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#trying to bring levity for as long as I can
cjbee · 2 years
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September 17: Angy
September 13 September 18
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monzamash · 7 months
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off the record — lando norris
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"the line between personal and professional was already so blurred; so incomprehensibly faint that anyone looking in would have to squint to see it." lando norris x you (femreader) | 2.1k rating – 18+ (sex, coarse language, drug references) masterlist
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The media pen was mayhem after what had been an eventful morning on track. Cameras hoisted every which way, journalists vying for their chance to get front row. And then there was you; little old you trying your best to muscle into every nook and cranny available, wrestling with the big boys and girls. You were a bit of a hot shot now, rising through the ranks online as a media personality and bringing it to the stalwarts of mainstream media.
And you were good – really good. An exceptional storyteller and an extractor of sorts when it came to getting the scoop, something you had honed in on during your days working freelance before eventually realising your potential. Somehow, you’d made it here. Reporting for Sky Sports. Coming to you live from Monaco. Dream shit.
“Lando Norris…” You started, microphone locked and loaded in front of the sweaty, nonchalant McLaren driver.
“Felt like you left a little bit out on track in practice this morning. P10 – where do you think you can get the car in qualifying this afternoon?”
“P1 obviously,” Lando quipped, chewing through his comically large drinking straw in an attempt to hide his smirk. Mocking.
“Yeah?”
“What do you reckon?” He asked, leaning forward ever so slightly with a mischievous glint in his eye that had you rolling yours.
You shrugged, “Wouldn’t count the McLaren car out, that’s for sure.”
“The car and…” Lando smirk widened, lips still pursed and baiting.
“The driver too? Maybe?” Dickhead.
“Maybe that too…” You gave in with a sigh, eliciting a wide smile from the man standing in front of a gaggle of reporters, waiting for your next question with snickering expressions.
“So high expectations going into quali then?”
It had always been like this with Lando from the moment you stuck your little hand held recorder in his face at Bahrain last year to now. He knew he could wind you up and find levity in whatever situation he found himself in at the end of a session – good or bad. It was always a friendly back and forth between journalist and driver. Harmless banter to make the monotony of the media pen just that little bit more bearable. Professional, until it wasn’t.
“The flirting is getting out of hand,” You whispered into his kiss, teeth clashing, hands fumbling as you fell back on your hotel bed with a huff.
“But you look so fucking cute asking me questions like that,” He growled in retort, hands making quick work of the jeans clinging to your hips – the ones that had been taunting him all day.
Everywhere he turned he saw you swaying from side to side, aching to have this moment with you now.
“Well duh,” You quipped confidently, eyes fluttering shut as his feverish lips ghosted above the damp patch of excitement between your thighs. Focus.
“But it has to stop.”
“Oh you want me to stop right now?”
“I’m not talking about…” You stopped mid-sentence when you caught the mischievous glimmer in Lando’s eyes, lips pulled into a smirk, “Okay, fuck you.”
“You love it,” He breathed out in barely a whisper, leaving a trail of marks down the inside of your thigh before finally giving you what you were waiting for. 
“And don’t pretend like the thought of me going down on you when you’re asking me those silly little questions doesn’t turn you on.”
Well he fucking had you there.
Lando punctuated his point with a long, teasing stripe to your cunt before burying himself between your thighs, only coming up for air when you tugged on his curls and demanded a kiss. He knew how you were, how needy and insatiable you could be. This was a thing now; a god forsaken mistake in Australia that had turned into a runaway train. Neither of you could stop it.
“I can’t live without this.”
The desperation spilled from your mouth in a guttural moan as you titled you hips upwards and let the twisted knots in the depths of your stomach unravel. The sight of you thrashing in pleasure below knocked the wind out of Lando, eyes and mind focused solely on fucking you through your high so perfectly, fingers bruising the buttery flesh of your thighs.
“God – fuck…” He could barely breathe, “Don’t – you don’t have to.”
And with one last pump, he was coming into the condom he’d slipped on without you even knowing. It was second-hand now, muscle memory and so fucking good. But it didn’t start that way – no, it was awkward goodbyes and a cold ‘thanks for that’ which made you regret ever answering your hotel door. The situation had changed in the blink of an eye – now he was lingering, kissing you in places that had you melting into the mussed sheets and begging him to stay a little bit longer.
It was pathetic how reliant you’d become and how distant you could be when he had to leave. The leaving part was the thing that changed and had you questioning all of it. It used to be that you could go shower and come back to an empty bed and not even flinch. Four months of he is just a causal fuck, no hard feelings to now not being so stoic on that sentiment but you wouldn’t admit that. Not to yourself and especially not to the man peering down at you – all lazy smiles and dimples and ocean eyes. You were fucked.
“I gotta go,” Lando whispered, brushing the stray strands of hair from your flushed face, pout present and needy.
“You don’t really though.”
“If I don’t go now I’ll never leave.”
The little voice in your head was monologuing – screaming out all of the reasons why he should stay because maybe deep down that’s what you wanted. But you couldn’t have that. The line between personal and professional was already so blurred; so incomprehensibly faint that anyone looking in would have to squint to see it. It was the devil on your shoulder that tormented you when it came to Lando, pushing the boundaries more and more every time you had him in your clutches. Risking it all.
“Kiss me before you go.”
And he did. Passionately, like a man in love because maybe he was. Maybe he had been for a lot longer than he’d realised – somewhere between Miami and now he let his guard down too far, too soon. You were flawless though, unattainably perfect that he couldn’t be blamed for falling victim to your allure – sharp eyes following you around the paddock, wishing he was the little notebook in your back pocket that garnered all your attention on race weekends.
“See you tomorrow?”
“If you’re lucky,” Lando quipped, knowing he would be the one curled up in his cold, lonely bed for the rest of the night waiting impatiently for tomorrow.
In any other circumstance you would think the two of you were like magnets, drawn together amongst the travelling circus that was your workplace. But you had a job to do and that was to seek out drivers and team principals, digging deep for any story you could find. There was a trust that you’d built with the teams, all of them respected your work and knew that you weren’t malicious; in fact you were the opposite.
“I really appreciate you not writing about my drunkenness last weekend… It wasn’t my finest moment unfortunately.”
Oscar was a rookie driver but also a total sweetheart, who admittedly had found himself in a precarious late night adventure in a Miami nightclub post-grand prix. How he ended up that drunk, you had no idea but you saved him from himself with the help of Lando, who Oscar would’ve thought was suspiciously close by if he wasn’t black out drunk.
“I got you, buddy but I think your Australian citizenship might have to be revoked after an effort like that… Very disappointing,” You teased in jest, both smiling into the blistering Monacan sun as you walked side by side into the paddock.
“I woke up with an L on my forehead which I can only assume Lando put there so I think my ego’s bruised enough thank you very much.”
“Oh yeah,” You cringed, “That might’ve been my eyeliner.”
“Is that right…”
Oscar’s tone was laced with suspicion but before he could quiz you on why you were still there that night and that he had started to notice the budding friendship between you and his teammate, he was being whisked away by one of his McLaren publicists. You were thankful that they'd taken his curious questions away – how the tables had turned.
Lando was watching you wander through the paddock behind his dark sunglasses, as had been the trend all weekend. Every time you glanced around he was there, wondering if he could sneak over and say hello. Sure, you were friends with a few of the drivers outside of work but when you stepped over that white line, the barriers of professionalism came up again. They had to, otherwise you would end up in a situation like this – gawking at someone you shouldn’t be.
But god he looked good.
He wore what he knew was your biggest weakness – a backwards cap and the black denim jacket he slung over your shoulders on that dark, stormy night in London a few weeks ago when Imola was cancelled and you needed a fix. Hotel hook-ups only. And all of this had you asking yourself, how on earth could you deny a good morning from the man who was the subject of your every desire?
“Good morning.”
“Well it’s not a bad one,” You smiled, more energised than Lando who was yawning into the crook of his arm, “Late night?”
He loved it when you did that. Sneaking little inside jokes into seemingly innocent conversation, naughty reminders of the nights you shared together when nobody was watching. The cheeky grin tugging on his lips a definite tell-tale that he enjoyed it – the tells getting easier and easier to spot the more you got to know him. A shiver ran down your spine at the thought that maybe he was into this as much as you. Little did you know.
“Yeah just squeezed in a late cardio sesh – you know how it is…”
A soft ahh slipped from your smirking lips, eyes trained on your path ahead as Lando strolled alongside, “What’s on the agenda today?”
You shrugged, half out of genuine cluelessness and the other half deflecting how nervous you were. Working in the media was your dream but walking through the hallowed halls of a sport you had loved for your entire life and that dream coming true made your stomach churn with every emotion under the sun. Especially in Monaco.
“You nervous?” Lando asked quietly, shaking you from your thoughts and panicked that you were talking out loud.
“Huh? Oh…” You waved him off and chuckled, “No – I mean, yeah but I always feel like this on race morning… But obviously you’re probably a lot more nervous than me so it’s nothing…” You were a stuttering mess and all Lando wanted to do was reach out and give you a hug.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. This was your little secret, a delicious secret that only the two of you knew and he didn’t want to ruin that. Instead, he dug his hands into his jean pockets a little deeper and gave you a reassuring nudge. Shoulder to shoulder, the same way you laid together the night before after what could only be described as the best sex of your life. Lives.
“My mum always said that nerves mean you care,” Lando’s voice was lower than before – a seriousness taking over, “You’ll do great, as always.”
“Thank you,” You matched his tone, “Hopefully I’m interviewing Lando Norris, Monaco Grand Prix winner…”
That’s all you really wanted deep down. Not the breaking story of the weekend or the drama surrounding contract talks at Red Bull. Just for the guy you had grown profoundly fond of to have some semblance of good luck for once. He’d worked hard for it, you’d seen it first hand and you’d seen the heartbreak when things weren’t going his way. Alas, that was what started this whole situation – frustrated post-race sex. Chef’s kiss.
Lando simply rolled his eyes and sighed loudly before leaning in a tiny bit closer than what you considered a safe workplace distance, “Kiss for good luck then?”
“Get the fuck out of here!” You laughed, kicking his calf with your platform boot as his infectious cackle of a laugh echoed through the growing crowd.
You watched him disappear somewhere between the motorhomes, searching for his team. The lingering feeling in your stomach made you slightly nauseous and a little excited for the next run-in with him. It was like a game of cat and mouse and you weren’t sure who was who but you liked it. More than you wanted to admit because he was Lando fucking Norris – f1's most eligible bachelor, the naughty boy from Bristol, all curls and dimples and undeniable charm. You couldn't help but wonder how many others he had wrapped around his finger like you.
He's just a casual fuck, you mumbled under your breath as you flicked open your notebook and got to work.
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masterlist | askbox
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bunnyreaper · 3 months
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𝓷𝓸𝓫𝓸𝓭𝔂 𝓭𝓸𝓮𝓼 𝓲𝓽 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓭𝓸
𝒶 𝒿𝑜𝒽𝓃 𝓅𝓇𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝓍 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈
𝓅𝓉 2 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒
wc - 5.2k
warnings - 18+/nsfw (eventually), mentions of cheating (not from reader or john), age gap (older male younger female), future daddy kink, mentions of blood
notes - back at it again in dilfville, hopefully, this chapter is worth the wait! ♥ also on ao3! ♥
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How easy it is to forget about the outside world with John by your side is startling. Everything other than him melts away into the background, and in the safety and comfort of his home, the two of you exist in your own little peaceful bubble.
In the back of your mind, you know it'll eventually sink to the ground and violently pop, but for now, the two of you float—suspended in tranquility. Your day goes by so easily, as you rest on the couch and watch TV with John—phone forgotten about, troubles set aside. 
John makes it easy to forget. He's always had this way about him, like his mere presence lifts a weight off your shoulders while he carries it, carries you, just for a while, and allows your world to be a little lighter. 
It's later into the evening when you finally find yourself compelled to get off of the couch and actually do something with your day, when John pulls you out of the reverie you'd settled into together.
"I should get on with dinner." He says, slapping his thighs before he rises from the comfort of the couch and the warmth of being your human footrest. 
You're quick to rise too, sitting up straight as you try to recall him to the couch before he can make too much of a fuss. The guilt of taking advantage of his hospitality is already eating at you—regardless of how illogical it may be.
"Let me do it." You plead. "You're kind enough to let me stay here, at least let me repay you." 
John pauses, his eyes narrowing at you briefly before one of his thick eyebrows arches. "Darling, aren't you bloody sick of cooking?" 
Even when he's giving so much, he's still exceedingly considerate. 
"Only when cooking for a man who doesn't appreciate me, otherwise I enjoy it." You climb to your feet with a smile, making your way over to John to gently push him in the direction of the kitchen. Whilst he moves with a stubbornness, you know he's still letting you push him, otherwise you know you wouldn't be able to move him an inch. 
A smirk tugs at his lips, hidden behind his thick beard as he finds himself amused by your antics. The levity you bring to his otherwise burden-filled life is not something that goes unrecognised by him—not now, not ever.
Finally, he truly relents, letting you direct you both into the kitchen, moving himself enough to make your job of pushing him easier. "If you want to help, I wouldn't mind your company."   
Your hands withdraw from the warm, broad expanse of his back and settle by your sides, as you feel the need to pull away from him the second it's no longer necessary—scared by how good the physicality felt, even if it was entirely playful in nature. It's been so long since you felt so light and got to share it with someone else, an age since you indulged in light-hearted touch. 
"What's on the menu?" You ask as you move to the sink and force yourself into doing something to keep you busy—tackling the dishes seems like a good idea for being both helpful and suitably occupied. 
John makes his way to the fridge, swinging open the heavy door of the American-style fridge-freezer with ease, and immediately moving to grab fresh ingredients. "Spag Bol." 
"Ooh, your signature dish." You coo, recalling fondly the many occasions he has hosted you for dinner in the past.
Dinners had become a regular thing when John and James had been getting to know each other, with you often there as a buffer—not that you did it begrudgingly or ever minded so much. Getting to know John was an unexpected delight, and as the two of you recently agreed, a friendship had formed—regardless of your relationship with his son. You'd spent many nights over at his for dinner or drinks—good food and delightful conversation, memories you treasured.
Even in the beginning, John's protective and caring nature had extended to you almost immediately—a natural extension, you’d presumed, of his growing bond with his biological son. He'd dropped off meals for you when you were sick, memorised your tea and coffee preferences, always took the time to buy you a thoughtful gift for Christmas and birthdays. 
John cuts through your trip down memory lane with the thud of him putting a pile of ingredients down on the countertop. "Well, I know you love it so much. Went to the shops last night to get everything." 
An exasperated sigh leaves you. For a man so good at taking care of others, there were times when John Price's self-care was severely lacking. As the sink fills with sudsy, hot water, you pin John with your most intimidating glare. "When do you ever even sleep, John?" 
He returns your look for the briefest moment, then smirks at your attempt to look authoritative. "I sleep plenty, don't you worry." 
A realisation seems to strike him a moment later.
John heads over to the record player in the corner, flipping the switch and setting down the needle. 
It's easy for John to succumb to the relaxed atmosphere of his kitchen—music playing and you by his side. His fingers drum against the turntable stand as the opening notes of the rock-reggae fill the room and quiet any further chastisement from you.
"Young teacher, the subject of schoolgirl fantasy—" John's voice carries louder than the vocals, a smooth tone you've heard so rarely before—John only sings when he feels most at peace. 
Whilst his voice is beautiful, the subject matter of the song almost feels inappropriate in the moment, though the way your cheeks flush makes you think it's just you projecting.
"Oh my god, John." You groan playfully, rolling your eyes and watching as he sways his hips ever so slightly as he makes his way back over to you, still softly singing the words. 
He stops singing as he steps beside you at the sink, leaning onto the counter slightly with a hint of a smirk on his face and an incredible amount of mirth in his eyes. For once, he seems so light.
"Never had a crush on an older man?" He asks, his tone light and yet still with a hint of teasing. Perhaps he thinks your opposition to the song is your lack of relating to it, rather than the fact you relate a little too much. 
You're not sure when it really started, or when it escalated uncontrollably, but lately, you've been looking at John in a different light. It's probably the combination of the heartbreak, the sleep deprivation, and the beard. You were always a sucker for a gruff-looking, unavailable older gent. 
And now here one is singing a song about forbidden love, lovers separated by age—like he knows what you're thinking, what you're feeling.
"Obviously I have." You scoff, almost dismissively, as you turn to slip the first few dishes into the water. John stays silent for a moment, and curiosity gets the better of you. "Ever had a crush on a younger woman?" 
He barks out a laugh, pushing himself away from the counter as you see him shake his head and suck in his lips. "No comment."  
Your mind starts to wander, as you try to think about what kind of woman catches John Price's eye. His circumstances are difficult and his standards clearly high, as he hasn't been in a relationship in the years you've known. John nudges you with his hip, as he leans over the sink to start washing his hands.
His warmth is overwhelming beside you, and only spreading further. You try to focus on anything but his large hands, as he covers them in the suds he works up from the soap. You try not to stare at the way he grips the bar, and practically chokes the block with his fingers, nor how he works the creamy lather up his hairy forearms.
But you’d be lying if you said the plate in your hands got any cleaner. Of course, you could blame your stillness on courtesy—you're just giving him the space he needs to wash his hands so he can get on with cooking, nothing more.
"Zenyatta Mondatta is a classic." He all but whispers from above you, as if he still feels the need to justify his album choice. 
"Best album the year you were born?" 
"I was born 81, not 80, bun." He tuts, shaking off the excess wetness from his hand before he reaches around you to grab the hand towel from where it's threaded through the handle of the cupboard beside you. 
Your grip on the plate tightens exponentially despite the slippery surface, as a cascade of shivers passes over your body and pools low in your gut. 
The tension in your body feels like it's ready to snap at any moment, and yet just before it can, John pulls away, and a cold sweeps back in.  
"Don't stand, don't stand so close to me." His singing almost taunts you as he saunters back over to his ingredients and gets to work. 
You try to focus again on the dishes in the sink. Yet, you couldn't wipe the wide smile off your face if you tried, exhilarated by life's simple pleasures—by the way, it seems that colour is starting to bleed back into your life in all these little moments. A flurry of feelings you haven't felt in so long floods you, too. 
"Forgot how much I love being in the kitchen with other people." You laugh, verbalising your happiness in a fairly throwaway comment. 
"Kitchens are the heart of the home, as they say." John replies, and you can tell he's smiling fondly, probably recalling the nights spent at his kitchen island with you, James, and the other people lucky enough to be in his life. 
After a moment, he continues on, yet his tone is more somber than before. "You know, sweetheart, I wish I'd have known sooner how he really treated you." 
You wonder if it would've made a difference. 
"He's just not for me, he's not necessarily bad just... okay, I mean besides the cheating." You say, wrinkling your nose with disgust—still, you find yourself making excuses for him, finding ways to soften the blow. 
John sighs. "You give him too much credit, love." 
It feels wrong somehow to open up to John about this, despite his soothing on the matter. "It wasn't fair for me to talk to you about that stuff, even if you do give the best advice. Still doesn't feel fair, really." You grumble as you scrub at a bowl, removing the dirt.
"And what about what's fair and best for you, hmm?" John's chopping grows louder, more erratic, as his frustration flows through his arm and his wrath is taken out on the raw onions. "For crying out loud, the lad cheated on you. I have half a mind to go over there myself to finish what we started earlier." 
You shrug, entirely uncertain of how to untangle the messy web that is your emotions. Guilt, relief, anger, and peace all swirl together, with no one feeling jumping out clearly and continuously beyond the others.
"Look at me," John calls your attention to him, only speaking again once you do. The look on his face is deeply sincere, his eyes betraying the emotion within. "Once you're on your feet again, if you want nothing to do with me, all you have to do is say. Otherwise, I'll be in your life for as long as you let me." 
Fuck.
"That's reassuring." You nod, smiling genuinely, yet you try to restrain it lest you betray how much it really means to you. "Yeah, I guess, as you said earlier, we're friends."
You say it more to convince yourself, as it's a truth that isn't going to change regardless of a silly schoolgirl crush. 
"Not planning on changing that unless you are, love." John smiles. 
See, you say to yourself, he's all but confirmed it too. "I'm glad some things are going to stay the same..." You mutter, though there is some sincerity and reality to your statement. "Especially when everything else is about to get turned upside down."
"I suspect you'll be better off when the dust settles." 
"I hope so." 
You turn back to the dishes, trying to focus on the music rather than the thoughts that battle against John's soothing words. His quiet company helps stave off some of the discontent, the sound of him cooking and singing quietly providing a safety blanket around you. 
"Do have to let you know I got the call, leaving sooner than I would've liked." 
"When?" You feel yourself stiffen. Every time John leaves, you're always a little on edge—and yet, with the circumstances, this time just feels worse. 
"Tomorrow." He admits softly. 
"You've only been back a matter of days." Your heart pangs.
He scoffs. "No rest for the wicked, eh?"
"It's gonna feel weird getting settled in here, but especially alone." You offer up your honesty, in the hopes it'll alleviate the gentle crushing of your chest, yet you try to remain stony-faced.
"One big change at a time, love." John's voice is soothing, as he attempts to reassure you. "Change of scenery, then change of roommate. It'll give you a chance to just be free of Price men for a moment." 
"He's not really a Price..." You sigh, because maybe if he were, things would've been different. If John had raised him... would he be a better man? Not that you believe his mother is to blame for his issues, but you know from James' occasional rants that he didn't have a male figure he respected growing up. 
"I suppose not." Behind your back, John shrugs. "Point still stands, though. While I'm not thrilled about the idea of you being all alone, at least it gives you some space to think of what comes next." 
"I guess it does." You sigh and try to focus on that thought—time to figure things out and feel the relief of being free. A wry laugh leaves you when you realise John has managed to reframe his departure as a positive thing. "Fuck, I hate how you always make me feel better." 
"Hah, add it to my list of crimes." 
A beat passes before a stray thought pops into your head. "If you're headed back, does that mean you'll be shaving?" 
You crane your head around just in time to see John pause, turn, and stroke at his beard.
"Don't know. What do you think?" He continues to stroke at the grown-out brown hair, as you get lost taking in his features and the way that they seem to look so different with his new, fluffier style.
"Feel like you've been staring at it a lot, not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing." He chuckles, his smile tight-lipped and a touch self-conscious in a way that only you can bring out of him.
"Somehow, it makes you look..." Your brain scrambles for an adjective that isn't 'daddier'. "... younger?" 
On anyone else, a full beard would likely age them, but compared to John's usual old-timey war general look, it gives him more of a casual, handsome look. You remind yourself to ask for pictures of what he looked like before he grew facial hair.
"Ageing myself prematurely with the mutton chops, then?" He frowns ever so slightly, though you know his pout is completely playful.
You throw your head back with a laugh. "Thought that's why you did it, to really solidify your authority." 
"Don't need any kind of facial hair for that, love." He purrs, sending a shiver down your spine. 
You force your attention back to the dishes and school your expression into something more neutral, dunking in all the cutlery in at once as you desperately begin to clean. It's a clear attempt to make sure John doesn't notice your reaction to his words.
"Whatever you say, John." You mutter, trying to end the conversation before it spirals any further out of control. 
He laughs, hums, then casually says something you never expected. "Mmm, now that's what I like to hear." 
"Ow, fuck!" You yell as pain sears through your skin, a knife hidden in the soapy water slicing through your skin at the momentary distraction.
John is over in a flash, coming to your aid and pulling your hand into his grasp so he can inspect the wounds. "Christ, love, are you alright?" 
"Fine, I mean, it's only small." Each word is through gritted teeth, as you try to tough it out in front of John.
Despite the fact the incisions across your fingers aren't particularly deep, they bead with crimson blood and pulse with stinging pain.
"Right, that's enough. Sit down." One of John's hands remains holding your hand while the other settles on your shoulder, and he manoeuvres you to one of the stools at the kitchen island. He pays no mind to the way your soaked arm drips onto his t-shirt and jeans, too focused on his mission.
"Yes, sir." You say absentmindedly, feeling like one of his men—you don't notice the way he stiffens, his touch getting a fraction tighter, as his body and mind jolt at such simple words. 
He doesn't meet your eye, instead inspecting the cuts before turning to grab the first aid kit he keeps under the sink. "Doesn't look like it'll need stitches." 
"This isn't a battlefield injury, John, and I'm not a child!" You can't help but pout exaggeratedly, as not only does it convey your meaning, but it helps disguise your wince as John cleans, dries, and dresses your cuts.   
"No more washing up. Don't give me that look." He fixes you with a look and a stern point that just dares you to challenge him, and for a moment, you glare right back at him. 
In the end, you know you stand no chance of winning against the formidable foe that is protective, Papa Bear John Price. One time you insisted on washing up after he cooked, and he followed you into the kitchen to turn off the water main, just to show you how serious he was that you sit down and fucking relax. 
"Fine." You sigh, as John's moment as a nurse comes to a close, with him finishing your dressings and packing away the first aid kit.
"Sit pretty. Food won't be too long." He tells you before he returns to the pans on the hob, checking on the spaghetti and stirring the bolognese. 
The fragrance from the stewing sauce surrounds you, making your mouth water in anticipation of John's signature dish. It doesn't distract you from the pain completely, but it at least gives you something to focus on as you try to ignore it. 
"Can I... ask something that I've been wondering about for a while?" You ask, propping your head on your non-injured hand as you watch John work.
"Of course." He nods, eyes flickering to meet yours briefly.
"Have you and James' mum ever talked about... you know, everything?" You resist the urge to pick at the medical tape securing the bandage to your skin, as you know that eventually it's going to come off. "I don't know why I never asked before, guess I felt awkward, and I tried asking James, but he never wanted to talk about it." 
John pauses, taking a moment to think. "We met for coffee once, after I first found out. She was very apologetic, explained her side of things." 
It's easy for you to tell, having grown accustomed to his expressions, that there's more to the story than he lets on. John always tends to play his cards close to his chest when it comes to his inner workings, asking more questions than he ever answers, but you're used to that look in his eyes whenever there's something he's holding back. 
At least, you like to think so. If you're good at telling when he's withholding, you're even better at not pressing him, at least under usual circumstances. Today, something compels you to ask more. 
"Do you... resent her for what she did?" 
"No." He answers, a little too quickly, before rolling his shoulders and straightening his posture. "Maybe I should, maybe I should resent the fact I missed his childhood. I suppose I do, but I would never have had the life I've had otherwise." 
"Figured I might still have the chance to be a dad, but would've never had the chances I did had I not joined the army." 
The insight into John's mind is fascinating, intoxicating, even. It's hard to imagine him as anything other than a captain, even if father and family man suits him quite well too. 
"You wouldn't have joined up if you'd known?" You ask, questions still tumbling out of you as curiosity about John leaks out of every pore. 
"No." He pauses, pressing his hands into the counter. Finally, he looks at you with stormy, emotion-filled eyes. "Would've stayed, married her. Done the right thing." It looks like it pains him to admit it, as his brows furrow and his lips tighten.
"Wow. Must be weird seeing her now, knowing she could've been your wife." You probably shouldn't have said it aloud, but the thought of that different reality is so jarring to you that it slips before you can stop it.
"She's a stranger, really." He shrugs.
"A stranger you had sex with... once upon a time." You say, squinting as you try to imagine John and James's mum sharing anything beyond pleasant smiles and polite small talk. 
"Barely." A dismissive scoff leaves him, as he picks up the wooden spoon and returns his attention to his cooking. 
"Barely? What does that mean?" 
"Well, it was only once, and even then... every man has to learn somehow, love." John says the words as if they're so casual, yet they cause heat to rush to your cheeks.
"Your son still hasn't learned at all." You say the words without thinking, a tinge of bitter resentment bursting through. "Sorry, fuck." 
"S'fine." John tries his hardest to stifle the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips, practically throwing himself into grabbing bowls and cutlery to serve up the meal. "He really didn't know how to handle you, did he, love?" 
Your chest seizes once more—guilt, indignation, amusement, confusion. There's a hope within you that when the dust is all settled, you'll end up with someone like John, someone who can treat you better. 
"No, he didn't..." You admit weakly, before checking yourself. "Sorry, I think the pain and the blood loss are making me woozy. I'm gonna stop talking now." 
John only smiles understandingly, eyes shining with mirth, as he passes you an oversized bowl filled with delicious spaghetti. He takes a seat beside you, knee knocking into yours as he makes himself comfortable— his warmth feeling too close for comfort and yet not close enough at all. 
"Eat up, darling girl." 
********
You and John finish up your meal in companionable silence, accompanied by the rest of the tracks on the current vinyl. As always, John's cooking leaves you full and satisfied, warm from the inside out.  
Once more, you're banned from washing dishes and were only able to get on drying duty after begging John and pulling out your most convincing doe eyes. The night ended with you both turning in sooner than usual, in anticipation of John's departure the next morning.
Usually, you last saw John off when he came to visit you and James, putting on a brave face and wishing him well. You're thankful that with the new proximity, you can at least fret in the privacy of your new bedroom, away from John's worrying eyes—the last thing he needs to see before he leaves is your tear-stained cheeks. 
Sleep doesn't come easily, as you toss and turn in bed and try not to think of being alone in the coming days, or the possibility of something happening to John. 
When sleep finally does come, you wake in a panic—sweaty and dry-mouthed. The nightmare that plagued you is hard to recall, the only thing burning in your mind is the final scene. You have to flee into the night, and you're desperate to grab something to cover up with so you don't freeze to death—you can't find anything warm anywhere. The image quickly fades away as you blink your eyes open.
You roll over to the side of the bed, clutching your phone and practically burning your eyes when the screen blares into your corneas. 
3:59. 16 minutes to your alarm. 
With John's departure fast approaching, you throw yourself out of bed, grabbing your cardigan and wrapping it around yourself before you head in the direction of John's room. 
The door is closed firmly, likely to quiet any noise he makes from rustling around in preparation. You knock lightly on the wood, waiting for John to call you in. 
You step in, taking in John's appearance. It seems he decided to keep the outgrown facial hair after all, the fluffy beard leading down to the chest hair poking out from the top of a soft grey cotton tee. 
The dog tags around his neck are the only nod to his upcoming deployment, as he leaves John behind and heads off to become Captain Price.
He smiles as soon as he sees you, though it doesn't escape your notice that it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Hope I didn't wake you." 
"Nah, can't sleep." You explain, as you make your way further into the room and perch yourself on the end of John's bed gingerly. "Figured I'd make you sick of me, so you're glad to be away." 
You peer into the holdall that John's currently packing things into, inspecting his contents and mentally ticking items off a checklist.
"Don't think anything could make me glad of that, love." He frowns, pausing as he expertly folds a t-shirt and places it in his bag. "Especially at a time like this."
"I'll be fine." You say it for his sake, even if you don't entirely believe it. Your number one priority right now is sending him off with a smile. 
As you spot one of his signature beanies poking out of a side pocket, you pluck it off the duvet and pull it over your bedhead. "Maybe I'll just run riot while you're gone, throw all your cigars in the bin, and steal every beanie you own." 
That brings a smirk out of him, the worry clearing from his eyes. "Evil girl." 
"Yeah, I'm a right menace." You confirm, a gleeful smile spreading across your face unrestrained. 
Several things stand out to you in the bag or surrounding it—the sunglasses case, a tan-coloured rag, and John's beloved boonie hat. Your quick inspection gives you an insight into where John is headed—flip-flops again, you joke to yourself. 
"Guessing you're off to some shitty desert then." You comment, not intending to pry any further. 
"Feel like I never leave them." He notes—that wry smile returning to his face as he meets your gaze. 
"Have you packed your sun cream?" You ask, half joking and half serious. 
"Wouldn't hear the end of it if I didn't, hmm?" He chuckles knowingly, likely recalling the last time he came home with a sunburn and was met with your impassioned rant. He'd learned his lesson at least. 
"And the moisturiser we got you for Christmas?" 
"Already packed." He pats the toiletry bag on the bed, and you rush to pick it up, unzip it, and verify his claim.
"Lip balm?" You ask, peering up at him with a mischievous grin, just waiting for his reaction.
"Now you're just taking the piss." 
You pull your beanie down low on your forehead, just as you've seen John wear it, then you cross your arms across your chest and drop your voice. "Sorry lads, cover my six, gotta get my Burts Bees on." 
At that, he belly laughs. "I'd never live it down, and you wouldn't do that to me, would you?"  
You rise from the bed, laughing with him, before you remove the beanie and reach up to place it over his head instead. "No, Captain." You whisper, grin bright. 
"You're a handful, love." Despite his words, the fondness in his voice is clear as day.
You tap his cheek playfully before stepping away. "Well, fear not, like I said, you're rid of me for a little while." 
"Desert doesn't seem so bad now you mention it." John rolls his eyes playfully, before turning to add the final items and zipping up the bag beside him. 
"Have you got everything you need?" You ask, instinct taking over as you begin to fret over ensuring everything is perfect for John's departure. 
"I do know how to pack for myself, but if you want me to humour you..." John's hands fall to the zip, ready to tear the bag open if it would rid you of the concerned frown growing on your face. 
You back away, hands raised. Point taken, you think to yourself. "I'm used to fussing, okay." 
"You and me both." He nods, then shoulders the bag and gestures for you to head out of the room. 
You lead the way like heading up a death march, slow gait and head lowered, knowing what's to come. With each step, a sense of dread grows within you. John is leaving, and there's seemingly an unspoken agreement between you both that something about this time feels more severe. 
When you both reach the door, John shrugs on his sherpa-lined jacket, ties up his boots, and stands as he summons up the nerve to leave. 
Once again, a half-hearted smile graces his face, as he reaches out to rub at your arm. "I'll call you when I'm headed back from base, yeah?" 
You nod, blinking back the tears that threaten to bead in your eyes, once more putting on a brave face. The mention of his call makes your mind flicker to your usual routine.
"Will you be going to see—" 
"No love. I'll be coming straight home." He interrupts, squeezing you before withdrawing as if it burns to touch you.
"Stay safe, John." You whisper, the words you say every time coming easily. You swear to yourself that the words act as protection, or at least, you hope they do. 
"Always, love." He nods, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to your forehead. Then, he opens the door and steps over the threshold. "Anything you need, I'll get back to you when I can, yeah?" 
"Yeah." You nod, struggling to get out even a word as your throat tightens. 
"See you soon, darling girl." He calls out, and you watch him until his truck pulls out of the street and off toward danger.
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dotster001 · 1 year
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Hi hi! I saw your requests were open so I had an idea for some Twst boys well Floyd, Jamil, Rook, and Vil, weird group I know but they're my faves
So I've been dealing with burnout recently with school and I can imagine MC being a lot worse with Crowley and all- How would the boys react if one day MC just- passed out, like just randomly with out prompting. So maybe some comfort fluff?
Take your time you're amazing!
(thank you for your patience boo. I know this has been in my inbox for a while. I hope your burnout is better, and if not I hope this provides a little levity)
Part Two Part Three
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He's been so boooooooored lately. Shrimpy, why ya gotta spend all that time working for Crowley? You should be hanging out with him! But that's just kind of your way, and he knows he can't really stop you. So he mopes around the lounge while you're off doing who knows what.
When you stop by the Monstro Lounge, he is so fucking excited! It's the most alive he's seemed in weeks! But when you apologetically tell him that you're here to discuss food at the upcoming festival that Crowley has "graciously" allowed you to plan and manage with Azul, he gets pouty and storms off. 
He walks into the VIP room to apologize to you just in time to see you collapse. He immediately is scooping you up, not even processing what Azul is trying to tell him.
He takes you to his room, clears the clutter off his bed, decides it's not clean enough for, then lays you on Jade's bed. He grabs his fluffiest blanket, and wraps you up in it. He doesn't want to leave your side,  so he texts Jade to bring you a glass of water, and a mug of tea.
When he wakes up, he makes you drink both. He's a little intimidating about it,  but it's just because he's worried and wants to make sure you feel better fast. 
When you've drunk all that, he asks what happened. You tell him you've been so busy running around for this event, that you have had little time to take care of yourself, and your brain kind of shut itself off for a minute. He acts oddly calm during the explanation, then flops on top of you.
"I'm staying right here until you get some sleep, Shrimpy."
Once he's certain you are resting, he and Jade take a little trip to see a certain crow.
When you wake up, Floyd excitedly tells you that him and Jade are now your partners on the project! Yay! Floyd ends up doing a lot of the work, even without any prompting. It's a win win for him. You can take time to recover, and he has an excuse to be around you.
For some reason, when the event is over….your workload from Crowley is significantly smaller. How about that?
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Jamil knew this school was run stupidly and inneficiently. But when Crowley makes you, a student, fill in for a teacher who is on his honeymoon, as a professor, that's when he's lost all faith in NRC.
He offers to help you immediately, but you insist that you can handle it. He tries to argue with you on it, but you tell him that he already has too much to do, and you'd hate yourself if he added your workload to his. He begrudgingly lets you alone about it for now. He doesn't want to distress you.
You're grading papers in the Scarabia kitchen when you pass out mid sentence. He's calm under pressure, so he sighs, and carries you to the lounge laying you on one of the lavish sofas the Asim family provided. (He guesses they are good for something)
Kalim chooses that moment to walk into the room, and immediately panics. Jamil let's him know things are under control, then sends him to get a cold cloth. When he returns he places that on your forehead, and waits.
The second your eyes are open, he initiates snake whisper. He asks how long you've been awake, and you tell him the truth. You haven't slept in 30 hours, due to grading the 100+ midterm papers that needed to be finished by the end of the week. You hadn't eaten in 12 hours, and at some point every paper was looking the same 
Once he gets his information, he tells you he will be finishing the grading, and that after this you will not be helping Crowley until HE tells you it's a reasonable workload. Does he feel bad for hypnotizing you? Yes. Does he think this is the only way to make your brain take a break? Also Yes.
Once he releases you from the spell, he tells you you passed out, and that he's going to be taking care of you for a couple days. He sleeps on the floor while you take his bed. He stays up late and finishes the papers. He cooks you foods full of proteins to get your energy back up. He gives you warm milk with honey and cinnamon to help you sleep. 
He tells Crowley that he hypnotized you, and you will no longer be doing what he says without Jamil screening the workload. Bird man pouts about having to actually do his job instead of dumping everything on you, but your workload becomes much more reasonable after that.
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Vil would have to be very busy to not notice his sweet potato is not getting the rest they need. 
That said, he'd had to take two weeks off school after his new fashion line had had some major set backs. While he was gone, Crowley had swooped in with the paperwork Vil usually did, added the paperwork he was supposed to be doing, and you'd fallen out of the self care routine that Vil had worked so hard to make a habit for you. 
When he'd come back, he was working on his make up homework, while you were working on what he was horrified to find out late was his paperwork. He notices the bags under your eyes, and the way you rub them every couple minutes as though your vision is blurry, but he doesn't want to ruin what is the first moment he's had with you in two weeks. And it's so peaceful, the two of you quietly working in the same room. He's getting distracted by thinking about a future like this, when he feels you slump against him.
At first he thinks it's a bid for affection, which he is more than happy to give, but when you aren't responsive, he gets worried. He pulls out some smelling salts from his drawer (cause of course he has those) and once the smell brings you back to him, he runs his fingers along your scalp and asks what's been going on.
Once you tell him, he scowls, and walks into the bathroom for a moment. When he comes back, he tells you he's drawn you a bath. When you go into the bathroom, you see it's not only a bath, but a Bubble bath, where the bubble changed color and floated, and then popped in a shower of glitter.
Once you're in the bath, he puts a facemask on you, turns on some soothing music, and dims the lights. He assured you he will be back and leaves the bathroom. He stations Rook outside the bathroom door, because he knows he will hear it if something is wrong, then goes to yell at Crowley. (He's mortified when he finds out half of it was his paperwork)
He comes back to his room, and Rook tells him he can tell by your breathing that you are peacefully snoozing in the bath. Vil re-enters as Rook leaves, and wakes you up. He helps you finish cleaning up, then lets you borrow his softest pajamas. He makes you a smoothie, then holds you close, running his fingers through your hair, and pressing soft kisses to the crown of your head, until you drift off. He's taking you with him on his next business trip.
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Like Vil, there would have to be extreme circumstances for Rook to not have stopped you before the point of collapse. (In fact, we're going to work with that idea)
All the janitors had gone on strike. (Surprise) Luckily for Crowley, he had a perfect non magical student who would be so generous to fill in since their food, board, and classes were all free.
It was a job for multiple magic users, not ONE magicless student. You made it halfway through the day, before Rook gave up just stalking you, and decided to discuss how shaky your muscles had gotten and how you hadn't taken a lunch break yet.
He seductively backs you against a chair to trick you into sitting down for a moment, and then gracefully sits in your lap…and refuses to get up. His petit lapin will not work themselves to exhaustion. That wouldn't be very beautiful.
He texts Epel to bring you both lunch. You think once you eat, he will let you continue cleaning, despite how sore your body is. You are so silly! It's adorable that you would think that! He giggles then kisses your forehead. And that's when it fully hits you how trapped you are.
He carries you off to his room, and makes you lay down while he massages your tired muscles. You get lulled into complacency while he does so. He thinks it's adorable how safe you feel near a hunter such as himself.
Once your body is fully restored, you both pay a visit to Crowley, where Rook's eyes go dark, despite his ever present smile, and he tells him in no uncertain terms that you will not be a janitor, and that if your finances were truly an issue, he could take it up with Rook.
While Crowley would normally jump on any opportunity for money like that, Rook's eyes have a silent warning in them. Not that you notice. You're just enamored with your boyfriend acting as your knight in shining armor. Just the way he likes it.
....
Tag list-@shytastemakerthing @stygianoir @leonia0
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radiocrypt-id · 1 year
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Elody is tragic, I think, in a way that feels very close to home?
She's a woman that met someone interesting and strange and became friends with him, happy to have a friend around, since her parents are too sick to be in her life all the time. She was a little girl forced to grow up so fast, to take every type of class and feel the weight of her station on her shoulders every day, growing closer to the time she has to step up and take over, desperate to be deserving of the title. Desperate to do her parents proud.
And she's got this friend now, this sweet, gross little frog that talks and says he's a prince. His story is a strange and sad one, one she maybe can't fully understand but offers what support and sympathy she can. If she even believes him, I'm not sure she really does. And he's funny. He makes her laugh, reminds her of the fun of the world, encourages her to take care of herself and enjoy things as often as possible, reminds her to be young and happy and live freely. And she needs that. She needs someone to look her in the eyes and tell her it's okay to be a kid. It's okay to play with her ball in the woods and it's okay to sing and dance and get dressed up and do the fun parts of being a princess. He brings her joy that she hasn't had in a long time. She loves that about him, how fun and silly and clumsy he is, it's charming. She falls in love with that silly frog.
But then Snowhold comes. They have no allies, their armies are failing, their people are dying and she's up all night going over maps and strategy at a table of advisors and generals and is so stressed and trying so hard. But her silly frog is still a silly frog. He thinks about balls and good food and safe castle walls. He tells her to relax, enjoy a meal, gossip about the nobles, have fun. He hasn't changed. But she's being forced to change. Now that silly levity isn't charming and fun, it's frustrating. She doesn't have time for games and can't see how hard he's trying to make her smile. She needs a Prince, a man to stand beside her at the war table and talk tactics and look for ways to save their home and people. She needs a fighter, a hero. But Gerrard has never been a hero, he's a frog. Elody was the hero. She saved him. And she's so exhausted by being the hero. She's always taking care of someone else. She just wants to be taken care of. She just wants help. It's hard to love someone the same way in times of trouble. It's hard to find the space in all the stress and work to love Gerrard the way she did when they met.
Elody does still love him though. She does. It's a painful sort of love, in believing that he's never going to change and be what she needs him to be, in that she's always going to be the hero for him. But she loves him. She carries a shield with a lillypad on it, she wields a mace with the golden ball as part of it, she's actively carrying him with her. She's thinking of her silly little frog and hoping he's safe, where ever he's gone to hide and when it's all over, when she's saved everyone and made everything better, she'll go find him again. And then she can take him to a ball, like he wanted. She wishes he was different, but doesn't think he'll change.
Imagine what she'll find, when they meet again? Her silly little frog is still silly and clumsy and thinking about her constantly, but he's a hero now. He fought and died with his friends. He's twice upon a time. He's been Outside, in The Lines Between. He's a fighter now, he's brave, he's friends with death itself. He's a commander, great at group tactics, vital to their group. And he's got a couple kids around him, that he's exhausted by but loves in some way. He scolds them and encourages them and he's kind of a dad? And he's been looking for her, not hiding. He's been trying to find her since he left, regretting leaving her behind but really not sure how he would have helped. And he loves her, god he loves her. Even as he turns into a frog from her falling out of love with him, Gerrard loves Elody. He loves her enough to be brave, to learn the things he never got a chance to learn before, to take care of others.
Elody is so loved, and she has no idea. She loves him enough to take care of everything by herself, holding onto what parts of him she has space for during this horrible time. But Gerrard loves her enough to die trying to find her.
She has to be his hero, she never had a choice in that, but unlike most cases in life, he's trying to be her hero too, and she has no idea.
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riality-check · 1 year
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“What was it like? When you and Steve were together?” Eddie asks.
Nancy’s face takes on a grave seriousness that, honestly, scares the shit out of him. She’s Nancy Wheeler, and she’s always serious, but this is the kind of serious she gets when Eddie’s seen her talk about how awful the Hawkins Post is or the best way to aim for the kill.
This is Nancy Wheeler at her most serious. If Eddie were a lesser man, he’d be shaking in his boots. Instead, he’s only slightly aware of the way his feet are going numb in his high tops.
“Loving Steve is the easiest thing you’ll ever do,” she says. “And he’s going to find it so easy to love you back, because that’s what he does.”
Eddie wants to nod or say something to acknowledge that, but he doesn’t. He keeps sitting on the couch next to Nancy and waits for her to continue after she takes a sip of her Coke.
“Being loved by Steve is the hard part. He’s going to see you in a way that doesn’t line up with how you see yourself.”
She takes a deep breath. Unlike Eddie’s, hers doesn’t rattle in her lungs.
Straightedge.
“Because he is only ever going to see the best parts of you, and he is going to love them with everything he has.”
She looks at him for the first time. “Do you understand?”
Eddie nods, and he wants to leave it at that. Instead, he opens his mouth and asks, “Do you think you’d still be together? If it weren’t for the monsters?”
Nancy downs the rest of her Coke like a shot. Maybe she wishes that’s what it was.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what could have been, but I do know we’re different people now.”
“Okay.”
“I think,” Nancy says, because she’s not done and she’s a hell of a lot better with her words than Eddie is, “that people want what they didn’t have growing up. I want to make it big and get noticed and get the hell out. And Steve wants things that are big for him but little for me.”
She levels Eddie another look. Her big eyes are imploring.
Do you understand? they ask. Do you blame me?
Yes, Eddie thinks. No.
“So, as long as you can handle him loving you, and if you want the same things, I think you’ll be fine.”
“Just fine?” Eddie asks, trying to bring some levity back.
Nancy smiles for the first time. “More than fine. You’ll be better to him than I was.”
And with that, she gets off the couch and leaves Eddie alone.
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deputyrook · 5 months
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Impressions- 1/? Mark Hoffman x Psychic!Reader
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(Repost after I accidentally deleted my tumblr 😭)
Kerry, an old friend of yours, knows that you have a gift for clairvoyance. When she reaches another dead end in the search for Jigsaw, she brings you into the station in a moment of desperation.
Unfortunately, it's not just the two of you who are present for your revelations.
Word count: 3498
Set after Saw II. Inspired in part by this gifset. I have no plan for this, I just started writing for fun, and suddenly I had 3000 words down.
WARNINGS: Blackmail, power imbalance, abusive dynamics, overt threatening, reader is deeply afraid, general Saw-levels of horror.
“Pretty sure having civilians in here is against the rules,” Detective Mark Hoffman remarks to his colleagues as he enters the precinct room, “…and having them play with the evidence definitely is.” 
Rigg looks up toward the voice, as do you, but Allison Kerry doesn’t. Her eyes are trained on the piece of evidence that you hold in gloved hands, a small and rusted lock.
Spread out on the desk in front of you are a variety of grisly photographs- from crime scenes and autopsies, all related to the now infamous Jigsaw killer- and a few pieces of physical evidence. It turns your stomach just to see them, but you swallow your discomfort and try not to show on your face how upsetting you find it.
“Take it up with the Chief. He approved this, as long as it never gets out to the public,” Kerry responds with a scowl. 
Nobody is happy you’re here. Least of all you. Rigg is the one to finally say it to Hoffman, with an air of forced levity- “Kerry’s got a psychic friend.”
That makes you wince, and Detective Hoffman’s reaction- a slight raise of his eyebrow, and an audible scoff- makes you all the more embarrassed to be here.
“Well, I gotta see this. Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He asks Kerry, walking over and pulling up a seat to the table that you’re all sitting around. He sets his cup of coffee down on the table, right beside some horrific metal contraption, and looks you over skeptically.
“It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?” Kerry snaps, her voice raising in irritation. She finally looks over at Hoffman, shooting him a glare. “She’s been right about things before, and Eric’s been missing for months. You have another lead, you let me know.” Having defended herself, and by extension you, Kerry runs a hand through her hair and sighs. 
After a pause, she tells Hoffman your name, and then adds, “We’ve been friends since college.”
“Nice to meet you,” you say with a strained smile. He nods in response, but he’s smirking, like he finds the entire thing ridiculous. To be fair, it is.
“Listen, I don’t… normally do this kind of thing, I swear,” you say to the table of detectives, who all watch you in anticipation. You feel like you’re on a stage, and it makes you worry they can see you start to sweat. You feel the need to defend yourself further, and prove you're not insane (or worse, an idiot). “This isn’t my job. I don’t charge money to do this or anything. I’m only here because Allison asked me.”
“Well then, work your magic,” Hoffman says, taking a sip of his coffee, “Rigg, you willing to put money on this?”
“Let me guess, you’re betting against?” Rigg shoots back, and Hoffman gestures as if to say, obviously.
Ignoring the heat of embarrassment rising in your cheeks, you close your eyes. 
“I can’t promise anything,” you mumble, but even as you speak you’re starting to get impressions. Those strange feelings and impulses that beat against your intuition like a war drum. 
Turning over the lock in your hands, you feel a sudden sharp pain in your left eye- you drop the lock, cringing, and gingerly reach up to touch your eye, feeling the bone of the socket under the skin.
“I haven’t told her a thing about the investigation, by the way,” Kerry says, and you detect a note of pride, or perhaps vindication, in her tone.
“Something was… here. Cold and heavy, like a lodged bullet.” You point to your eye. The table is silent now. You could hear a pin drop now, each detective’s rapt attention singularly on you. You get the feeling of something on your face, hard and suffocating. And then, the impression of cold- the long winter, wind whistling through trees, and still snow. The forest, the river, the empty lake.
Death.
“This was- whoever was associated with this didn’t make it out alive.” You open your eyes and pick up the autopsy photos, scanning through them until you find one that fits. A sheet covers the head, but you know what’s underneath. You still feel the echo of the mask on your face. Quietly, you pick it up, and then set it back down.
“Some of the details leaked. Lucky guess. Tell us somethin’ about John Kramer or his assistant.” Hoffman says, and you see him shuffle in his seat. His demeanour has changed, going serious. Keyed into your intuition as you are, something spikes a signal of danger through the back of your mind.
Not all that unusual for the cops you’ve met, though.
For several minutes, you get nothing but flutters of feeling and pain. Your foot goes numb, prickles like pins and needles; your body feels warm, like it’s being baked under the sun. Each sensation comes and goes just as quickly. You take the strange metal contraption in your hands, feeling the weight of it in your grasp, and close your eyes again, trying to stifle the feeling of panic that rises within you.
And then slowly, it comes to you. A vision of a chessboard, with multiple pieces, moving too fast for you to follow. It hurts your head to try. Finally, you speak again.
“I think… there’s more than just one. There’s the King. The Bishop. The Rook. The Knight- there’s at least… five? No, four. No wait, there’s a Queen, but is she aware of the play, or just a pawn promoted? And who is he? Is he real, or an imitation?” Your words are coming too fast for you to censor, spilling out so quickly that you trip over them.
“Are you saying there are… a team of Jigsaw killers?” Rigg asks dubiously. You nod.
“I think so. It’s all jumbled, it’s… a thousand strings weaved into patterns that I can’t follow. There are plans laid on top of plans, curled into schemes and plots. The King’s Crown is tainted with a rot, it drips down his forehead, it hurries his hands. It guides their every act.”
You take a deep breath. “I don’t know where they are. I just feel her desperation- the Bishop. It’s like a fucking- it’s a torrent. She needs him, because she hurts, and she doesn’t know what care is like if it doesn’t hurt. God, and there’s so much hurt. It’s- it’s endless, it’s all pain. It's all pain.” 
“She’s not making any sense-” Rigg mutters.
“Eric Matthews. Where is Eric Matthews,” Kerry’s voice cuts through, bringing its own hailstorm of impressions to you- regret, remorse, desire, annoyance, desperation and guilt, heavy like a stone. Suddenly, you’re struck by the image of Kerry as an angel. You shake it off, confused.
“Ah… cold. It’s cold. He’s inside the Earth. Buried below ground, somewhere deep and dark. Poor Matthews. God. It’s so cold,” you can’t help but shudder, feeling tears welling up in your eyes. It seems so lonely.
Kerry is silent. It’s obvious she would have preferred something more optimistic.
“Anything else?” She asks finally.
“Yeah there’s… there’s something…” you bite your lip, and grimace. There’s a feeling there, distant and only a flicker, but it seems really, really important. 
“I can’t quite figure it out, it’s like… it’s like a mirror. What is it? What are you saying?” You sigh, trying to understand. A feeling of rage slips through you. Horrible, sickly loss and rage. A heady sadism, the feeling of power. A feeling of voyeurism- of enjoying it.
You receive a flash of an image, a large figure, in a pig mask. That image is pretty fucking clear, but there’s something about it that you’re just not getting, that seems like it should be really, really obvious to you. You chase the feeling through the corners of your mind, like a dream you can’t quite remember.
The image of the pig’s mask turns to a theatre mask, and then to a blank void. It swirls and laughs at you, mocking. 
“There’s something I’m not seeing with him. The brutal one, the Rook. It’s like... he’s been tied up and pulled into this by a wire. The King uses it to move him, but what started in reluctance has become...something else. Something sick,” you mumble. Ironically, with the face a blank and swirling void, the impression becomes stronger.
You feel obsession, the kind that eats away at a soul. They all have it, but this is like a slow burn, a chemical fire in his heart that erupts and spills out. He enjoys it.
And suddenly, it’s like he’s right there. Close,  close, it’s so strong and burning so clear because he’s right in front of-
Your eyes snap open, and you’re staring at Detective Mark Hoffman, whose eyes drill into yours. 
Without a doubt, with one hundred percent, absolute certainty, you know that he is one of the Jigsaw killers.
“Uh,” you tear your gaze from his, and look at Kerry. The prickle of danger is alighting every nerve in your body, and quickly, you’re starting to panic. You laugh nervously. “Sorry, I don’t know what that was. I don’t have anything else. I should go.” Abruptly, you stand. You need to get the fuck out of this room, where Jigsaw is sitting just feet you-
“Hold on.” Hoffman’s voice freezes you. He rests a hand on your arm, and like a frightened rabbit, you jump. “You alright? That was a lot. You sure you didn’t get anything else?”
“What, are you a believer now?” Rigg asks him. He too looks a bit shaken, but frowns. “Sorry, but we didn’t learn anything from that. I could have told you Eric’s dead. The rest was a mess.”
You incline your head in an apology, feeling your hands start to shake. “I didn’t get anything else. No identities of the accomplices, or anything like that,” Fuck. Fuck, you need to stop talking. When you say the word accomplice, Hoffman’s grip tightens on your arm.
His eyes meet yours, and you feel your breath catch. You think you’re going to be sick.
“You did good,” Kerry says, though she sounds disappointed. She looks over her notepad. “We got a lot of information that’ll be helpful to keep in mind as we investigate. And who knows, maybe more will come to you later.”
“Yeah, maybe,” You say. Suddenly, another wave of pain and dizziness crashes over you, so overpowering that your vision swims. You’re falling, spinning, and then you’re caught in a warm embrace. Sturdy arms are holding you, keeping you from collapsing to the ground.
You open your eyes to see the killer holding you, peering down at you. Expressionless.
Somehow, it feels comforting, even knowing what you know. Somehow, it feels protective.
Lies upon lies.
“Hey, I’m headed out anyway. I can drive you home,” Hoffman says gently, and your eyes widen. Wee oo, wee oo! DANGER!
“Oh, no, I’m okay, really,” You mumble, but as you try to stand and extricate yourself from Hoffman’s grip, he just holds tighter. He smiles in a way where you can sense the snarl, just below the surface.
“Shh. It’s alright. Don’t worry about it,” He says, quiet and forceful, right beside your ear. You catch Rigg rolling his eyes. 
“Really Mark?” He mutters. You shift in the embrace again, attempting to stand upright. This time, he lets you go, but keeps a hand on you. To the others you’re sure it looks like a helping hand to steady you. To you, it seems like a threat.
But what can you do? If you scream out that holy fuck, he’s a Jigsaw accomplice, Kerry might believe you and no one else will. You don’t know what Hoffman might do under pressure, but you’re certain that the word of a crackpot psychic wouldn’t be enough to put him behind bars. Not without some kind of proof. And without that, your safety would very much be in danger. More than it already is.
You could adamantly refuse his ride, but then he would definitely know that you know. And again, that puts you in a very dangerous position. 
Maybe you could play it off as though you didn’t see or know anything? What choice did you have? Kerry had accidentally fucked you by asking you to come in and do your best.
“Are you okay?” She asks, concerned. She looks from you, to Hoffman. “I have to stay at the office a bit longer, but I’ll catch up with you after. I promise, Mark’s a good guy, even if he looks scary and gets on my nerves. He’ll get you home safe.”
You muster up a smile. Kerry and Rigg know you’re leaving with him. He can’t do anything. 
“S-sure. A ride home would be great, then. If it’s not too much trouble.” Your smile wobbles under the intensity of Hoffman’s stare. You feel like a mouse, being cornered by a hawk. Finally, he lets go of you, only to put his hand on the small of your back.
“Steady now,” he says, "It's no trouble." You nod.
“Thanks. Sorry again I couldn’t be of more help,” you shoot Kerry an apologetic smile, and are ushered out of the room by Detective Hoffman. 
He leads you out of the precinct, keeping his hand on your back as he does. All the while, your stomach churns in anxiety. Down the corridors, and around countless bends and offices, you're lead down the stairs and eventually reach the door outside.
He stays right beside you all the way out to his car, close enough that you can hear him breathing. By now, it’s dark out, a quarter past nine in the evening. Kerry had asked you to come late, so that if anyone was watching the precinct, you wouldn’t draw any attention- jokes on her, you supposed.
Hoffman opens the car door for you- what a gentleman- and closes it behind you with a heavy thud. It feels like the closing of a coffin door.
A coffin. Another flash, of a coffin filled with glass. Blood, everywhere blood. 
“Never believed in psychics before,” Hoffman says to you. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat when you open your eyes. You hadn’t heard him enter the car.
“That’s what Kerry said, the first time I told her,” you murmured. You glance around the vehicle. The doors are locked from the inside, and you don’t know how to open them. 
“What’d you see this time?” Hoffman asks as he starts up the car.
“Uh, I don’t know. It was all blurry,” You reply. If you’re going to try to convince him you’re a shit psychic, you’d better start now. 
“Uh-huh,” he replies as he pulls out of the parking lot, “You’re a terrible liar, you know.”
You swallow nervously, your heart starting to beat wildly in your chest.
“I haven’t told you where I live,” you mention, trying to keep your voice light.
“Let’s go for a drive,” Hoffman answers coldly.
Oh, you’re so fucked. 
You close your eyes, searching your intuition and trying to calm your breathing. The damn ‘gift’ has never been much help to you, but if it could get you out of this situation, you would pray to Cassandra every night for the rest of your life in thanks.
“Don’t bother lying any more.” At first, you think it’s your intuition saying that. After a second, you realize it was Detective Hoffman. “You said enough that I know you’re for real. So what’d you see?”
You glance out the window. He’s taking you out of the downtown core, away from the busy streets and traffic lights and out toward the highway. Swallowing nervously, you reply, “A glass coffin. A lot of blood. I don’t know if it’s something that’s happened or is going to happen. It’s never really clear- that’s true.”
And I’m sorry about your sister, a voice inside you whispers surreptitiously. You bite your tongue before you say it out loud.
“How often you get that?” He asks.
“It depends. After a session like today, I’ll get waves of it for a while. And then it’ll ebb. But it always comes back.” A migraine is starting to bloom between your eyes, but you know it’s the least of your problems tonight.
His grip tightens on the steering wheel. Strangely, for a moment, he seems nervous. “Can you... can you talk to the dead?”
You shake your head. “No. Sorry. I wish I could.”
He drives silently for a while. For a weird moment, it almost seems peaceful. He drives on the highway, and then exits onto an off ramp, into an industrial district. Hoffman drives in silence with you for the better part of half an hour. Then, finally, he pulls off beside an old mill of some kind, one that looks like it shut down years ago.
There is not a soul around. If you were to start screaming now, at the top of your lungs, you doubt anyone would hear you. Hoffman unbuckles his seat belt, and turns to face you.
“Are you going to murder me?” You ask, voice shaking.
“Now why would I do that?” There’s a note of false concern in his voice, which is offset by the smug smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. He wants you to say it out loud. 
Right now, you’re feeling helpless.
“Alright. Alright. Yes, I think- I don’t know what I saw. Maybe it was you, maybe it was someone else. Bringing me out here instead of home isn’t a good look for you, you know,” you ramble nervously. He watches you.
“You think I’m the accomplice," he confirms, "Explains why you were so jumpy after,” Hoffman leans across the middle console, and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. It would feel intimate, if it wasn’t overtly threatening. 
“Which brings me back to my question. Did you bring me out here to kill me?,” you size up the windows as you speak, wondering if you could break them, if you had to. Can you roll them down? Nope, locked too, just like the door.
“You’re the psychic.” He replies, before he says, “I’ve still got questions that you might be able to help me with. You’re too useful. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I won’t lie to you, so don’t lie to me, either,” you snap back at him. He actually laughs at that, incredulous.
“You’re really something,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Listen. Your... theories. You tell them to me, and only me. You don’t tell Kerry, you don’t tell Rigg. You wouldn’t want to put them in danger, would you? No one would believe you anyway, but let’s not take any chances.” Hoffman leans into your space again, using his size to intimidate you. He’s only inches from you, caging you entirely back against the passenger side car door.
You nod your head in acquiescence. He hums in approval.
“Good. You tell Kerry about your theories, and it doesn’t end well for anyone, get it? Can you 'sense' that?”
And you can. You know he will kill you if he has to. He’ll kill you, Kerry, your family, anyone that gets in his way or threatens his cover. You get the horrible, hopeless sense that nothing would be able to stop him if he wanted you dead.
“Give me your phone.” You pass him your flip phone, still feeling dizzy with adrenaline and a pulse of relief- that he’s not going to kill you. At least not tonight. Probably.
After a few moments, he passes your phone back to you, leaning back into your space. A contact has been added under the name Mark. 
“Now I wanna hear you say it. You’re not going to tell anyone else.,” pressed back against the car door, you almost feel like you can’t breathe, but you nod quickly. Sickeningly, your face is flushed from the proximity.
“I won’t tell anyone else what I see about the Jigsaw murders. Just you,” you breathe, and he nods, touching your neck for a brief moment before he lets go and leans back, sitting back in the driver’s seat and looking you over.
“Before I take you home. Is there anything else you picked up that you haven’t told me about?”
“Mostly just feelings. Power, rage, loss, pain. Things like that. The, um, pig mask,” you pause, floundering, worried that continuing will piss him off. But he catches it- of course he does- and raises an eyebrow.
“And?”
“And I’m- I’m sorry about your sister.”
He sits back like you’ve knocked the breath out of him. He looks truly stunned, staring at you with his mouth slightly agape. You quickly add, “I don’t know anything about what happened. Just uh, just that sentence. And the feeling of... of a crushing loss.”
“Right,” he shakes his head, starting the car back up. He nods to himself, like he’s still processing what you’ve said. “Fuckin'... wow."
"Yeah, the intuition doesn't pull any punches," You mumble in return. He glances at you in surprise, and you quietly curse your inability to shut the fuck up.
Reluctantly, you give him your address, and he starts to drive back to the city. Within another half an hour, you’re pulling into the driveway of your apartment building, anxious to be out of the car and into your home.
“Now I know where you live. Got it?” He murmurs. You nod again, mutely. As you exit the car, Mark stops you.
“I’ll be in touch,” he says, before you scamper into your building.
NEXT CHAPTER
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Safest with You (Ch. 7 - The Third Date)
5.3K / Modern AU Retired Mob Enforcer!Din Djarin x fem!Reader
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Summary: Din takes you to see a prize fight, and the evening does not end the way either of you expect.
Warnings: Fluff but also Angst, pet names as usual (pretty bird, baby, pretty girl, etc.), descriptions of blood splatter, mention of alcohol consumption, men (not Din) harassing reader at a bar, very poor description of boxing by a person who knows nothing about boxing (me.)
A/N: I'm...sorry about this 🫣 Our (first!) chapter with angst; oh my feelings - we will get through it together? For some levity, while I'm trying not to be too heavy handed with the Star Wars references, I did have a lot of fun plopping in some character names from The Mandalorian to make up Din's rag-tag group of mob enforcer friends. Picking a Hutt to insert was another story - I tried to pick a name that (exists and) fit into the scene, but I'm not married to it; if upon reading you think another Hutt family character's canon characteristics are more fitting, please let me know and I'll change it! Thanks and thanks as always for reading!
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Series Masterlist
“Ok, hang on, I gotta let Rory into the meeting.”
The mosaic on the screen shifts, and Rory appears in a new tile, “I can’t believe it’s a Saturday and I’m taking a Zoom meeting.”
“Stoppppp. It’s for the greater good – please help me pick an outfit,” you plead with an exaggerated pout.
“You never ask for fashion advice?  We’re always asking you.”
“Ok, thank you for hyping me but for real I need help.  I’m going to a boxing match!?  Movies and pop culture tell me that every woman there is either wearing a bandage dress or a bikini and I’m not wearing either,” you step back to show off your bed that’s cover in heaps of clothing options.
You’re nervous.  Not because of anything Din’s said or done, and not even because it’s the “third date” (not as if you and Din are following any type of out-dated dating script), but because you’re stepping into Din’s world tonight.  So far, you and Din have been dating in a blissful little bubble, just the two of you (and Al!), but tonight, you were going to meet the people closest to him, his people.  When you had confessed your nerves to Din earlier, he had affectionately told you he was proud to be bringing you as his date tonight; you didn’t want to let him down.
In the end, you and your friends opt for a white, off the shoulder silk shirt, loosely tucked into a silver skirt.  The shoulder cut-out of the shirt drapes purposefully low down your arm, revealing the entire strap and more than a little of the top of your lacy black bra chosen especially for Din.  There, you think, it’s not a bikini, but it’s sexy.
Din couldn’t agree more.  Your little lingerie peek-a-boo is nearly all he can think about at the restaurant and the entire cab ride over to the fight venue.  A few times during dinner he might have lost his train of thought mid-sentence, teased mercilessly by that small triangle of lace and the ample curve of your breast that isn’t contained within.  You blush and smirk at his barely concealed drooling.  Now in the cab, Din has his arm draped around you, and you let him absentmindedly toy with the exposed strap; periodically he slips a finger or two under the strap and slides it down as far as your innocent looking white shirt will allow, then back up again.  You can feel your nipples harden against the soft lace, and by the time you step out of the cab, you’re flushed and your core is already fluttering. 
You take Din’s arm and walk with him towards the entrance, still somewhat nervous; Din senses your hesitancy and not used to seeing you withdrawn in any way, he pulls you aside before you get to the main doorway.
Holding you close, one hand lingering on your lower back and the other cupping your face, he gives you a long, deep kiss, meant to be soothing.  Opening your eyes and you murmur, “Just one more, please”.
“One more?”
“One more minute.  One more kiss.  While it’s still just the two of us,” you explain, wistfully.
“Pretty bird, we don’t have to go in.  Just say the word and we’ll go somewhere just you and me.  It can be just the two of us for as long as you’d like,” Din gently strokes your cheek with his thumb and gazes at you with sincerity brimming in his eyes.
Reaching up, you bring Din’s face down to yours and kiss him tenderly.  You want to let him know you’re okay.  You’re nervous, but also somewhat excited to see this world that’s such a big part of Din’s life, and the idea that he wants to include you and introduce you to his friends is actually so touching.  You nuzzle into your favourite little nook right under his jaw, and whisper, “Let’s go in.”
Din takes your hand, and holding on tightly, leads you in to the building.  It’s already insanely busy inside, filled with people here for the fight; as you thread through the crowd, even in the dim lighting, you hear lots of people shouting Din’s name – waving hello, clapping him on the shoulder as they go by.  Din leads you through a side door away from the bustle and takes you down a quiet side corridor; you’re about to ask where you’re going when you see some people up ahead wearing “Mando’s Gym” gear.  In the center of everything, there is an older gentleman in a colourful striped sweatsuit, and a young man, who is wearing baggy grey shorts and a loosely tied warm up robe; you recognize the younger man as Din’s sparring partner from the day you visit the gym after dropping your dry cleaning off at Peli’s.  Din is greeted enthusiastically by both men with big hugs; he claps the younger man on the back and introduces you, then, his voice filling with pride, brags, “Pretty bird, this is Jimmy.  Best middleweight division fighter this side of the bridge.  One of Mando’s best.  And our tireless chief, head coach, Greef Karga, the best of the best.”
You shake their hands happily, and they in turn seem happy to meet you as well; you think you spot them giving each other a knowing look, but it was so fleeting you’re not sure.  Regardless, you enthusiastically wish them luck and let them know how excited you are to be here. When he hears it’s your first fight, Greef tells you you’re in for a treat and gives you some novice spectator pointers – in particular, he tells you to watch out for a move call the “Mando Roll”, a move made famous by Din during his career.  Din hypes Jimmy up with some pep talk and some light combination drills before he takes your hand to go; you wave goodbye to the two men and wish them luck one last time before asking Din, “The Mando Roll, eh?  Didn’t realize I was here with a celebrity.”  You grin at him proudly, and Din’s chest puffs up a little but he responds humbly, “Nah.  Don’t believe everything you hear about me here.  Especially from Paz.  Don’t believe a thing Paz says.”
As if on cue, you come upon the man himself, who seems to be waiting for you and Din so you can all walk to your third row seats together. 
Paz is hilarious.  He has a deep booming voice, and a boisterous spirit about him; he’s huge, bigger than Din, but in the same way you don’t find Din’s size to be imposing, neither do you find Paz’s.  He regales you with childhood stories about Din and tells joke after joke, all the while pretending to ignore Din’s protests and looks of mortification that honestly make everything Paz says even funnier.  He doesn’t forget to ask you questions about yourself, and your heart melts when Din chimes in to brag about you when he thinks you’re not doing so enough yourself; Paz looks impressed before he gives you a mock look of condescension, “You sure you’re with the right guy?” jabbing his thumb at Din.  You look up at Din fondly and nod softly, “Yes, definitely.”  Din can’t stop looking at you either, eyes filled with adoration and, if he’s being honest with himself, maybe love.  When he pulls you in tightly, Paz gives him a look and nod of approval, which Din didn’t need, but finds himself appreciating nonetheless. 
The lights dim and the fighters’ ring entrances begin; you cheer loudly with Din and Paz when Jimmy goes by, looking pumped and intimidating.  The first few rounds of fighting go by in a blur; the fighters move with blinding fast speed, unleashing powerful punch after punch – it’s violent and graceful all at once.  Both Din and Paz are pointing things out to you, teaching you boxing terminology and noting finer points on the bout that you definitely wouldn’t notice otherwise; when the bell dings signaling the end of a particularly intense round, Paz turns to you, “Did you see that last move, with the bob and weave?  That’s the “Mando Roll”.  Your boy invented that!  It’s what’s going to win Jimmy this fight, you just watch.”   You look at Din, who’s got a cocky smile on his face, even though he’s running his hand through his curls, bashfully.  Your eyes shine with pride; you knew from the articles and awards at the gym and his apartment that Din had been a talented and successful fighter… but tonight you’re seeing for the first time that it was more than that.  He’s an important figure in this community, a leader with a legacy… just like his dad.  You make a mental note to share this thought with Din later; for now, you hope he can tell by the expression on your face how proud of him you are. And how proud you are to be here with him.
If you thought the excitement and intensity of the fight would die down a little in the later rounds, you were mistaken; if anything, the crowd gets rowdier and louder, amping the fighters up more, even though they have to be exhausted.  Nearing the end of round 10, Jimmy gets the upper hand against his opponent, drilling him against the ropes before stepping back and delivering a knock out uppercut.  This last punch happens as if in slow motion; Jimmy’s opponent’s feet leave the ground as the force from Jimmy’s glove propels him backwards, body twisting slightly before he falls to the ground unconscious.  Before you’ve finished processing what you’re watching, you’re hit with the losing fighter's blood splatter.  Most of it lands on the people sitting in the rows in front of you, but a fair amount lands on your shirt and you can feel a bit of it on your cheek.  Instinctively, you touch it with your hand, accidently smearing it.  Din looks at you in horror but gathers himself quickly to ask you with deep concern if you’re alright.  You have to admit, you’re not sure how to feel, but you let him know you’re okay with a reassuring smile before asking him to point you in the direction of the restroom so you can clean up.  In the restroom, the droplets that landed on your skin are easily and thoroughly cleaned off, but your shirt is a bit of a mess.  The delicate silk is splattered in a big, almost Pollock-esque pattern; you decide to leave it as is, figuring you’ll probably just turn it into a bigger mess if you try to clean it here. 
You get back to your seat as Jimmy is being declared the winner of the fight in the ring, and you’re glad to see that his opponent has regained consciousness and is standing up of his own accord.  You cheer as Jimmy’s arm is raised as the victor, but notice that Din doesn’t appear to be joining in the reverie.  In fact, he looks downright despondent.  Taking his hand, you give him a soft, but quizzical look and mouth, “Everything okay?”
No. Everything was not okay.  Din had seen a lot bloodshed in his life, hell, he had caused his fair share, but he's never become desensitized to the underlying violence.  He was not prepared for that type of violence, bloody violence, to touch you.  In the second before he had realized where the blood splatter had come from, all he saw was you covered in blood, and he had felt nothing but intense panic and fear.  And maybe, a little voice in his head adds, guilt. Even now, he is reeling from those feelings.  He doesn’t know how to articulate any of this, so instead he drops his eyes to your stained shirt and says sadly, “I’m sorry about the mess, pretty bird.” 
Ducking a little so you’re now holding his gaze, you look softly at Din, somehow knowing he’s feeling more than he’s letting on; you kiss him warmly and whisper, “It’s okay. I’m okay,” before wrapping your arms around Din’s neck and pulling him down into you.  You feel Din’s back muscles relax under your hands, as he presses you in tightly and just holds you for a minute.  Behind your back, Din and Paz lock eyes; a look of understanding passes between the two men before Din closes his eyes and let’s himself melt into your embrace.
Now that the fight is over, most of the crowd moves, almost as one, to a bar across the street for the planned after party.  Din’s mood seems to have lightened considerably; with his arm around your waist, he steers you through the crowd, shouting salutations to people he knows and sporadically introducing you to people as they come up to say hi.  You don’t remember all the names, but they all seem to be people that have known Din from when he was a child, watched Din box during his glory days, are somehow associated with the gym, knew Din’s dad or some combination of the above.  Even more memorable are some of the stories Din whispers in your ear when out of earshot of the person you just met (like the gym member who thought that the Mando’s locker rooms had a nude sauna.  They don’t), and you’re glad that the faces are all kind of a blur because otherwise, you might never be able to face some of these people again.  The entire bar erupts with cheers when Jimmy, Greef and some of the other team from Mando’s arrives; they head straight for Din and you give them your hearty congratulations once Din’s released them from his bear hugs.  You assure Jimmy that you thoroughly enjoyed your first boxing match and you’re glad it was one of his; when Greef learns that you saw the “Mando Roll” he looks like a proud papa bear, of Jimmy or you, you’re not sure.  Slowly, the entire friend group descends on your and Din’s location and you get a chance to meet them all.  In addition to Paz, there’s Woves, Mayfeld, Bo, Koska, and a few younger boxers from the gym, Brian, Santos, and Iggy tonight.  It’s a great group; everyone is welcoming and even appear eager to meet and get to know you.  You dance with Din, laugh at Paz’s jokes and sip drinks with the group. 
At a certain point, you need a bit of a breather, so you volunteer to go to the bar to get the next round of drinks for everyone.  When you give your order to the bartender, you’re told it might take a while given the number of drinks; honestly, you don’t mind and happily take the opportunity to give your social battery a mini-charge, check your messages, and just take in your surroundings.  You’ve missed a lot of messages and you’re about to dive into the group chat when you’re aware of someone standing directly in front of you.  You look up; it’s a stranger, and not one you remember Din introducing you to earlier in the evening. He’s standing uncomfortably close to you, as if you’re already acquainted, which you most certainly are not.  Once the stranger knows he has your attention, he lays on a thick, “Don’t think I’ve seen a pretty thing like you around here before.”  You appraise the man in front of you; he’s okay looking but there’s something about his posture, his presence that’s just... slimy.  Suddenly, you notice on either side of you his friends inching closer, flanking you, and they too seem to have a greasy, sluggish look about them.  You almost sigh; their intent is so obvious, and all the more insidious for not trying to hide it well. Under different circumstances, you would be feeling at best, harassed, and at worst, panic, but with Din and his friends just a few steps away, you know you’re perfectly safe.
“You wouldn’t have.  First time,” you give a thin smile, before making a gesture to show you need to check your phone now.
“Well let me and my friends show you a good time!  We know everyone here.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got a great group of hosts already,” and you point towards Din and his friends.  The men take a look in the direction you’re pointing and seem to hesitate, but then carry on as if what you said is a but a mere inconvenience.
Din had been talking to Paz when he looks over and sees you being surrounded at the bar and hisses, “Fucking Hutts.”  Paz looks over as well, “She looks like she can handle it.”  And it’s true, you really do look like you’re fine (annoyed, but fine), but Din sighs, “Yeah, but she shouldn’t have to.  Those guys are slime.  She shouldn’t be anywhere near them.”  Paz raises an eyebrow, “You wanna talk about what’s really bugging you?  I saw you back there when she got blood on her.  You worried she can’t handle being with a Mando?”
Din shakes his head; it’s not that.  He is sure you can handle anything… but should you have to?
“You’re worried she’s too sweet for all this?” Paz gestures generally.
Sighing again, Din shoulders droop a little, “Maybe.  She’s a good girl, you know?”  That little voice in his head from earlier is nagging him with more insistence now, too good.  He’s watching you, knowing you’d make eye contact with him if you needed help, but he really can’t stand you being so close to those assholes.  You’re not even giving Gorga Hutt and his cronies a forced smile anymore; he sees your mouth make the words: “No, I’m sure.  No, thank you” and he’s off, long strides reaching you with just a few steps.  He walks right past the man standing stupidly close to you, and maintaining eye contact with him, says, “Hutt.”  The man practically sneers back, “Mando,” as Din slides an arm protectively around your waist and turns to stare daggers at the 3 men who have now all lined up together.  Luckily, at this moment, the bartender appears and slides over a tray with all your drinks, so you tug on Din’s arm, “Do you mind helping me carry these?” and like that, the two of you leave the three Hutt men before they can get another word in.
Everyone is thrilled to get their refills, and you take the opportunity to ask, “How come those guys back there called you guys “The Mandos”?  Is it just because of the gym?”
Maybe you imagine it, but there seems to be moment of stalled silence where no one in the group speaks, before Bo pipes up and answers, “It was the name of our club when we were kids; the gym was like our clubhouse, so… look, we weren’t very creative kids, okay?”  Everyone laughs, and Bo waves you over and starts telling you some of the shenanigans the group got into when they were young.
“You really didn’t let her know what she’s stepping into, brother,” Paz says quietly so only Din hears.
Din looks at Paz with something like regret.  He’s doing a visual sweep of the room; it’s second nature to him in crowds like tonight’s, but it also serves to distract himself from the agitation of running into the Hutts.  He looks around the room and sees a few men leering at you; not just the Hutts, although Gorga is still at the bar where you left him and looking over with a sour expression, but other unsavoury types that Din is no stranger to.  Din can read the look he sees in their eyes: to folks like that, you were a mark.  Prey.  The voice in his head gets louder: You were a pretty bird and he had brought you into a den of hunters, and you didn’t even know.
Din’s so deep in his own thoughts, he doesn’t notice when a petite brunette breaks away from a group of girls hovering on the periphery of his friends and makes a beeline for you.
You’re in mid conversation with Bo, who you’re finding to be incredibly refreshing and interesting being a female body builder when you turn to put your empty glass down; however, turning back, you find a girl you haven’t met has wedged herself between you and Bo while you were faced away.  The look on Bo’s face indicates she’s just as surprised you are.
“So you’re Din’s date.”  This is stated more like a fact than a question.
“I guess I am,” you introduce yourself; the girl says her name is Vanessa and she’s giving you a smile but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, so you honestly can’t tell where this conversation is going.
“You know, so many of us girls have tried to lock Din down, maybe you’ll finally be the one to do it.”
Oh.  Does Din have… groupies?  “Oh!” you give a polite laugh, “I can honestly say that locking anyone down or having anyone lock me down, has not crossed my mind.”
“A couple of us girls have had a lot of fun trying,” she tilts her head in the direction of a group of girls that are hovering close by, “Din’s a total catch.  One of the best I’ve ever had.”
Ah ha.  This is new for you.  All your life you’ve been a girl’s girl, and one thing about being a girl’s girl is to never let men be the cause for contention, but man oh man, this girl is definitely fishing hard for a reaction from you; you know what she wants, but it’s honestly not in you to give.  Instead, you look at her with a sympathetic expression, “Oh I don’t doubt it.  Din’s probably one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.”  It’s the truth and the best you can offer her.
She looks at you with disbelief before scampering off; Bo stifles a laugh before the two of you return to your conversation.
Din is starting to feel like he’s been away from you too long; then he knows he’s been away from you too long when Bo comes by and tells him about your little interlude with Vanessa.  He immediately finds you; slipping his arms around you from behind, Din nuzzles your neck and murmurs, “Sorry, I’ve been neglectful, baby.  Not leaving your side for the rest of the night, I promise.”
You turn in his arms and winding your arms around his waist, you happily press your mouth to his, “Don’t worry.  I’ve been thoroughly entertained.  I’ve been learning soooooooo much about you, Din.”  Your eyes are twinkling. 
Din should have known that you wouldn’t let Vanessa bother you; although he still feels like he has to address it.  He presses his forehead to yours, “So… I heard you had a visitor.”
“Oh right. Vanessa,” you chuckle.
“Pretty bird, there’s nothing going on, I promise.”
You give Din a quick, reassuring kiss, “Oh, I know.  I wasn’t bothered by what she said.”
“…but you were bothered?” Din pulls away to look at you, as if checking you over to make sure you were alright.
You tuck yourself under his chin and sigh, “It’s nothing really.  Just... surprising? It’s been a really long time since someone, never mind someone I don’t even know, has gone out of their way to be intentionally mean to me.”
Din feels his chest constrict.  Of course you would be perceptive enough to recognize casual cruelty when you saw it, and of course it would wound your tender heart, “I’m sorry, pretty bird.  You don’t deserve that.”
You burrow deeper into his arms, “Thank you.”
“I still want to make sure you know, there isn’t anyone else. Only you, baby.”
“Okay,” you lift your face to his and invite him to kiss you.  He melts into your lips, but can’t ignore the persistent voice in his head that’s only gotten louder over the course of the evening anymore.
---
In the cab on the way home, Din is quiet.  You snuggle extra close to him and when he tightens his arm around you, you nuzzle your way into your nook and press light kisses to his neck.
Din looks down at you and his heart breaks a little at the sweet look you give him; he can’t help himself, and he kisses you, soft and long – he knows he shouldn’t with what he’s about to do, but he also knows this could very well be his last chance to kiss you and he can’t convince himself to pass it up. 
He wonders how it could end like this – when he first saw you this evening, gorgeous and sexy as hell, teasing him with a peek at your black lace lingerie, he was sure tonight was the night he was finally going to take you upstairs and ruin you, not the night he was going to walk away. 
But he had made up his mind before leaving the bar.  Paz was right, you were too sweet for his world.  Din had been busy trying to make sure that he deserved you, he hadn’t thought about if you deserved what he would bring into your life.  You didn’t; you didn’t deserve to be on the periphery of violence, never knowing if it would touch you directly, you didn’t deserve to be in the company of lowlifes and scumbags that would take advantage of your kindness, and you certainly did not deserve to be the recipient of any nastiness simply for caring about him.  How could he bring this kind of darkness into your life?
You’ve been the best thing to happen to him in a long time, and Din’s heart aches knowing these are some of the last moments he will get to spend with you.  But when, out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of the same shirt that was so inviting to him earlier with blood splatter that looks almost black in the night, it hardens his resolve. 
You sigh deeply into the kisses, only breaking away and opening your eyes when the cab starts to slow down.  Din pays for the cab and helps you out; as soon as he closes the door of the car and it drives away, you make to walk into the building.  Tugging on his hand, you playfully ask, “Did you want to come up and get Al with me, or are you still pretending you don’t want to come up?”  To your surprise, Din doesn’t budge from his spot on the sidewalk and drops your hand.  He stuffs both hands in his pockets and can’t quite look at you when he says, “I don’t think I can come up.” You’re about to make a silly joke about it being the third date, when he continues, “…and I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
At first, you’re not sure you heard him correctly but then you see Din's face; while not quite facing you directly, you can see it looks downtrodden and tired, and you realize he's being serious.  You forget how to breathe for a moment and you don’t know what to say. Didn’t you just have a fun night, full of promise? Hadn’t he kissed you the entire cab ride over? Weren’t the last two weeks of getting to know each other romantic and deliciously tension filled? You’re confused and you say the first ridiculous thing that comes to mind, “You don’t… want to... court me anymore?”
Din didn’t think his heart could hurt anymore, but the way you were looking at him, confused and upset, was proving him wrong.  He shouldn’t have kissed you in the cab.  It had been selfish.  He knows he's been so selfish when it came to you, and that stops now. Din struggles to get the words out, “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I mean, tonight… I shouldn’t have taken you to the fight tonight.  You don’t belong in a place like that.  You showed up in a beautiful outfit and… fuck.” He’s getting flustered now, but he forces himself to press on, “…it’s ruined.” He gestures to the blood splatter on your shirt and hangs his head.
“It’s just a little blood, Din.  It will come out. Nothing has been ruined, I promise,” you can see he’s distressed and you want to comfort him.  You try making a little joke to lighten the mood, “I mean, I know you know a good dry cleaner.”
“It’s not right.  It never should have happened!  A girl like you doesn’t belong near any place like that.”
Oh.  You only now come to the realization that perhaps you hadn’t been paying attention and Din didn’t have fun tonight.  The date had been on his “turf”, so to speak, and around people he’s known a lot longer than he’s known you; maybe Din had had certain expectations on how the evening was supposed to go... expectations that you apparently didn’t meet. “Din, for the record… I had a lot of fun tonight.  I didn’t realize I wasn’t fitting in; I’m sorry if the evening didn’t go the way you had wanted.”  Now it’s you that can’t meet his eye.
“No, no, it’s not… it’s… fine.  It was just clear to me tonight that we come from different worlds and… maybe it’s not a good fit.  I’m sorry.”
You’re trying to swallow your feelings but they’re getting caught in your throat; you force yourself to say, “You don’t have to apologize.  I thought… well… it doesn’t matter what I thought. But it was only our third date, Din – you’re entitled to feel that I’m not for you.” You’re trying so hard to appear calm and neutral despite your heart breaking, that you miss Din wincing at those words. “I guess I want to say that I’m still glad we met, Din. And, thank you.  Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for me these past few weeks – all the food when I worked late, helping me walk the dog… the books. Really, thank you.” You pause, shrug a little, then hold onto your arms, trying to make yourself as small as you feel while delaying the next words for as long as you can, “Goodbye.”
Din nods, “Goodbye.”
You walk away, finally free to cry when you realize that you still have to walk the dog.  Even though your tears are already spilling over, you turn around, “Din?” He’s still standing where he was, having not moved, but looks up when you call his name.  Once you have Din’s attention, you look away; you can’t bear to see the expression on his face as he watches you cry.  “I’m going to take Al for a walk. I’ll be back down in just a minute.” Your voice starts to break, “Is it okay if you’re not here when I do?”
“Of course.” Din turns and walks away from you.  You don’t see his own eyes have welled up before you turn to go in.
Inside, you clip the dog up and give him a lot of kisses in the elevator.  True to his word, Din is nowhere to be found when you get outside.  Al looks around, excitedly; most likely for Din.  Perhaps he can still smell him.  You kneel down and say sadly to your dog, “He’s not here, baby. Turns out he didn’t quite like us as much as we liked him.” Al licks a few tears off your cheek as if to comfort you and then trots off to start sniffing a tree.
---
Din watches you with Al from a distance away, out of sight.  He knew you were upset and he wanted to make sure you were safe, being out alone with your dog.  But if he was being honest, it was a perfectly safe neighbourhood – he just simply wanted to look at you for as long as he could.  He stays looking up at your apartment long after you’ve gone in, leaving only when your lights go out.
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vestaclinicpod · 3 months
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Audio Drama Sunday - 14th Jan ✨
Oh, friends, I have had a shit week but these listens have definitely gone some way to making it bearable. Happy Audio Drama Sunday 🎧
👻 @tellnotalespod oh how I love you and how I have missed you!! It seems that some time has passed since the end of S1 and Leo has OBVIOUSLY made absolutely stellar choices in the meantime. Nothing is better for one’s mental health than isolation and trusting the slimiest creature on god’s green earth. 
🦀 @thesiltverses (37) my beloved Silt Verses have returned with a frankly exceptional HOUR long episode filled with so many things to scream about that I don’t even know where to start. Val’s revelation that extreme power can also be used to bring people joy is VERY interesting indeed. They were never going to be able to control her, but I doubt it even more now. And PAIGE stepping up!! Part of me really wants a Val vs Paige stand off but most of me wants to protect Paige at all costs… I am loving the music choices this episode and the scene with the telephone calls was so good! Also, PLEASE stop foreshadowing Carpenter’s death, I am going ‘lalalalalala I can’t hear you!!’
🧳 I listened to episode 8 of Travelling Light by @monstrousproductions after a night shift and the hazy tiredness only served to make it even more transcendentally beautiful. I adore the blossoming friendships aboard the Tola, especially between the Traveller and Óli 😭🌌
👁️ @malevolentcast (39) I love it when you can *feel* that an episode is gearing up to a season finale, a few little loose strands tied up here and there but one BIG problem looming for the finale. I NEED to remember to not listen to this show when I’m emotionally compromised in any way because I found myself bloody sobbing as Marie was talking about her son. I should know that Malevolent is going to play dirty with my emotions. 
🏛 @the-mistholme-museum ENDLESS okay I don’t want to ruin this for anyone who hasn’t listened yet but !!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!! and !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! let’s go!!!!!!!!!!!
🐬 @patterspod P Files brought creative levity into our lives with the tale of Professor Fantabulum. I’m honestly a huge fan of the idea of creative genius as a torch passed on to the people who you inspire
🌨️ @thewhitevault (5) Oh I just don’t trust this guy at all. . . everything he says is so perfectly plausible that there’s just obviously something wrong with him. My friend pointed out that the family meeting mentioned surveyors . . . . .  Now S has been killed by something . . . . I just adore the way The White Vault slowly ramps up the cosmic kind of horror but you’re so distracted by all the other scary human shit going on that your brain is primed and ready to be terrified by the obviously fictional stuff by the time it happens. It’s such clever writing!! 
❤️‍🔥 The Love Talker (6) Ah, now, Ren…. Just because you *can* do something, doesn’t meant necessarily mean that you should… you feel me? Some of the anatomical descriptions in this episode made me want to vomit a little. It’s so awful, I need to know what happens next!!
🏢 @somewhereohio (S2E5) I’m absolutely living for these scenes with Green and Sterling. Are they squishing my heart into pieces? Yes. Do I feel sick to my stomach thinking about the impossibility of trying to perfect and control the one you love? Yes. Can I have more, please? 
🍾 I finished season 1 of @ameliapodcast and what an absolute DELIGHT that ending was!! What an absolutely masterful raising of the stakes at just the right moment in time to keep the listener absolutely hooked. I hope Tara and Lily come back one day, they were so much fun and I think will be even more fun as free agents! 
🌫️ @souloperatorpod dropped this week and the first episode is very intriguing indeed! I think I need to relisten without any distractions if I want to stand a chance of collecting all the threads of red string I’m going to need for this show! I really love the theme music and am very excited for more! 
♦️ The Grotto continues to be an absolutely WILD delight. I caved and listened to two episodes this week but it’s okay because I still have ep 4 in my back pocket. I love the music, the sound design, the fact that it is literally impossible to work out what the hell is going to happen next. Go listen to The Grotto!! 
Thanks to everyone making art - it makes things better 💓 I’m so excited for @camlannpod next week!!  
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discount-shades · 7 months
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Dead or Alive Chapter 6
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Chapter 6: A Fistful of Dollars
A/N: Again gold stars to those who can spot the movie reference. 
Pairing: Jake Seresin/Reader 
Warning: Western themed violence. 
Word Count: 2600 ish
Summary: Jake and Sugar make their way back to the Hard Deck again. 
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Jake gallops to a copse of trees where he has tethered Daisy. When you go to get down he stops you with the touch of his hand curling under your knee, “We can pony her back.”
You push his hand away when his fingers hit a ticklish spot and stare at the back of his head in confusion. “We’ll move quicker if I ride.” Jake sighs but nods, hanging his head a little before he helps you down. Mounting Daisy, you turn to Jake. “Lead the way.” 
He pulls his bandana down and you copy him, reveling in the sensation of cool air hitting your face. His expression is unreadable as he wheels Jet around and takes off down a game trail you didn’t even know was there. Daisy follows without any urging from you and you allow your mind to wander.
The job had been a bust, there couldn’t have been much more than one hundred dollars. The panic that had slowly crept up your spine as you searched for money that wasn’t there lingered in your veins. There was no way you had made enough to get out of this life. You were stuck. If you were lucky you might have made enough to pay Jake back. 
The man in question was riding silently in front of you. What is going to happen now? Would there be some kind of punishment for bad information? You were sure that the money would be on the stage, not even considering the possibility it had been taken ahead. 
Through it all you felt pity for the woman who would be marrying Roberts, you hoped your words got through to her. If she chose to still marry him that was her decision, but she has a right to know the kind of man she was marrying.
Jake kept a steady pace as you cut through game trails and mountain paths. After a few hours he stops by a stream and dismounts and you copy him, leading Daisy over to have a long drink. “Take off the dress.” You glance over at Jake and see he has already taken off his coat and is in the process of stripping off his shirt.
“No.” Your voice is firm but your gaze lingers on his muscled chest and he steadily unbuttons it. Jake snorts and you can’t stop your eyes from following his fingers lower. 
Jake digs into his saddle bags and pulls out another dress, this one purple, and throws it at you. “They will now be looking for a woman in yellow. Plus they would have seen Jet.” 
“Oh,” you mutter, “I thought… nevermind.” Quickly, you begin to unbutton the yellow dress, heat flooding your cheeks. 
“I don’t need to try to get under your skirts, Sugar,” you can hear the grin in his voice and against your better judgment you glance up at Jake’s face. “On cold nights you’ll crawl right into my bedroll without me asking.” At his wink your face feels even hotter, his dimples mocking you.
The last two mornings you had awoken before Jake, cuddling in his arms under both blankets. You had hoped he didn’t know that you had been stealing his warmth at night but you hadn’t been that lucky. 
Silently you pull on the purple dress. Jake has never done anything to make you think that he would force himself on you, and yet you kept jumping to conclusions. Maybe it was time to give the man the benefit of doubt. 
— — — 
After you have both changed into different clothes you mount up again and continue riding. The adrenaline of the robbery has left you and you can feel your energy wane. Shoulders slumping, you grit your teeth and follow Jake. Near dusk Jake reins off the path into some trees and dismounts. Slowly you copy him, the ache of days in the saddle catching up with you.
Silently you begin to set up camp, Jake setting up the tent, and you gathering firewood. It reminds you of the first night you and Jake spent on the trail. The atmosphere quiet without Natasha and Bob’s chatter to bring levity. 
Neither of you speak all evening. You eat silently and watch Jake count out the money that was taken off the stage. Natasha might have a few more dollars, and there was some jewelry but the two of you only got $127. With half going to the gang, and the rest split four ways, that only left you with just over $15. 
“Not enough for a hat.” The disappointment is hard to keep out of your voice. 
“Guess I’m stuck with you hanging around a little longer, Sugar.” Jake doesn’t sound nearly as disappointed as you feel. 
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, unable to look him in the eye. 
“For what?” The confusion in his voice causes you to look up. All you see is polite puzzlement on his face.
“For the money not being on the stage.” At your words realization dawns across his face.
“You weren’t completely wrong, there was no way to know he had riders deliver the money.” He says flippantly. “Overall it went well, we didn’t come away empty handed, and no shots were fired.” Jake looks up at you with a cheeky expression on his face. “I declare I didn’t know we had such a southern belle on our hands.” You roll your eyes at his dramatic southern accent.
“Shut up,” You can't keep the grin from creeping onto your lips. “It just came out.”
“I liked it.” Jake laughs, “I think it added some class to the robbery.” You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, help me please!” Jake puts on a high pitched voice, mimicking your fake southern accent. 
“It worked.” Your voice has a defiant edge but your laughter ruins it.
“It did,” Jake reassures, “you were very convincing, I almost believed the tears myself.” His smile softens and you feel your body relax, relieved that you would not be punished. 
– – – 
After, you clean up from dinner and Jake banks the fire and the two of you head to bed. Despite the near total darkness Jake is careful to look away while you undress, the vision of your ass in those jeans playing behind his eyelids. When you finally settle beside him he wants nothing more than to reach across the space between you and pull your warm body to his chest. 
Despite his earlier mocking, Jake likes it when you cuddle into his arms and has grown to hate the time it takes for you to fall asleep and snuggle up to him. He likes the feel of your warm breath moving against his skin. He even likes the way you would press your cold nose into the warm skin of his neck. “Are you going to keep playing your little game or are you going to stop pretending and get over here.” He holds the edge of his bedroll up in invitation.  
He can’t see your expression in the dark but he knows you are glaring at him and he suppresses a chuckle at your huff. Despite your protests, warmth wins out and you snuggle into his arms. Jake lowers the blanket and pulls you closer with a hand on your back. Jake can’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. It feels good to have you in his arms. “I told you that you’d crawl right into my bedroll.”
His laughter switches to a pained gasp as your elbow digs into his solar plexus. You try to wriggle away but he reaches out and pulls your back to his chest. When you go to elbow him again he grabs your hands. He starts laughing when you immediately start to kick at his shins and he tangles his legs with yours. 
“You have pointy elbows.” You stop struggling but you are still tense and he wonders if he has gone too far. “If I let you go, are you going to try to hit me again?”
“Yes.” Your response makes him smile. You will never not fight him and he loves that about you. Despite his earlier misgivings about bringing you to the Hard Deck and on this job he is happy Maverick insisted on both. 
He releases his hold but keeps his arm wrapped around you. You don’t move away and you don’t try to hit him again. He considers it a win. He feels your body relax into his and he closes his eyes. He is almost asleep when your voice breaks the silence.
“I know of another job.” In the dark of the night he can’t see your face, but he can tell you are looking at him by the feel of you shifting in his arms. 
“Well aren't you just full of information.” 
“Roberts is getting an advance to build a spur line to the ranch.” Jake snorts, of course it is Roberts again. 
“If you keep robbing the same person, someone is going to think it is personal.”
“Who says it’s not?” Jake isn’t surprised by the bitterness in your voice. Rooster had told him how you ended up set to swing on the noose next to him. 
“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” Jake frowns. It’s strange that you keep coming up with new information. 
“It’s going to be harder to steal.” 
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Jake fights a grin at your huff of annoyance. Needling you has become one of his great amusements. Based on his past experiences you must be rolling your eyes by now. 
“Roberts has to pick up the money personally in Denver,” you explain quietly. “Because of the recent spate of bank robberies, no bank will take a wire transfer.” Jake grinned, the Daggers had been responsible for the recent robberies. It was alway nice to know their work was appreciated. 
“So he has to transport the funds?”
“Yeah, he has to take it to Silver Creek. It’s the closest town to Pine Creek with a rail line, he’ll purchase the supplies and hire the workers from there.” Jake’s mind was whirling. Silver Creek had a Sheriff's office right next to the bank and a Sheriff who was known to run a tight ship. It was why the Daggers had chosen not to rob the bank in that town. 
“We’ll need to rob the train.” It’s been a few years since he robbed a train. All the possibilities flash through Jake’s mind, They would need everyone on the crew. Roberts would probably bring a bunch of guards with him, based on how he acted with his future wife's dowry.  “Somewhere between here and Denver.” 
“I’m coming.” Jake grinned at the conviction in your voice. He expected you to demand to join them on the job, and despite your stellar acting abilities he wasn’t so sure you were ready to take on a train robbery. 
– – –
“You don’t even know how to shoot a gun.” The sun has warmed the crisp morning air and you and Jake have been riding for hours already, and arguing most of the time. 
“I know how to shoot a gun.” You tell him hotly. “I told you, I used to have a derringer. And before that my father taught me.”
Jake scoffs. “That's not a real gun.”
“It was real enough to kill President Lincoln.” You had liked the little gun that was taken from you upon your arrest.
“Yeah, but there won’t be many presidents for you to assassinate. In a duel or a gunfight it wouldn’t have been much good.”
“Well I didn’t get into any duels or gunfights.” You roll your eyes, knowing he can’t see you. “Not everything has to be bigger to be better.” 
“Well that’s a lie.” Jake hears your snort of laughter and turns around to glare, but he doesn’t say anything.
“We are going to have to practice your shooting skills.” You roll your eyes at the back of Jake’s head but don’t respond. If shooting practice from the man will get you on the Train Job, then shooting practice is what you would do. 
– – – 
When you stop for lunch Jake leads you over to a log. Not having any cans or bottles to shoot he propped leaves in front of the wood to aim at. You watch carefully as Jake goes over loading and firing the gun. He makes you unload and load the revolver a number of times until he is confident in your abilities.
When you go to shoot Jake steps up behind you, his chest pressed to your back. The revolver is heavier than your derringer. “Ok first rule is don’t point the gun at anything unless you plan to pull the trigger.” You nod as he slides his hand down your arm and you aim for the leaves. You release a shaky breath when you feel his lips brush your ear.  “Second rule is keep your finger off the trigger until you are going to fire.” 
You use your thumb to cock back the hammer, before sighting in the first leaf. When you squeeze the trigger the recoil kicks the muzzle into the air and you suppress a gasp at the kick. It is definitely more powerful than your little derringer. 
“Good,” Jake murmurs in your ear as he adjusts your stance a little. His touch is gentle but it burns through the layers of fabric. Jake makes you fire until the six-shooter needs reloading then leads you over to the log. 
You wouldn't be replacing Annie Oakley in Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show any time soon but there were 5 bullet holes in the log within a hand’s breadth of the leaves you were aiming for. The last one you had shot low and into the dirt. You probably would have done better if Jake hadn’t been pressed up against you. It was unfair how distracting he was. He was just a man, handsome or not, he shouldn’t be able to addle your thoughts this way. 
“Not bad.” Jake leans over to inspect your shots. “You need to build up your strength, every shot gets a little lower.” You mutter a curse and inspect your shots. Of course he is correct. 
“I told you I knew how to shoot.” You cock your head to the side and meet his eyes. He is grinning at you with a little half smile and his gaze keeps slipping to your lips. 
“You sure do, It’ll make my life easier. Do you know the rules of a duel?” At his question you roll your eyes. 
“Jake, I don't plan on getting into any duels.” 
“But if I get into a duel I need to know you have my back.” He says as he leads you back to the horses, ready to get back on the trail. “You stand about 20 yards from each other or stand back to back and walk an agreed upon number of steps and you turn and fire on the call of some neutral party, sometimes the chiming of a clock.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“Shoot him if he kills me.”
“No dying with honor for you then.” 
“I’ve never lost yet, Sugar.” Jake smiles at you and you can feel your heart flutter at the dimples in his smile. “It’s more of a precaution.” 
You and Jake mount up and start down the trail. “What about if it’s a knife fight?” You ask, nudging Daisy into a trot alongside Jet. 
“There are no rules in a knife fight, someone just counts 1,2,3, go.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” 
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the-sun-and-the-sea · 7 months
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can you please do another list of odesta fanfic recommendations.
Of course! I'm actually really glad you asked this because I've been in such an odesta phase lately. Here are some of my current favorites.
Below the Surface by deathmallow - This is a cool oneshot focusing on Annie and Finnick pre-relationship. It's well written and offers some great outsider POV, so I'd definitely suggest checking it out. This author has a ton of great THG work, a lot of which features odesta.
The Finish Line by voidshade - This is a great one that focuses on Finnick's time as a new victor. Because of how early it takes place, it doesn't actually feature Annie, although I think it will eventually. I love how this one highlights Finnick's youth and his transition from a teenager to what we see in canon.
The Kindling by perilearring - This is another one that takes place while Finnick is young. This fic tells the story of his Games, and although it's still in the early stages, I'm really liking it so far. Odesta is tagged as a relationship so I think that's something we can expect to see later on. This one really captures the writing style of the original trilogy.
Exit Light, Enter Night by grumkin_snark - This is a short one that really highlights the tragedy of Finnick's life. I would definitely recommend checking out the author's other odesta works, because I love them so much. They're all so well written and pretty iconic, in my opinion.
The Moment I Knew by wisteriawall - I love this one, it's so sweet. There's definitely an undercurrent of sadness running through it, but the ending is so poignant and hopeful. I also love the other odesta works from this author.
It Takes a (Victor's) Village by sakurasencha - I'd seen this one around before but I only recently read it, and it was so worth it. This is just so funny and sweet, it brings such a welcome levity to a dark story. I enjoyed every minute of reading this and I think any odesta fan should give it a try.
Like the Tides by Indefatigable - If you're into AUs, this series could be a great one to check out. It puts Finnick and Annie's relationship into an interesting new context that I find really cool, and it's nice and long so you'll have plenty to read.
Once, the Stars Aligned by Gamemakers - This is another AU that I really love. It's a historical AU, so it doesn't take place in Panem, but we still get to see Finnick and Annie come together anyway. I will warn you that this story is unfinished and most likely won't be updated, but I thought I'd throw it out there since I really enjoy it anyway. The author also has several other odesta works, many of which are cool AUs.
I hope you find something good to read! As always, feel free to reblog if you want to share your own recs or self promo!
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familyvideostevie · 1 year
Note
omg can I please request a steve blurb with the barista meet cute?! like a customer/customer sort of deal?? I am literally obsessed with that list that you just put out!
ah! this list! i like that list, too <3 thank you for allowing me to write you something from it! | meet cute, 1k
The first time you see him you think he's cute. And like every other cute guy you've seen in passing in your life, you sigh and wish you were the kind of person who flirts with strangers.
But then again, who really wants to be bothered in line at the cafe? So you don't say anything to him, though you do stand next to him while you wait for your coffee. Just for fun. He's boyishly handsome, though you expect that he's around your age, probably off to a job or higher education of some kind after this. Long lashes and a few freckles and moles on his neck, hands tucked into jeans as he rocks back and forth on his heels. You can't believe you've never seen him before. But if you had you know you'd remember.
"Steve!" the barista calls, setting down a cup on the bar. The guy steps forward with a smile and a thank you -- nice voice too, you think. He doesn't really look like a Steve. Maybe a Tommy or a John. When he turns around he makes eyes contact with you and gives you the stranger-to-stranger smile before heading for the door. He's got nice eyes, too. Damn. Have a nice life, Steve.
But then you see him again.
This time, you're there first, already waiting for your drink when he stands near you. He's in blue work pants and a yellow sweater and he looks how you feel: tired beyond belief. It's one of those days when the barista is calling orders and not names, so you're trying to pay attention. When they call your order, you step forward for it, but so does Steve. Your hands brush in front of the cup and he jerks back.
"Oh," he says, shaking his head a bit as if to bring himself back to the present. "Sorry."
"I, uh," you say. "I think this is mine?" He takes a step back and grins ruefully, cheeks a little pink.
"Yeah, yeah, of course," he says. "You were here first."
You duck your head and grab the cup. "Thanks," you say, softly. "Good taste, though!" He looks a little surprised at your attempt at levity before he laughs.
"You too," he says. You raise your cup a little and hurry towards the door.
After that, you keep an eye out for Steve. Sure, you spoke once and you were awkward, but he was cute and it's nice to look forward to the little things, right? But you don't see him for a few weeks. Maybe he found a new shop, or maybe he decided to stop drinking coffee.
It's a pretty busy day at the cafe but you've snagged yourself a small table in a corner to read and sip your drink. It started pouring just after you arrived, so you figure you'll stay for a while rather than get soaked running for your car. You're pretty engrossed in your book, the noise of the shop a buzz in the background, until you realize someone is standing fairly close to you. You look up and it's Steve.
"Hi," he says. His hair is practically dripping wet and he's got a soaked jacket in one hand and a drink cup in another. "Can I sit with you? Till the rain lets up?"
You'd probably say yes to anyone who asked, but you're a little quick on the jump, since it's Steve. The mystery cute guy you've seen...twice.
"Totally," you say. He looks very grateful and sits across from you, draping his dripping jacket across the back of his chair.
"Do you have our usual?" he says, pointing to your cup. You laugh a little. Our usual, you think.
"I do," you tell him. "Do you?" He shakes his head.
"Trying to cut back on the caffeine." He looks at his cup like it's personally wronged him. "Just hot chocolate for me today."
"Ah," you say, taking a sip of your drink. "Tough choice."
He sighs dramatically, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. "I'm Steve, by the way." He holds up his hot chocolate cup and points to his name written in the hurried hand of the barista. It's a dorky move and he seems to realize it when he quickly sets it back down on the table and rubs the back of his neck.
You copy his movements, pointing to your own cup. Steve says yiour name out loud, nodding like he's committing it to memory. "Well, don't let me bother you," he says, eyeing your book. "Thanks for letting me sit here."
"Oh, you're not bothering me," you say. You dog-ear your page and close it. "It was getting a little slow anyway." His eyebrows raise. "Well, the big thing has already happened, but the main character --" You launch into an explanation about the importance of a compelling recovery from the climax of the plot before you realize it. Steve just watches, mouth curled up at one corner as he slips his drink.
"Sorry," you say, after a few minutes. "You didn't ask to hear me ramble about a book."
"No, no, by all means, keep rambling." You wonder what he'd do if you died of embarrassment right here, at this table.
"Are you a reader?" you ask, face a little hot. He shakes his head.
"No, not really. But that book sounds interesting the way you tell it." You laugh a little, glad he's nice enough not to make fun of you. It would be a real bummer if your coffee shop crush was an asshole. He looks pleased with himself that he's made you laugh. You look out the window and he follows your gaze, now frowning at the continuing deluge.
"Doesn't look like it's going to let up soon," you say softly. You look back at Steve and find that he's already looking at you.
"Well, keep telling me about this unsatisfying main dude," he says. He leans forward in his seat, looking genuinely interested.
"Okay," you say. "But don't forget that you asked for this, Steve." It's the first time you've said his name and you notice that his mouth twitches as you do.
"Somehow I don't think I'll regret it." Your stomach flutters and you roll your eyes but can't hide your smile. The cute guy from the coffee shop is flirting with you. This is better than any book you've ever read.
thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, masterlist here!
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bradshawsbaby · 1 year
Text
Letters to My Love // Part III
Blue Moon
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Series Masterlist
Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female Reader
Summary: When you signed up to volunteer with the USO, you never anticipated that you would meet a man like Ensign Robert Floyd. Fate brings you together one balmy spring evening in Charleston—the night before Bob is set to ship off across the Atlantic. Pen and paper become your only means of sharing your heart with the naval aviator who’s captivated it, igniting a correspondence that spans the distance between you. Can love blossom even as war rages and thousands of miles keep you apart?
Word Count: 2.8k
Author’s Note: I’m making a serious effort to be as historically accurate as possible in each of these letters, but I also realize that I may reference things that some people are unfamiliar with or confused about. I’d be happy to answer any questions about the time period if you have them!
Set the Mood: If you’re looking for some 1940s vibes, check out the playlist I made to pair with the story!
Song(s) referenced in this chapter: Chattanooga Choo Choo // Blue Moon
Dedication: As always, dedicated to my sweet friend, @luminousnotmatter​, as well as everyone who has offered such lovely support for this series!
Warnings: Alternating POV, references to war and its impact, allusions to rationing, plenty of fluff.
July 6, 1942
Dear Peach,
Is it alright if I call you Peach? I suppose being in and around the Navy for as long as I have, I’ve become sort of used to the notion of nicknames. We’ve got one for everyone around here, and Peach just seems to suit you. I admit, it’s how I’ve come to think of you. But if you don’t like it—or if it seems too familiar for me to be calling you a silly nickname—you let me know right away and I’ll be sure not to do it again.
Gosh, I can’t tell you how happy it made me to receive your letter. Mail Call is always a good day—you should see the smiles around here when the fellas get letters from their sweethearts and families. But it felt a hundred times better the day I got your letter. Benny was about ready to tear it out of my hands and open it himself, and Tommy Boy wasn’t too far behind. Paul practically had to knock their heads together so that I could have a little peace. I kept it in my pocket and saved it to read until after dinner that night. Let me tell you, it was certainly sweeter than any dessert they could cook up in the mess (although, admittedly, their dessert could use some work, even on a good day).
I’m sorry that it took me so long to write back. You wouldn’t believe this, Peach, but they’ve really got us working hard over here. It’s almost like there’s a war on or something.
I’m sorry, was that a terrible thing to say? I don’t mean to make light of it. None of us do. But I think we’ve found that if we look for a little bit of levity every now and then, it makes this whole thing a bit easier to bear. We haven’t been here long, but we’ve already seen and heard things we’d rather not remember. So we look for the good where we can find it—like Mail Call, when we get special letters from lovely girls back home, just like you.
To answer your question, I’m doing just fine. I suppose I won’t try to get one past the Office of Censorship this time around, but we’re still in the same region of Europe and expect to be so for the foreseeable future. I wish that I could paint you a beautiful picture of what life is like here, but it’s rather bleak at the moment. You can still see the pockets of beauty though—I’m sure it was a wonderful place before this war. I hope that one day, it will be again.
But I’m sure you don’t want to hear me ramble on about the sad state of the world right now. Should we talk about something happier? How was your Fourth of July? I hope it was swell. I admit, my mouth was watering a bit the other day when I thought about all the things my mother always makes to celebrate. I’ll never know how she manages to get it all done, but she prepares a feast for us every year. My favorite part has to be her apple cobbler—drop a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, and I swear, it’s heaven. All of us were missing home a little extra this Independence Day, so we ended up swapping stories of home and all the ways our families celebrate. I have to say, it did help to dull some of the homesickness. Tommy Boy had us all dreaming about parades marching through town, and Benny couldn’t stop talking about his mother’s berry icebox cake. We made him promise that when this is all over, he’ll have us as dinner guests so that we can sample it for ourselves. Do you have any special Fourth of July traditions?
Speaking of families and traditions, I’m so glad to hear that Paddy, Dottie, and little Frankie are doing well. Although I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your sister, from everything you’ve told me, it does sound like Paddy has found his perfect match. She sounds like a woman who can certainly keep him on his toes. By the way, please let Paddy know that we all played a rousing game of Rummy in his honor. We look forward to getting to play with him again when we get home.
Gosh, there’s just so much I want to say. But it’s kind of hard, isn’t it? Knowing the right things to say, I mean. I’ve always been kind of amazed at how eloquent people’s letters can be. Mine sort of just end up coming out like a jumbled mess. It’s like I want to tell you everything that crosses my mind—as if we were sitting on that bench together on King Street—but I can’t think of a proper way to do it. So I apologize now if this letter is horribly scatter-brained and messy. I’ll try my very best to be more organized in the future.
What I do have to tell you—and I should have said it earlier—is how much I appreciated your lovely description of your day back in Charleston. Unfortunately, it was rainy and gray here the day I received your letter, but reading your words made it feel as though the warm southern sunshine had been delivered right to us. I hope you don’t mind, but I read that part of your letter to some of the other fellas. They really appreciated it. They’re also very grateful to know that you’re thinking of us and wishing us all the best. So am I. It gives us the boost we need when the days get hard.
Nothing would make me happier than the thought of you saving a dance for me. Maybe next time, I’ll even get to hear that pretty singing voice of yours. I know you said I couldn’t be certain that you were a good singer because you were just humming, but trust me—I know. We listen to music over here sometimes when we’re able, but I do admit it’d be much more fun to be listening to it at another USO dance. Sometimes I’ll hear a song that played that night, and it makes me smile.
Anyway, they’re calling us now, and I should probably stop running my mouth so much. It’s funny—I’ve never been much of a talker (just ask Paul), but with you, I feel like I could write pages and pages, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
I hope this letter hasn’t bored you to tears, and I do hope to hear from you again soon. Thanks for sending along the sunshine.
Sincerely Yours,
Bobby
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July 22, 1942
Dear Bobby,
Peach is just fine! It’s lovely, in fact. I’ve never had a nickname just for me before, so that one makes me feel quite special. On top of that, it’s also officially Dottie-approved. She insists she only happened to glance over and “accidentally” catch sight of the beginning of your letter, but I think she may have just been snooping. See? I told you she’d get on wonderfully with Benny and Tommy Boy.
Mail Call sounds like a wonderful day for all of you. The USO has been reminding us how important letter writing can be. They’ve been saying how much it boosts morale for our boys overseas, and clearly they were right. I’m touched that my letter seemed to mean so much. If it really does brighten your day, then I’d be happy to write hundreds of letters. I’m not so sure my words are really sweeter than ice cream or pie, but I will try my hardest.
You don’t have to apologize! I can only begin to imagine what it must be like for you over there. As happy as I am to receive your letters and to know that you’re doing alright, I understand that it may take a while for you to be able to write me. And you most certainly don’t need to apologize for trying to do what you can to preserve your peace of mind. My heart breaks to think what you and your friends, and all the other men over there fighting, have already seen and experienced. They say war is hell, and I absolutely believe it. I could never dream of being even half as brave as you are, Bobby. I mean that. If your heart ever feels heavy with all the burdens you have to carry, please know that you can lay it down with me. I’m more than happy to listen. I know that I won’t have all the answers—who does?—but I’ll always try my hardest to help you carry the load as best I can.
I’ve never been to Europe before, but my parents went to Paris for their honeymoon back in 1916, and my mother still talks about how beautiful and magical it was. It makes me so sad to think that countries that were once so full of life and art and beauty and culture have been reduced to war-torn husks. Like you, I have hope that one day very soon, this horrible war will be behind us and all those wonderful places will be filled with magic once more. And maybe one day in the future, I’ll get to travel there. I’d like that very much.
My Fourth of July was very nice! I have to admit, reading about your mother’s apple cobbler and Benny’s mother’s icebox cake had MY mouth watering. There must just be something about mothers because my mama also LOVES baking up a storm to celebrate Independence Day. One of her favorite desserts to make is—can you believe it?—peach tarts! Maybe we can convince our mothers to swap recipes.
This is the first Fourth of July that I haven’t celebrated with my parents back home in Georgia, but Paddy, Dottie, Frankie, and I had a wonderful day. It was Frankie’s first, so we took him to the parade in town, though I think he would have been more than happy to stay home. Poor baby is teething, and he’s been downright miserable some days. I’m sure Paul knows what that’s like, and I’m sure Natasha is dealing with the same with Paul, Jr. right now. It’s hard to watch him suffer—I know it just about kills Dottie.
Speaking of Dottie, she was rather upset that her baking plans got a bit derailed by our ration cards. I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but sugar is being rationed now. We pooled together as many ration cards as we could save, but there’s been such a demand for it that there was hardly any to be found. We settled on a simple pound cake with strawberries, which Dottie wasn’t happy about, but Paddy made sure to cheer her up by making a big show about how it was the best pound cake he’d ever tasted. Personally, I do think it could have used more sugar, but please don’t tell Dottie that I said that.
Thankfully, Frankie took a good nap that day, so he was in much better spirits by the time the fireworks went off. We went down by the water to watch them, and he was mesmerized. I enjoyed them, too, but it felt sort of strange to be having such a nice day when I thought of you and all the other men who have gone off to fight for us. It felt wrong somehow to be celebrating as though there wasn’t a terrible war waging halfway across the world, a war that’s been taking more and more of our men every day. But Paddy helped to put it into perspective for me slightly. He said that the men who are over there fighting—men like you, Bobby—are doing so precisely so that the rest of us can enjoy these freedoms. He said that, if it were him, he’d be happy to know that we were safe and still getting the chance to celebrate our independence. Was he right, Bobby? I hope it doesn’t feel like rubbing salt in a wound, me telling you about our Fourth of July.
Can I tell you something? I think Paddy’s been having a hard time wrestling with the fact that his job allows him to remain stateside during the war. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I heard him and Dottie sitting up in the kitchen one night, talking. I think he feels a bit guilty, being a part of the Navy, but not having to go fight the same way you all are. Dottie has been trying so hard to reassure him, but I noticed that he’s been working even longer hours now—he wants to do whatever he can for the war effort, and to help bring you boys home as quickly as he can. That’s what we’re all hoping for.
I have to admit, I giggled a little bit when I read the part of your letter about feeling like what you write is a jumbled mess. I feel the same. It’s a little tricky to have a conversation on paper, isn’t it? It’s much easier when you’re sitting face to face. Tell you what? I’ll forgive your messiness, if you forgive mine. Does that sound like a deal?
Oh, I’m so glad to hear that the talk of sunshine made you happy, even on a gray and rainy day. And I’m happy that your friends enjoyed it, too. Would you say hello to Paul for me? I’m not sure if he even remembers me, but I’m still so grateful for his kindness at the dance. Maybe say hi to Tommy Boy and Benny for me, too? Even though I haven’t met them officially, I feel like I know them so well through your stories about them.
I’m not sure about where you are, but it’s brutally hot here in Charleston now. Still sunny though, so I’m picturing scooping some of it up and sending it your way. Unless we have errands to run, Dottie and I have been staying mainly inside with the baby. I know we’re supposed to be conserving as much power as possible, but Dottie doesn’t care a fig if there’s a war on when it’s this hot—she’s got all the fans running on full blast. I hope wherever you are, you’re able to keep cool.
I have to say, Ensign Floyd, you really are going to give me a big head one of these days. I assure you that I am not as talented a singer as you seem to think I am, but perhaps I’d be willing to sing along to one song at the next dance we attend. But you have to promise not to laugh when you discover I’m terrible at it. Humming, I promise you, is very different from singing.
Now that I’m on the topic of music, however, I wanted to mention that every time Dottie puts on one of her Glenn Miller records, I think of you and your mother. I know you said she was a big Glenn Miller fan, and I like to think that maybe somewhere in Iowa, she’s listening to “Chattanooga Choo Choo,” same as us.
Just last night, while we were cleaning the kitchen, Dottie and I were listening to the radio and “Blue Moon” came on. Do you know that one? The Al Bowlly song? I think he has such a lovely voice. Anyway, I was listening to the song while I was washing the dishes and it got me thinking about the moon. Gosh, that sounds so silly now that I actually write it out. But it’s true. I was thinking about the moon, and it struck me that the moon that was shining down on me was the same moon that was shining down on you. Even though I don’t even know exactly where in the world you are, when I look up at the moon at night, I can be sure that it’s the very same moon that you’re looking at. I don’t know, maybe it’s silly, but it kind of brought me some comfort. Does that sound horribly hokey? I’m sorry if it does. Maybe if it doesn’t strike you as too terribly sentimental, you can share it with Paul the next time he’s feeling down about missing Natasha and the kids. This war might be keeping us all apart, but at night, when we look up at the moon, we can remember that we’re not so far apart as it seems.
Your letter certainly didn’t bore me to tears, Bobby. On the contrary, it made my day. Now I just hope that MY letter doesn’t bore YOU to tears. Maybe when all this is over, you and I will feel more confident in our letter-writing abilities. I certainly do hope that’s the case.
Stay safe, Bobby. Sending you all my very best.
Sincerely,
Peach
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pumpkinfreak · 2 months
Text
Watching Hannibal for the first time S2E9-E10
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Let's take a moment to assess what in the Kentucky fried hell is going on in this story. So Far.
Hannibal knows that Will knows he's the Ripper. Will is trying to play the player by allowing Hannibal to manipulate him. Under the guise of Will accepting the fact that he and Hannibal are the same kind of monster. Everything Hannibal does to Will at this point in the story is to test him and get him to accept his true nature, so they can be friends. In reality, Will and Jack are working togother to catch Hannibal, so everything Will is doing is just an act. Hopefully.
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I need a nice no-think palate cleanser after this. I better now have to use any brain cells when I watch Yellowjackets, or I'm coming after everyone who voted in the poll and backing them into a pie, I will then feed to their families. Just one giant people pie. I'll break hearts and world records.
Back on track episode 9
Long story short, someone takes their Freddie Fazbear cosplay too far. Makes a suit out of prehistoric cave bear bones, and goes postal on some random people. Hannibal then directs this person, who was a former patient of his to attack Will. Will beats the holy hell out of this guy and brings his dead body to Hannibal. Stating that now they're even after having both sent people to kill the other.
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This episode opens with Jack and Hannibal having dinner togother. I feel like we need to acknowledge that Jack and Will are knowingly eating Human meat and organs. I would be so pissed if I was Jack's wife. I'm laying in a bed dying of cancer, and my man is out eating gourmet human meals with a serial killer. You are out of Will I'm leaving everything to my cat.
Margot and Will also meet in this episode. Margot is quick on the uptake and is just like "Wow our therapist is a psycho!" and Will is like, "Sister you do not know the half of it."
One of Will's dogs escapes in this episode and his little sausage body barely clears the snow he had to run through. It was much much-needed moment of levity.
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Ep10
Pookie is going a little bit off the rails. He is devolving, and Hanni is super into it. I'm not, I want my sweet baby boy back, but I don't think he can hear me over the sound of his own psychotic breakdown. Will admits that he felt more alive than ever when he killed the bear suit guy, and Hannibal says that he should honor the bear suit guy. So Will mutilates the body and merges it with a cave bear skeleton in a museum. It...it's something...
Then Will is of course called in by Jack to analyze the crime scene Will Made. Will has a hallucination that the bear suit guy thanks him and that this event is a part of their becoming.
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Also, I hate that there's more, Margot's bother, Mason, shows her his pig pit. Where he attends to feed living people to pigs, and he fully attends to feed her to said pigs, if she doesn't get in line.
Hannibal's right. Mason needs to die. Like yesterday. Unfortunately, Magot cannot just kill Mason, because all their family's wealth would go to the Southern Baptist Convention. So Hannibal tells her to go get pregnant then. Who does she pick to be the daddy, Will of Course?
What proceeds is the weirdest sex scene. David Lynch would be proud. Will knows this is Hannibal's doing because Margot already told him she's gay. This scene is intercut with Hannibal and Alana having sex and Will imagining Alana and Hannibal having sex. Except Will sees Hannibal as the goopy deer man. I'm really glad this show was produced for NBC and not HBO.
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Some poor bastard had to put on a mask of Mads Mikkelsen's face. Plus other makeup and had to simulate sex on some other poor bastard. Imagine having to lay in a flesh-toned body suit, or worse be actually nude, and staring up at this lifeless replica of your coworker's face. Now add like twenty other people on set watching it happen. People left work that day changed forever and for the worse.
One more thing, one more. Freddie is getting suspicious of Hannibal. So she goes to Will's house. Goes to his shed, because she has more hair than brain, and finds a bunch of body parts in a freezer. Will shows up, and this encounter does not go well. We cut to Jack telling Will that Freddie is missing, and then Will and Hannibal go home and eat Long Pig.
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I'll probably post again later. Stay safe, and don't sleep with goopy dear men. Do not investigate sheds, ever. You have a fifty/fifty shot of it being lawn care equipment or something from the pits of Hell.
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maximotts · 1 year
Note
hey bestie,,, uhhh for those NSFW alphabet fun things,,, you know I gotta do it… leigh shaw PLS I am begging and offering french toast 😌🙏🏼
Ignore that I'm finishing this at 8pm
We all know I love Leigh endlessly and god, doing this was so so fun!! I'm excited to do the others!! Also this is a good time so post this because this is the week my Leigh fic comes out hehehe 💖 so without further ado..
NSFW Alphabet: Leigh Shaw
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A = Aftercare (What they're like after sex)
Oh she's so sweet. Even if Leigh is dead tired, she'll make sure you're feeling okay and that you're both all cleaned up and settled properly. When she's too out of it to do it herself, she'll prod you to do get up, have some water, get all cozy, etc.
Above all, she's so very caring and she wants to make sure you're in your best headspace after sex. If Leigh knows you're alright, she'll feel a thousand times better.
B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's)
Leigh loves her legs, mostly because she obviously does a lot of work with them at the studio and in her classes! She doesn't mind showing them off, laying them over your lap, letting you massage her thighs while you watch movies, and she absolutely melts whenever you mark up her legs with dark hickeys.
Her favorite on you are your hands. Before she met you, she was in severe drought for a caring touch. While you were just friends, you still always met her with such love, it almost brought Leigh to tears.
C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically)
When you first started dating, Leigh was more squeamish about it. Not in a prudish way, but she always looked away whenever you licked your soaked fingers after pulling them out of her.
Now she thinks it's hot and typically she's the one to pull you up for a kiss after you've finished eating her out.
D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
It's a simple thing, something she doesn't truly need to keep secret, she just hasn't been able to figure out how to ask you for it: Leigh is fairly sure she's got a bit of a degradation kink, based off the times you've gotten more carried away and said things you apologized profusely for later.
She wishes you'd stop apologizing and call her your pretty little slut again because she's never cum harder.
E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they're doing?)
While she's very much not a virgin, Leigh had never been with a woman before she met you. That meant she often felt really out of place/unexperienced whenever she was with you, but you never looked down on her for it.
Leigh's a smart woman, hates feeling out of the loop tbh, so let's just say she was very intent on not being inexperienced for long. There was a lot of reassurances because as much as you'll never say no to Leigh wanting to take control, you didn't want to pressure her, but nowadays she is very knowledgeable and very good at what she does.
F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)
She loves being on top, even if you're the one calling the shots. Especially if you're using a strap. There's nothing better than that deep, full feeling when she gets to ride you until she's fully spent.
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G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)
It's very easy for Leigh to fall into her head and that's when she'll get more serious about it, or when she wants you to fuck her for a distraction. Either way, she loves that you always try and bring levity in- if you tickle her sides, she'll giggle; if you blow raspberries on her tummy, she'll poke at you for being silly.
Some days it can be hard for her to truly let go, but she appreciates it so much when she can. Leigh loves to laugh and have fun during sex, it's more satisfying for her that way!
H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)
The girl is so Type A I feel like she's always well groomed. Not that she waxes necessarily, I don't see her doing that all the time, maybe more for vacations or beach days. On the daily, I'd say she's trimmed and neat about it!
I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect...)
She likes intimacy, but she doesn't need it to be romantic to enjoy sex. The first few times you fucked certainly were nooot intimate at all; they were quick and had no strings attached... but then she started having feelings for you.
As soon as she did, Leigh needed that intimacy, needed you to know how much she felt... her demeanor changed, her kisses lingered, she wanted sex to last longer.
If she's in a relationship, she expects some sort of intimacy even if it's just a quick wellness check in before you fuck her into the mattress.
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J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon) 
Leigh splurged and bought herself a lovense lush toy, fully thinking it was gonna be super overhyped, but when she got it, she found out it really was just as good as it seemed. For a while she just loved the discreet nature of it, how she could put it in while she was on FaceTime with you and if she was sneaky enough, she could get herself off even while you were busy working.
Eventually she let you connect to her toy control's though and you made up for all of those times you missed out on her orgasms.
K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)
We already talked about the semi-hidden degradation kink, but on the whole, Leigh is unapologetic in asking for what she wants. This kind of goes in hand with the degradation, but she absolutely loves dirty talk.
Talking in general is a big yes from her because it helps her stay present, but talk her through her orgasm well enough- "fuck, you're taking my fingers so well, already clenching around me and everything... I want to watch you cum for me" and you'll find her eyes rolling back to her head, nails scraping down your back, etc.
L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)
Her favorite of all is bed; sometimes she thinks that makes her boring, but she doesn't care. She likes being comfortable and she can go longest by herself or with a partner sprawled out in bed.
Also it's perfect for falling asleep right after you're done and she doesn't have to worry about anything past changing her sheets after particularly messy nights.
M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)
Leigh adores feeling wanted. Nothing turns her on more than watching your face light up when she wears a nice set of lingerie for your enjoyment or honestly, something as simple as telling her what a good job she's done planning a new event as work.
During sex, whispering about how good she feels, how pretty she looks, etc. can make her cum on the spot
N = NO (Something they wouldn't do, turn offs)
Any hard kinks, specifically anything that involves pain. The last thing she wants to do is hurt you or mark you permanently nor would she want you to do it to her either.
O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)
She ends up receiving most often, but doesn't have any problems giving. It's partially due to Leigh's inexperience (as we mentioned before) with going down on a woman prior to meeting you; you never want to push or overwhelm her and typically fall into making your way down her body and staying until her brain is too fuzzy to function.
That being said, Leigh isn't bad at oral by any means! She's great, you taught her well.
P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)
100% a fan of slow and sensual if she's in charge. She wants to see you, needs to know you're real and present and not going anywhere. She loves holding onto you, scratching her nails down your back, burying her face in your shoulder, really surrounding herself in all of you.
She's not opposed to rough though, loves it too, but she doesn't ask for it that often. Usually you're the one who'll manhandle her or set the tone for some fast sex that she'll fall into it. Which works because some nights the poor girl just doesn't want to think and she needs you to force it all away.
Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)
For Leigh, they're a means to an end. She prefers proper sex, but she won't say no to a romp in the car or even in the park if you promise to be quick about it.
Occasionally she'll say no because the location embarrasses her (i.e. a store fitting room or the locker rooms at the gym), but if you get your hands on her fast enough, it's not too hard to weaken her willpower.
R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)
It's rare she initiates an experimental thing, mainly because she wouldn't know the first place to go looking for things to try. But if you bring something up to her and it's clear you really want to give it a go, usually you can persuade her into doing anything at least once.
Even if she complains about it.
S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last...)
Ohhh when you first met her, you thought she'd tap out after just one, but you were pleasantly surprised Leigh can go all night if you pace her out enough.
She wants to hate when you do... the edging, the overly-sensitive orgasms, how sleepy she gets only to be met with your smug little grin inches away from her face... but she can't; you make her feel too good.
T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)
I'd say Leigh owns a few vibrators, definitely at least one dildo. She uses them on herself mostly, but there have been times where she uses them on you. She doesn't admit it often, but she loves to watch you squirm and shake, especially when she can take credit for it.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
She'll tease if she's feeling up to it, like if it's a special day or if she wants your attention. She can be very persuasive when she feels neglected!
In general, Leigh's a cute tease above anything, examples are: bending over in shorts she knows you can see her ass in, going in for a sweet kiss only to blindside you with her tongue in your mouth, sliding past you in tight spaces to wiggle against you.
V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)
Leigh tends to be fairly quiet; not because she's necessarily ashamed, but she worries that if she's too loud you'll tell her to hush.
Further into your relationship, you start noticing how she bites her lip or finger to hold herself back and you're quick to stop her, forcing her jaw open or pulling her hand away from her face. Now she knows you like to hear her... but she still makes you work for it.
W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)
Early in your relationship, Leigh was still learning your schedule, assumed you were at bored at work, and sent you a... quite suggestive picture of herself in her post-class outfit half out of it really.
Turns out you were at home and, living pretty close to the studio, you rushed down there and fucked her in the same room you found her in. Thankfully she was between classes, but every time Leigh looks at the mirror panel in the far corner and remembers how you'd stretched out her shirt and nearly ripped her leggings with how frantically you needed to get your hands on her, she shivers.
X = X-Ray (Let's see what's going on in those pants, picture or words)
For lack of a better word, Leigh is just... beautiful. The first time you were allowed to go down on her, you stared until she closed her legs out of nerves, but as soon as you could coax her to part them again, you dove straight in.
Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)
It ebbs and flows really. Some weeks she'll be on you every time you turn a corner, pulling you to some secluded area for a quick fuck, or anything she can get out of you in the limited time she bought.
Other times, when Leigh isn't having a great brain time, she's just more shy and reserved. If she asks for something, it most likely comes in the form of her arms around your waist and gentle kisses until you catch on to what she's after.
Z = ZZZ ( how quickly they fall asleep after sex)
If she's not too in her head, Leigh will snuggle up and sleep so easily, it startles you. Truly she can be mid-sentence and then you'll hear silence and after, light snoring.
Sometimes, she'll beg you to fuck her to sleep which of course, you oblige happily.
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ezrasbirdie · 2 years
Text
deep and endless
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summary: you love people-watching, and your favorite subject, a mysterious man with dark hair, finally talks to you.
rating: E [warnings: SMUT, oral sex m&f receiving, mouth fucking, semi-public sex, javi is sad and rough and sweet, light angst]
pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader
word count: ~2.6k
note: Okay, so this was supposed to be a drabble, and then it got out of hand, and then I lost my mind and wrote out a whole idea for a series. So that maybe might be a thing? Definitely after I wrap up Insecurities. But in the meantime, enjoy the vibe. Thank you to my love @starlightmornings for the beta. I've never really done much with pre-S3 Javi so this was fun. Dedicated to @lowlights​ bc her day needs to get better.
masterlist | taglist
~
You never do this.
You’ve never been the girl hooking up with the stranger in the bar. Not that he’s a stranger, exactly. If anything, he’s an obsession. You see him all the time in this dingy bar, looking for all the world a man desperate to drink his trouble down, and because of that, you’ve kept well away, content to study him from across the bar.
Sometimes he brings a friend, a blonde man with a mustache. They talk some, and smile rarely. Sometimes the blonde man brings a blonde woman, and your dark-haired stranger watches them both when he thinks no one can see him, longing etched into the lines of his handsome face.
It’s because of her you know his name—Javi. Short for Javier, you assume. She brings levity to their get-togethers, and you’re oddly thankful for it. Bogotá is a serious place, and when she makes your dark-haired stranger laugh, it warms something inside of you.
Tonight, though, he’s alone. There’s a snarl on his face that no amount of whiskey can shake off, and for the first time in the month you’ve watched him, he finally approaches you. You don’t notice him at first—the lights are dim and music booms loudly over the speakers, and you’re lost in your own world as you scribble your thoughts in the almost-full notebook you keep with you.
When the dark-haired stranger—Javi—sits at your table, he doesn’t let you speak first.
“Who are you?” He asks. The question is curious and accusatory, and both of them interest you.
“I’m sorry?”
“Who are you?” He’s balancing on the edge of anger, the words just sharp enough to make you sit up straighter.
“You first. You sat down at my table,” you point out, and he stares at you for a moment with his nostrils flared, annoyed at your defiance, but his face falls and he shrugs.
“You’re the one following me,” he says. Why on Earth would you follow him? You open your mouth to argue, but he stops you. “You’re always here when I’m here. How do you know when I’m gonna be here?”
You set your pen down and gaze at him thoughtfully. He’s in an oxblood red button up with sleeves rolled to his elbows and a pair of sinfully tight jeans. A black leather jacket and black leather boots complete his ensemble—he’s put this outfit together to make some kind of statement, even if he doesn’t realize it. All of his outfits are like that; there’s always something he’s trying to say. He loosens his buttons when he shows up with the blonde man and woman; leaves him buttoned when he’s alone.
He crosses his arms and licks his lips as he waits for you to answer.
“Why would I follow you?” You ask, genuinely curious. He seems to think you’re someone you’re not.
“Why else would you be here this much?”
“I could ask you the same thing, you know.”
There is a lengthy moment in which time ceases, the two of you just staring at each other until he nods, apparently satisfied with your argument.
“I’m Javi,” he says, reaching his hand out to shake yours as you give him your name. “You on vacation or something?”
“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I moved here for work, but my apartment won’t be ready for another couple of days, so I’m a hotel. This is the safest place besides.”
“You’re in here a lot.”
“I like it here.”
He’s shameless in the way he looks at you, sliding his tongue over his lip as he drags his eyes up and down your body.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“I don’t drink, actually.”
“But you spend all your time in a bar,” he observes. You shrug.
“They don’t mind making me Shirley Temples.”
“Can I buy you a Shirley Temple, then?”
It’s a pleasant conversation, but you know he’s angling for something. He tells you little about himself, opting to ask you questions and compliment your outfit. The thing about being a journalist is that you learn how to see through bullshit.
But so what? Colombia is supposed to be a whole new you. And in a few days, you’ll have your new apartment in a whole different side of town. You could avoid this place for the rest of your time here if you wanted.
He leans forward and slips his hand over yours, fingers brushing your knuckles.
“Would you like to dance?”
Now, that’s a surprise.
The tiny dance floor filled up since you started talking to him. It’s warm with all the bodies writhing against each other, and you pull your demure little cardigan off, shimmying a little in a silly way. He actually laughs, but not at you.
“You’re...cute,” he says, his tongue tripping over the word like he doesn’t get the chance to use it often. You frown. Cute can mean a lot of things.
“Is that a good thing?”
He spins you around and pulls you into him, your ass settling against a hard bulge in his pants. “Very good,” he murmurs into your ear. “You’d tell me if I was reading this wrong, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”
Javi has his hands curled around your soft biceps, running his gun-calloused hands up and down your now-bare arms. You gasp, trying to find words. “Yeah,” you whisper. He smooths his hands over your body as you move against him, resting at the waistline of your jeans as he nips your earlobe. The moan you let out should be embarrassing, but you can’t help it. You want him to keep going. He chuckles a little and presses a wet kiss to your neck.
“How wet would your little pussy be if I checked?” He whispers, sliding his fingers just inside your jeans and resting them on your tummy. “If I made you come right here in front of all these people? Would you like that?”
You whimper—how can you not with a threat like that? But you don’t want him to make you come here—you want to taste him. You want to feel the entirety of his cock in your mouth. So you tell him—please, I want to suck your dick—and he growls against your neck.
He spins you around and plants a hungry, needy kiss on your lips, licking into your mouth on the dance floor until you’re both completely breathless. “Bathroom,” he grunts, and lightly pushes you forward.
It’s a bar bathroom; not exactly romantic, but it’s somewhat clean. And you don’t want a romantic setting, anyway. You want him to make you forget.
He bends you over the sink, yanking your jeans and panties down in one powerful movement. You spread yourself for him when he drops to his knees, murmuring softly to himself.
“You’re dripping wet, bebita. You’re soaked. Did you want me this bad the whole time?”
You think of exposing yourself—to breathlessly admit that yes, Javi, I went back to my hotel room and touched myself to the thought of you all the time. Instead, you let out a long, high-pitched whine of frustration. He presses a kiss to your thigh, soothing you with soft words—shh, baby, I’ve got you. It’s hard to keep still, and when he presses his tongue to your cunt, licking and sucking every bit of you he can reach, you push back into him, begging for anything inside of you.
“Fuckin’ greedy,” he groans. “I like that.” He slips one of those thick fingers you’ve been dreaming about inside of you and grunts when you clamp around him as the flat of his tongue presses against your clit, pleasure shimmering through your body. It’s just so much better than your pathetic attempts at soothing your desire for him.
“When’s the last time someone made this little pussy come, hm?”
“I don’t—I don’t know—“
“Too long,” he coos. “That’s a goddamn shame. I’ve got you now, bebita. Gonna make you come all over my tongue.”
He’s unrelenting, brushing against a spot inside that makes your legs tremble with wanton, violent pleasure.
“I’m gonna—I—“
“Say it,” he commands, going still until you obey him.
“I’m gonna come,” you mean to whine, but it comes out like a plea.
“Good girl,” he says, and he starts again, wasting no time rewarding you. You cry out his name—Javi, Javi, Javi—quivering around his fingers—that’s right, baby, squeeze me just like that, fuuuuck yeah—gripping the sink to stay upright. He’s licking you up, pulling his fingers out and holding you up by your waist to keep you from collapsing to the floor.
He kisses your neck, murmured praise pulling you back to reality. You turn to look up at him with a shy smile, a little embarrassed about how much you needed that.
It has clearly been a while.
Lust brushes that feeling aside easily enough, instead dropping to your knees and nosing against the softness of his tummy—you wish you had more time to enjoy that.
It’s his turn to grin now, but its a soft smirk—he’s fully in control here and he knows it. He pulls his cock out and gives himself a few strokes. “See what you do to me?” He grunts. You stare at his length, wondering just how you’ll get your mouth around it, his head dripping pre-come as he smears himself around your lips.
“Tell me what to do. It’s so big,” you gush, fluttering your lashes up at him.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans.
You don’t usually do this, remember? You’ve never been on your knees in a dirty bar bathroom, your mouth hanging open, tongue peeking out to lick your lips, inviting a man you’ve only really known for an hour to do whatever the fuck he wants.
But you’re a whole new you, and your usual self left the building the second he touched you. You’ll do it again, and a million more times if he wants you to. He pulls your chin up to look at him, pupils blown wide with lust and—what is it?—need.
“Open up real wide for me,” he croons, stroking his thumb over your cheek, and you obey. He pushes himself in and hisses at the stimulation. “Good girl.”
The motherfucker knows exactly what he’s doing. His cock is warm and heavy on your tongue, and he thrusts forward slowly, conscious of how much you can take. You open your mouth wider and wider until you’re full of him, and somehow he keeps pushing.
“Relax your throat for me, sweetheart,” he says. You swallow involuntarily and he moans. “Fuck, you feel so good.” You’ve just come harder than you have in years and you feel your own desire building again, squeezing your thighs together for relief. He’s pushed back so far you’re afraid you’ll start choking, but he seems to realize that.
“Breathe through your nose, baby, come on. Good girl,” he says again as you remember yourself. “Now go back and forth. Just like that.”
You can’t believe you fit it all, and pride bubbles through your chest when you hear him moan. He is so upfront with his pleasure, not trying to hide that it felt good like some guys you’d been with. He rolls his hips forward, and the choked whine you let out stops him. You want him to keep fucking your mouth like that, though. He looks down into your eyes and you give him a nod.
“That’s right, baby. Take my fucking cock. You like it a little rough, don’t you? Goddamn, you sweet little thing; you want me to fuck your mouth?”
The noise you make is not sophisticated—it’s raw, begging, needy; fuck, yes, you do. Your mouth is too full to say please, so you whimper and hope he gets the hint. Javi cradles the back of your head with his hands to protect your skull from the porcelain of the sink and shoves his cock so far in your mouth tears spring to your eyes and roll down your cheeks—so pretty, he murmurs, you look so pretty like this, my cock in your mouth. Your mascara must be running, too, and his head’s thrown back, and he is so, so beautiful like this—hips canting into you as he fucks and fucks and fucks, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth, and is it possible for you to come just from watching?
He pulls out so suddenly and rips off the tank top you’re wearing, pulling the soft cups of your bra down, muttering something about wanna see those pretty tits wanna come on those pretty fuckin’ tits, and he comes on your chest, searing ropes of him splashing against your chest as he moans above you. You’re a little disappointed—you’d wanted to taste him.
“Didn’t—didn’t have time to ask,” he pants. “Fuck, that mouth. You’re incredible.”
He pulls you to your feet, grabbing a few paper towels to clean himself off of you—it’s such a thoughtful gesture it chisels the experience into your heart, settling itself just above the impossibly deep chasm of your memories. You’re quiet as you dress yourself and wipe away the smudged mascara. La petite mort, the French call it, but you’ve never had the words—just an incomprehensible barrage of what-ifs and that heavy, aching melancholy. You didn’t you think it would be anything more than what it was, but there’s still some loss—this dark-haired stranger, your dark-haired stranger, had been a constant in an unfamiliar land.
“Hey,” he says, after he’s stuffed himself back in his jeans and washed his mustache free of that your scent, though he seemed loathe to do so. His eyes are soft with concern now. “Everything okay? Was that too much?” He holds your face in his hands, searching you for distress.
“I’m great,” you murmur, and you’re not lying. You give him a lop-sided smile. “Really.”
He kisses your forehead. “Can I...do anything?”
Can I get you a cab? Call a friend? He is not offering to come home with you, and that’s just fine.
“Nope,” you say, stretching your arms over your head and wiggling your fingers. You lean in to kiss him, to ease that hint of stress that had settled on his brow. “This was fun.”
“It was,” he says. “All of it. Especially...it was nice to talk.”
Someone pounds on the bathroom door, screaming obscenities. You’ve been in here a while.
“Oops,” you giggle, and he huffs a laugh. “See you around, Javi.”
**
The new apartment is nice. You’ve been here for two weeks, and it’s mostly fine.
Your next-door neighbor, who you have yet to meet, comes in and out all hours of the day, having guests over late at night. You haven’t actually met them, though, so you assume they just have an odd work schedule.
But one Friday evening, their stereo is on full blast for two hours. You try to bang on their door to tell them to keep it down, but there’s no answer. It’s not bothering anyone else—they’re in a corner unit. So you stomp back to your apartment and wait. The stereo eventually stops, and you listen. The front door opens, murmuring and girlish giggles, followed by the soft click of the door and the tap tap tap of high heels down the hallway.
You decide to give your neighbor a polite piece of your mind. How loud could they have been fucking someone to warrant bass that obnoxious?
The door flies open just seconds after your knock, and there’s your neighbor, all shirtless and messy hair and the expression of a man who looks like he’s just seen a ghost.
It turns out the music was probably necessary.
“I—your stereo,” you say, breathless at the man shimmering in the afterglow of what was clearly an incredible round of lovemaking. He sighs your name like he’s in trouble, which is oddly sweet for a one-night stand.
“So,” you say, trying to soothe the tension. “Is that part of the welcome package, or?”
He laughs, full and warm, and something deep inside screams—this is going to be a problem.
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