eyebrow.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.” She fiddles with her keyring. Glances at the tiny skull. Jams the whole thing in her pocket. “‘Cause you kinda just ruined it for me for the rest of my life.”

“What, the saving your life or the kissing?”

“Both.”

She taps his chest with her newly free hand, and the spaces that have been hollow there since the park feel just that much fuller. Just enough to ease the ache.

“But mostly the latter.”

Frank can’t even remember what the latter is, but Karen’s kissing him again and that’s all that matters. This moment, on this grimy doorstep, with her hands bunched in his coat and his wrapped around her back.

So this is what it means to finally have an after.

#do i know how to tag this? absolutely the fuck not.#the punisher fic #punisherff #kastlenetwork #kastleff #my work #maggie.txt #karen page x frank castle #the punisher

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