#when they say 'olive skin tone' that's not what they mean | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ceilidho · 5 months

Text

prompt: price/reader bear shifter fic. PART 3. (part 1 here) (part 2 here)

The man at your till is making you feel increasingly uncomfortable.

He’s a stocky man, not quite as imposing as John, but still big. He’s particularly unnerving because the man has been standing by your till for the past few minutes without having anything in his hands. No basket in sight. Not a rutabaga or a bushel of carrots or even a single jar of olives.

It’s as if he just blew in off the street; dark hair mussed from the wind, shabbily dressed for the winter as if the cold weren’t even an issue for him. The intensity of his stare makes your skin crawl though, and it’s even worse when he decides to strike up a conversation with you.

It’s like he only came into the shop to stare at you and make creepy, suggestive comments. Laswell comes out from the back when his presence starts to make even the other customers uncomfortable, but all that does is relegate him to the parking lot, where he’s free to loiter and stare at you through the window all he wants.

You delay the inevitable for almost half an hour because you keep talking yourself out of calling John. It’s not like you’re not familiar with each other by now—he’s taken you to diners and cafés, and you’ve brought him tupperware filled with stew and casserole on the days when you’ve watched him slump up the steps of his front porch, looking haggard and about to fall on his face—but it feels intrusive. A favour you wouldn’t normally ask of him. It almost feels like you’re using him, actually.

Still though, after some time you almost feel like you don’t have a choice. You either call John or the police, and the latter option is vastly more unappealing. Then you’d really be causing a ruckus for nothing.

Since your phone is stored under the desk by the till, you take a second in between customers to dial John’s number, listening to it ring with your back to the window. That makes your shoulders tense up even more, acutely aware of two eyes burrowing into the back of your neck. The anxiety puts a cramp in your belly until you hear John pick up.

“John,” you whisper into the phone, hand cupped around the receiver. There’s static on the other end before you hear him grumble your name. “Are you—is this a bad time?”

“No, s’good a time as any,” he says, voice thick and heady. “What’s the matter, honey?”

The sound of his voice makes you shiver like it always does, but the effect is muted under the droning of your anxiety. Like a pale imitation of its usual force.

“I just was wondering if—would you mind coming down to the shop for a bit?”

“What for? Need help stocking the shelves?” he asks, still lighthearted. Maybe you’re keeping your cool just a bit too well because he hasn’t yet detected the undercurrent of fear making your voice almost tremble. You glance over your shoulder again and shudder when you see the same man still loitering in the parking lot, eyes locked on you. When he smiles, it’s mean.

“Actually I—I hope this isn’t rude but there’s…this guy’s been hanging around outside for a bit and…” you start, then stop to chew on your lip. “Well, he’s really starting to freak me out.”

You can almost hear him straighten up on the other end. “What’s that?”

Now his tone makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You’ve never heard him sound like this before—alert all of a sudden, a hard edge to his voice that you might have associated with his work persona if you’d ever seen it before. It fills you with comfort and worry all at once.

“He came in earlier and he was…well, he kind of came in looking confused and then—I think he noticed me looking at him strangely or something, which I—well, I don’t think I was making like, a weird face or anything, but—”

“Did he say anything to you?” John asks, cutting you off.

You cup your hand even more around the phone so it muffles your words. “He said I smell…fecund? I don’t even know what that means, but…”

He goes silent for a moment before he speaks again. At first, you think he sounds almost calm, but you clock the way his breathing pattern abruptly changes. “I’ll be there in a few. Don’t move, honey.”

He hangs up before you’re able to say another word. You hold the phone to your ear for another couple of seconds before your eyes inevitably dart back to the window, where the other man is still staring at you, his upper lip curled.

You try your best to focus on your job, checking each new customer out while steadfastly avoiding looking out the main window. It wouldn’t do you any good anyway. In your peripheral vision, you see the dark shadowy form of the man still leaning against his car, eyes still trained on you. It won’t be dark for another hour or so, but the fact that your shift only ends when it’s well past the daylight hours makes your hands tremble when you scan a container of hummus. You mess up the code for artichoke three separate times.

You don’t see the moment John pulls into the parking lot, but you hear the commotion and your head whips around just in time to see him dragging the other man into the woods behind the grocers, one big arm wrapped around his neck. He’s somehow bigger than the man you’d thought towered over you, making his struggle seem pointless as he's dragged off by John.

It’s over so quickly that when the two of them disappear past the treeline, you almost think you imagined it for a second. Then another second goes by and you find John’s car haphazardly parked in the lot, the door still open. At least he managed to turn it off.

“Kate, did you—” you say, turning towards when you remember last seeing her restock the boxed panettone display only to find your manager standing in front of your till, staring out the same window as you.

“Shit,” she says, blinking. A bit awed. “Never seen John that mad before.”

“He’s, uh—I called him because that guy wouldn’t leave. I thought maybe he’d…I don’t know what I thought he’d do, honestly.”

“You know, we could’ve called the sheriff.”

You don’t want to admit that your first thought was always John. Not the police. “Oh. I guess.”

The two of you keep staring out the window. Neither man emerges from the treeline.

“Should I—”

“Don’t even think about suggesting that you go check on him. He’s a grown man and you’re still on the clock.”

“Got it,” you mumble, a bit peeved.

Kate looks at you from the corner of her eye. “Besides, John’ll have my head if he finds out I let his favourite cashier chase after him into the woods where he just dragged off a man harassing her.”

“He wouldn’t do that—”

You’re cut off when a customer waiting at your till clears their throat, forcing you to leave your station at the window. Kate’s smug smile haunts you while you ring the impatient customer up. She heads back to her office before you’re able to say your piece, leaving you to stew in silence.

There aren’t usually many customers in the middle of a random weekday, so you have nothing to do except stare out the window and fret. Your heart skips a beat any time the trees sway with the breeze. Another customer gives you a bit of a hassle over a two-for-one deal that your scanner didn’t pick up and you almost snap at them.

You finally make the decision to leave your till when the trees rustle and your heart stops for a second before John steps back out into the parking lot, looking dishevelled but no worse for wear. His hat is gone. There’s a nasty cut on his lip and it seems like his shirt has been fully ripped open, exposing a wide, hairy chest and two thick pectorals. You do not stare at the way the hair on his chest whorls around his brown nipples.

His eyes are locked on you through the window and his brows furrow when he watches you jog to the doors. When they slide open, you hear him shout from across the lot, “Back inside.”

“I can—”

“Get back inside.”

You pout, but listen, taking a step back in and letting the doors shut with a whoosh. You wait anxiously on the balls of your feet until they slide open again when John finally crosses the parking lot in only a few short seconds. He zips up his coat before coming inside, depriving you of the view. You have to school your face so that your pout doesn’t deepen.

“Are you okay—” you ask when he steps into the grocery store, but no one in this town seems to be able to let you finish a sentence because he cuts you off almost immediately.

“Where’s Laswell?” he asks, almost rhetorically because he sidesteps you after a brief touch to your chin to tilt your head up, eyes tracking across your face as if looking for something to rile him up even more. “Kate.”

You shush him when you trail after him towards the back where Kate’s office door is wide open. His voice carries on a good day; after his tussle out in the forest, it seems to boom across the store, drawing curious eyes. You smile weakly.

“Busy today?” It’s the first thing out of his mouth when he reaches the door of Kate’s office. Her chair is already turned to face him, arms crossed over her chest and blonde hair pulled up into a tight bun.

“It’s normal,” Kate says, almost like a challenge. “Business as usual.”

“Good. I’m taking your cashier home then. That gonna be an issue?”

Kate rolls her eyes. “I’m trembling. You didn’t get all of this out with the other guy? Still need a good fight?”

“Please, John, I can stay—I’m really sorry about all of this,” you say, turning from John back to Kate, a bit frazzled now that it’s sunk in. A faint tremor works its way through you. You don’t even realize the way you unconsciously grip John’s jacket, anchoring yourself in place.

“Honey, we’re going home,” John stresses, fitting a hand against your low back, drawing you a bit closer. You move into him without a thought, like a natural pull.

Kate’s eyes soften when she meets yours. “It’s fine, I can cover the till for the rest of the afternoon. John’s right—just go home. I still know how to work a register, you know.”

He doesn’t let you stay a moment longer to argue or insist that you stay and cover your shift. He sweeps you out the door with a warm hand still low on your back, letting you briefly grab your coat and bag before hustling you to his car. It’s freezing inside from the wide open door, so he blasts the hot air until you slump into the passenger seat, the heat lulling you into a stupor.

The drive back home—whatever home at this point means—is long. Part of you wonders whether he’ll drive you to work tomorrow to pick up your car or if you’ll be forced to take a bus, but it isn’t the time or place to be thinking about those things.

“What’d you do with him?” you mumble, turning your head to stare at the side of his face. The cut of his jaw is hard, obscured somewhat by the beard growing in heavy with the winter, but deeply masculine like something out of an old western. You think you’d happily count every bristle without complaint if he let you.

“Taught him to mind his manners,” John says. The answer is short, to the point. It makes you tremble.

“Like, to respect women?”

He turns his head to look over at you. It’s just for a moment, brief in the grand scheme of things, but it feels significant. Pointed. Sustained. “To not touch what isn’t his.”

The truck never so much as wavers on the road.

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #john price #captain price #captain john price #cod price #price x reader #price x you #price/reader

2K notes · View notes

hogwartsfirebolt · 2 months

Text

the game’s the game

“What was going through your mind when you spotted the Snitch?”

Two camera shutters go off like lighting, but Draco doesn’t blink. It’s almost the end of the season, and he’s done a press conference every week. He’s used to them.

“Fucking finally,” he answers, and the journalists all laugh. They think he’s joking, and he can already imagine the articles they’ll publish tomorrow pronouncing him cheeky and funny, but he means it wholeheartedly. Six hours in the sky, drenched all the way through his pants in rainwater, and facing the very best player in the league? He had half a mind to jump off his broom if only to have the game end somehow.

“This is the second time you face PU and well, Harry Potter, this season,” says another reporter, a young, pretty woman with her hair pinned up and a reverent tone when she speaks Potter’s name. Like everyone. “Are you expecting to encounter him at this year’s Cup? And if so, how does that make you feel?”

Draco breathes out hard through his nose. Across the room from him, sitting at his own table against the wall opposite, Potter’s doing his own press conference. He’s wearing a hat backwards, the light blue of his team hoodie contrasting with his golden-warm skin tone. He has a hand to his chin, rubbing his short beard in thought at some question he’s being asked. Probably about just how sweet it had been to snatch that Snitch right from under Draco’s nose. He’s earnest and so gorgeous Draco can’t stand the sight of him.

“The game is the game,” Harry’s voice carries, clear and chesty, deeply masculine as he says his favorite little quote that means absolutely nothing and that fans have been yelling and tattooing on their bodies the whole season. “We don’t take any victory for granted. Coach has been running us to the ground, she won’t stop until we have that trophy in Puddlemere, and we’re doing our best to make her proud.”

“Oh, I’m certain we’ll face them at the Cup,” is what Draco answers at last. “Honestly? I think no other team comes even close. We’ll face them, and then we’ll bring the Cup home to Appleby. As Potter himself likes to say, the game is the game.”

All the cameras around him go off, the sound of Quick-Quills scrabbling and the reporters’ scandalized gasps at his use of Potter’s quote. He grins, puts his olive green Arrows cap on and stands to leave. He needs a fucking shower.

Later on, he’s sprawled on his hotel room couch, drying his hair with a towel and watching a replay of the game on the enormous television, making mental notes about his own flying, his mistakes, the times he dove too soon or hovered too low. When the screen follows the blue jersey with POTTER 7 emblazoned across the back, he looks closely, trying to spot mistakes but knowing he won’t find any. Potter’s probably the best flier of the century, and Draco loves Quidditch too much to lie to himself about that.

He’s admiring one of Potter’s physics-defying feints when there’s a knock on his door. Immediately, his heart takes up a gallop, and he has to press a hand to the center of his chest with a frown.

“Calm the fuck down, Malfoy,” he mutters. It’s a disproportionate reaction and he’s irritated with himself for it. It’s not as though it’s the first time. Or the tenth.

He pauses the game with a flick of his wand and makes his way to the door, through the archway that separates the TV room from the kitchenette. A quick look at the archway across the suite to make sure the bedroom is as he left it, and he’s at the door, taking a deep breath.

Potter’s grin is huge when Draco opens. He’s foregone all his team outwear, and is now in a familiar, worn leather jacket and a black sweater. His hair is wet, as though he rushed after his shower so he could get here quicker. Draco opens his mouth to say something, but before he figures out what, Harry pushes inside, turns around and presses him against the door, big hands gentle on Draco’s waist. Draco’s heart hasn’t gotten the “this isn’t the first or tenth time this happens,” memo, and is still running a marathon inside his chest, so he says nothing.

There’s a plastic bag in Potter’s hands. Dinner, probably, he usually brings dinner when they meet after a game. His wide smile reveals white teeth, a crooked canine that Draco knows is a baby tooth that never loosened. Round, stylish glasses cover the most intoxicating green eyes Draco has ever seen, and they’re shining with tonight’s victory. And Draco might be — definitely is — the world’s sorest loser, but he’s also the world’s biggest slut for Quidditch excellence, and he has it right here, holding him against his hotel room door.

“The game is the game?” Harry asks, amused, already leaning in, the hand on Draco’s waist moving to wrap the whole way around him and pull him close.

“Just some stupid phrase I’ve heard from a dickhead,” Draco answers, but the words hold the shape of a smile and are uttered right into a kiss there at the end.

It’s always a race at the start. They're both high from the game, still in that mindset, and it’s a competition to see who can undress quicker, who can make the other harder, who can earn the first moan and coax the first orgasm of the night. But after that first one, after Draco’s jaw aches dully and Potter is softening between his legs, everything slows down a little. Potter helps him up and they share the tacos Potter brought, watching the last minutes of the game they played earlier with Draco’s legs up on Potter’s lap, where he’s massaging his knees, his quads, making sure he’s not achy from kneeling for him.

“I really fucked that one up,” Potter comments. His tiny self on the screen just pulled out of an impossible dive at what looks like a 90 degree angle. He sounds earnest, which is the only reason Draco isn’t kicking him right in his beautiful face.

“I hate you so much. Only you would call that a fuck up.”

Potter hums, his massaging hands moving from Draco’s calf to his heel, his thumb pressing into his sole. On the screen, tiny Draco swerves a Bludger aimed to his head, and his teammate Owen is flying to him to make sure he’s alright.

“That guy is so into you,” Potter points out.

“I know. We fucked all through rookie year.”

Potter turns to look at him so fast it must hurt his neck. Draco raises an eyebrow, confused at the strong reaction.

“What?”

“I — I don’t know,” Potter says, suddenly sheepish. His hands haven’t stopped moving over Draco’s foot. Potter’s skin is dark, but Draco can still make out the blush spreading across his cheekbones. “Isn’t it weird? He’s a teammate.”

There’s something he’s not saying. It’s evident in the way he bites his bottom lip, in the way he obviously wants to look away but is too ridiculously brave to actually do it. Draco’s heart thumps inside his chest, so hard he’s sure it must be audible to Harry too.

They’ve never named this thing between them. The first time they did it, after the quarter finals one year before, with Potter’s ill advised kiss that ended with them fucking in the showers of the stadium after Potter had wiped the damn dust with Draco on the pitch, they agreed to keep it quiet, and that was the last they discussed of it. It’s going on fourteen months since then, and they’ve done it at least once a month, when the league brings them to nearby towns, and sometimes when it doesn’t and they take a quick midnight Portkey to each other to blow off some steam.

Draco had never in his life been as well-fucked as he’s been this past year, and he definitely doesn’t want to lose it. Potter’s always been honest and open with him, vocal in bed about how much he wants him, filthy in his occasional text messages when they’re apart, but he’s never given any indication that he wants anything other than exactly what they have.

“It’s not weird,” Draco says slowly, unsure of what to think of this exchange. “We stopped a while ago. I was clear that I didn’t want — that I’d rather we stayed friends and teammates, without any complications.”

“Right,” Potter says. He sounds relieved, and Draco feels like he’s three steps behind the conversation they’re having. He’s about to ask, but Potter’s fingers on his calf smooth over an old knot and he groans instead, letting his head fall back onto the couch cushion.

“That feels great,” he says, and Potter repeats the motion.

“Yeah. I think you pulled it when you made that X turn.”

The turn he made to try to beat him to the Snitch, he doesn’t say. How he had enough awareness to know Draco attempted it while diving for the Snitch himself is beyond comprehension, but Draco has long accepted that Potter is simply insane about the game. He notices everything, considers everything, takes every risk. If he weren’t a player himself, Draco knows he would be following Puddlemere and Harry wherever they played for the entire season, wearing a pale blue jersey with the number 7 on it.

“Probably,” Draco says, closing his eyes and groaning again when Harry keeps pressing the same point. After a moment, he feels something softer brushing his calf, and opens his eyes to find Harry bent over his leg, kissing a path up towards his knee. He can’t help the embarrassing little sound he makes, and Harry’s laugh is a puff against his skin as he keeps moving up, breath warm on the wet trail of his kisses up Draco’s thigh. In the background, the presenters are going crazy over a feint Harry pulled, the sound of the audience carrying all through the stadium and out of the TV speakers.

Harry has made his way high up and is kissing Draco’s birthmark, a brown, apple-sized beauty mark an inch below his groin when he lifts his head to ask, “Why didn’t you want to?”

Draco can’t believe he’s using his mouth to speak at that moment. He licks his lips, trying to make sense of the question.

“What? What are you even — ?” He tries to sit up a little, but Harry moves over him instead so they’re eye-level without Draco having to move at all.

“With Caddell. Why didn’t you want to keep seeing him?”

“Owen? Why the fuck are we talking about —,” Draco lets his head drop down onto the cushions again, a sigh punched out of him. Harry takes pity and leans forward to kiss him, lips soft over Draco’s, knowing exactly how to coax his kisses out of him the way he likes best.

“I just want to know,” Harry whispers against his lips. He’s breathless just from touching Draco, from rubbing his legs, from kissing him. Fuck, this is insane.

“I like him, but it wasn’t very exciting.” Draco says. He closes his eyes as Harry begins to kiss down his neck, and tries to really think about it, because he’s not even sure himself. “I wasn’t willing to risk our teamwork when what we had wasn’t even that … electric. I don’t know. This sounds insane.”

Harry shakes his head, his beard rubbing against Draco’s collarbone. “It doesn’t. I get it.” He bites on the delicate skin connecting neck and shoulder, licks a path down his chest. “I get electric.”

“Fuck yes you do,” Draco says, nonsensical, but he feels he can’t be blamed when Harry is brushing his lips over his nipples, broad hands moving around Draco’s body to secure a grip over his ass.

“Is this?” Harry asks, mouth nearing the V of Draco’s hips, the edge of the trail of hair leading to his crotch. “Electric?”

Draco swears, fingers running through Harry’s hair and finding a grip, hard. “If you don’t put your mouth on me right now I swear I — yes.”

He spreads his thighs to accommodate Harry between them, one hand gripping Harry’s hair and the other curled around the cushion over his head. It is electric, the way Harry knows exactly which buttons to push, sliding a finger inside him while keeping him on his tongue. He’s a prodigy in this too, the star player who knows every move in the playbook that is Draco’s body.

It feels like no time at all, no effort at all before Harry is pulling back, dragging Draco closer by the waist and working himself inside. The feel of it, the sound of them together, the look into Harry’s open gaze, his sweat dripping onto Draco’s chest and his hands underneath Draco’s back, holding him, pulling him onto him, have Draco nearing release almost too fast for his liking, but the night is young and it’s been so long that he lets himself go, a cord snapping in his core, eyes open as he watches Harry watch him come apart.

“Come on,” he says once he’s come down, lifting his hips, shifting his weight onto his shoulders. “Show me what you got, Potter.”

Harry groans and leans forward, kisses Draco’s jaw and his neck, and drives his hips faster. Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s back, moves with him as much as he can in the tight embrace, and remains close as Harry meets his own peak and tumbles down the edge.

They lie together for a couple minutes afterwards, panting into each other’s skins, basking in the afterglow.

“Some pro-athletes. We have the stamina of two eighteen year old virgins,” Draco mutters into Harry’s hair after a while, and feels Harry’s chest rumble with his laughter. The room is cast in the warm glow of the foot-lamp that stands beside the sofa they just fucked in, exactly like two eighteen year old virgins having the chance to touch for the first time in their lives.

Harry always goes boneless and slow after a good lay, so Draco eases him off his body with tenderness, a gentle hand to Harry’s chest, followed by a kiss.

“Let's go to bed, yeah?” He whispers.

Harry groans. “I don’t want to move.”

“That’s too bad, because I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed. Some idiot drove me to the ground on the pitch today.”

He stands up and shakes out his legs, testing the soreness of his muscles. There’ll be an ache tomorrow, but nothing he can’t handle.

Despite his complaint, Harry is already standing up too, coming up behind Draco, a hand finding its way to the flat of his belly, his forehead on Draco’s shoulder as though he can’t bear not to touch him for even a second.

“Bed it is,” he declares against the skin of Draco’s shoulder, sounding halfway asleep already. Draco huffs a laugh and pulls him towards the bedroom, pausing at the kitchenette to grab two glasses of water that he watches Harry drink in three gulps, a couple drops sliding down the sides of his mouth, into his beard and down his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“What?” He asks when he catches Draco watching him, and Draco shakes his head and pulls him to bed. He’s so handsome it’s genuinely upsetting sometimes. Draco thinks he’d throw a tantrum about it daily if it weren’t for the fact that he gets to touch him.

They try their best, but they don’t manage a second round before their eyes fall shut, tucked into each other like two hands cupped under a stream of water, tumbling into a satisfied, exhausted sleep.

Harry wakes him with a kiss before daybreak, the last of the night chilling the room and puckering Draco’s skin.

“Do you have to go already?” Draco asks, one eye still closed and a hand curled possessively around Harry’s bicep, not entirely on purpose.

Harry shakes his head, kisses him again with a gentleness that is meant to go nowhere but extend this kiss, warm and sweet.

“I thought we could talk.”

Draco is nodding before fully grasping the meaning, but even once he does he’s not tempted to back away. Must be the night, still cocooning them, must be Harry’s arms around him that are making him brave, but he’s not nervous anymore, not now that he’s remembered what they’re like, together.

“It is electric,” he says, suspecting that’s what Harry wants to talk about. “It’s always electric with you.”

The smile blooms slowly, lighting up Harry’s face from within, his beautiful eyes, unhidden this early in the morning, his glasses still on the bedside table. Harry sits up a little, clears his throat. It seems like he’s been gearing up for this, he’s squaring his shoulders the way he does before trying a dangerous feint, before performing a play that will have Draco biting dust. This insane, wonder of an athlete. Draco forces himself to shake the last of the sleep away, to focus on him, on what he wants to say.

“I know that … so many of us want you,” Harry starts. “On your team, on mine, the whole league, actually. But I —”

He looks like he’s stating an absolute truth, like he has irrefutable proof, and Draco is taken aback. He knows some of the guys find him attractive, but that’s not the same as being wanted. He shakes his head. “What? Where did you get that?”

“I’ve talked about it with the guys, but that’s not the point,” he adds hurriedly when he sees his eyes widen. Draco hasn’t said a word to anyone, not out of shame, but out of sureness that they were sneaking around, that they were making it a point to hide. Apparently, he was wrong. Harry continues, “What I want to say is … I know we’ve not agreed on anything, that you’re free to want others, be with whoever you want to be with. I thought that you knew where I stood, that if you weren’t saying anything it was because you didn’t want the same thing I did, but it’s been brought to my attention that if I’ve not made an honest offer, I can’t assume you’re saying no.”

Draco’s heart is hammering inside his chest, inside his throat. He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but if he’s right, it seems Harry is saying …

“I don’t want this to be a once a month thing. I want to bring you home, I want you to meet my family, and I want the guys to know that I’m saying no to all the people they set me up with because I’m taken and completely uninterested in anyone else. Are you … is that something you want, too? I know you might have better offers, but I – ”

The covers crinkle under Draco’s knees as he sits up, throws a leg over Harry’s body so he can fully sit on his lap and brings him forward by the neck.

“You beautiful idiot. What could be a better offer? Why would I care about any other offers when I have the best one right here?”

They’re kissing, and Harry’s gasping, and Draco’s frenzied heart pounds against his sternum. He nods into the kiss, feels dizzy with how much he wants what’s being offered. Fuck. There’s nothing he wants more.

Harry pulls back a little, whispers: “Does this mean we’re — ?”

“Yes, fuck. It’s — The game’s the game.”

“What — That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Shut up. It’s your quote.”

Then they’re laughing into a new kiss, and it’s not the first, or even the tenth time they’re together like this, but Draco’s heart still goes crazy for this man, for his unlimited talent, his openness, his electric company. Quarter finals are coming up, then semis, then they might meet again on the pitch and Draco might lose and throw a strop and want to tear the hair out of his head over the beautiful Quidditch Harry plays, and then they’ll get to go home and celebrate a victory. No matter who takes the trophy. That’ll be the game.

Read On Ao3

#quidditch rivals but ohh they’re secret lovers bet NOBODY saw that coming #kinda unsure about the tone shift at the end but ITS LATE I’m sorry ok #I just wanted earnest Harry which is MY FAVORITW THING #drarry #drarry fic #Draco Malfoy #Harry Potter #my writing #mywriting

597 notes · View notes

manicpixiefelix · 3 months

Text

he wanted to be in love (but you got in the way)

{ One-Shot for head, heart, hand. }

Summary: When Oliver's lies are revealed to you and Felix, you have a much better time understanding his reasoning for it all, and Oliver convinces you to help talk Felix around into hopefully forgiving him. Felix, however, just grows more frustrated as it appears that you've very quickly moved on from the betray, and are urging him to do so too. Meanwhile, Oliver has come to realise that no matter the outcome, Felix will never really want anyone else if he has you by his side.

Need to Know: They/Them. Explicitly NB Reader. FWB!Reader/Felix. Reader is from a well off family but has pretty much been adopted by the Cattons.

Warnings: death (YOU DIE IN THIS ONE), murder via overdose, oliver's birthday party situation, oliver being incredibly manipulative, reader and felix arguing a lot, felix being a bit of a dick, angst with an unhappy ending, toxic felix/oliver endgame, heavy drinking and drug use

{ now with an epilogue }

A/N: 6267 words. ooft ouch ooft my heart. i dont like reader & fi fighting and this whole thing fucked me up bigtime. like bigtime bigtime. big angst, please heed the warnings. what do you think about this one? i like it even if it made me cryyyy

TAGLIST IN COMMENTS!! // TAGLIST ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

----

"Please," Oliver's lip trembles when he grabs your sleeve. He doesn't try and chase Felix after you all get back from the disastrous trip to his parents' house, perhaps part of him knew he wouldn't get through to him in this state, so he latches on to you instead, "you- you know," and even just the helpless sense of desire in his voice is familiar to you, "I just wanted to be his friend, be your friend; be close to you both -" Oliver's fidgeting with your sleeve and your heart's breaking for him, despite the betrayal of his lies.

"Ollie-" you sighed, but he took both your hands in his, tears gathering in the beautiful blue eyes you've come to care so deeply about in the past year.

"I never meant any harm," he insists. His hands are shaking.

"I know, Ollie," you finally concede, giving his hands a gentle squeeze.

"He won't listen to me- won't believe me; please, please, I need you to believe me, I need Felix -" and though he can't seem to finish the request, it's enough. The lies he's told, what they mean for the friendship you've all forged, it makes you feel more than a little queasy, but you think you understand him. At least better than Felix would in this moment.

"I'll try," though your tone doesn't inspire confidence, "just give him space, give him time -"

"I don't have time," Oliver croaks out weakly, gave dropping to the floor, "he'll throw me out tomorrow and never look at me again," this time, when his grip on your hands tightens, it becomes almost painful, face scrunching up as if dreading the tears he was about to shed, the things he was about to say; "and even if you don't hate me the way he does, I'll be losing you too."

Your silence speaks volumes. You hate that he's right.

"You know you're the only hope I've got left." Oliver's nails dig into your skin, but your hands don't shake.

"I will try, that's all I can do."

By the time you get to your room, Felix is already cutting up lines of coke with a delicate little razor from one of the various stashes you and the other wards of the Saltburn Estate had hidden throughout the building over the years. He doesn't look up when you enter, quietly, and furiously focused on the task at hand, cross-legged in the middle of your bed.

Sitting behind him, you lean in to press your forehead between his shoulders, sighing deeply.

"Yeah," Felix mumbles, "it's a bit like that, isn't it?"

Squeezing your eyes closed, all you can see is the love and desperation in OIiver's eyes as he'd held you back, begged for your understanding, forgiveness, friendship -

"You never loved someone so much you'd do anything to keep them around?" You asked softly, and feel Felix go still, "you never lied about your family because you were worried about how people would react if they knew the truth?" The more you consider, the less anger you feel towards what Oliver had done.

"You're different," Felix's voice is carefully neutral. There's a pause, a snort, a line of white powder going up his nose, "you didn't pretend that your dad died just to get sympathy out of me," he points out, already picking at the threads of similarity that you'd laid before him in hopes of softening the betrayal he felt so strongly.

Then he's moving again, doing things you're still not sure of, forehead still pressed to the fabric of his shirt between his shoulders. Sighing, louder this time, you go to say something more, to try and argue your case further, but Felix cuts you off. It's the sharpest he's ever been with you, you think, practically orders you not to talk about this anymore.

Then, he shifts, he reaches for you behind himself, and you move with him, without prompting. Felix leans back, and you move to his side, allow yourself to settle your head on his chest, looking up at him. One hand loosely draped over you, Felix tucks his other behind his head, eyes closed; even if they were open, he wouldn't be looking at you.

"Just shut up about Ollie, just shut up -" his tone is much softer now, but his words still bite more than you're used to, "I don't want to hear anything about fucking Oliver Quick right now." There's a nausea twisting in your gut that you're unfamiliar with, heavy and upsetting, that you somehow know has everything to do with Felix's tone. Part of you feels so embarrassed for even feeling like this, for being so wrapped up in pleasing him that even the slightest hint of disapproval for the first time in years has you so viscerally uncomfortable.

The other part of you ducks your gaze, and curls up against his side, obedient.

"Sure, Fi."

A long silence, softened only by Felix's deep breathing for several long moments before you finally feel him relax.

"I love you," it sounds almost like an apology. You wonder if he knows how to do that. Still, the nausea in your gut immediately begins to clear. This time, when you close your eyes, you try to just be present in the moment for what it is, Felix's arm around you, his steady heartbeat warm beneath your ear; you can find contentment here if you tried.

Much to your chagrin, Felix's mood and feelings of betrayal also meant he was no longer interested in the full costume you'd put together for him for Oliver's birthday party. He's well aware his mother would be appalled if he just showed up in jeans and a shirt, so he reluctantly pulls on the wings you'd spray painted up on the roof a few days before.

"I put time into this, Fi," you pleaded softly, looking at the rest of the costume you'd put together hanging sadly, untouched in his wardrobe.

"Maybe I just want to save it for a happy occasion," Felix refused to even sit down at the dresser, despite where you'd neatly set out both of your accessories for the night. He doesn't even spare the various, gold accoutrements that you'd curated for his costume a second glance, simply fusses with his hair in a way that won't even last.

"You're being ridiculous about this," you finally voice, unable to stop yourself, "he's still Our Oliver, his family doesn't change that -"

Felix goes still in the mirror, expression displeased when he meets your eyes in the reflection. Nausea again. You never want him to look at you like this ever again; you half want to apologise already.

"I don't care about his family, I care about how I don't know if I can believe anything he says! He lied to you, to me, he was clearly lying to his family, considering they have no idea he'd be nothing but a fucking joke at uni if it wasn't for me!" The outburst blindsides you, it seems to even blindside Felix, who has to take a few moments to compose himself before he can look you in the eyes again. Softly, that look of betrayal is turned upon you, "how can you be okay with that?"

A million answers blow through your mind - love, compartmentalisation, hypocrisy - but none feel right. There's no way for you to justify this to Felix, at least, not one that would make him happy, make him understand.

"Our Oliver-" but as he's standing, he cuts himself off, shaking his head, "Your Oliver -" but the words get stuck in his throat. After a beat, he scrubs his face over his hands, "I just don't understand," far calmer, he lets out a deep breath and continues, "how you got over this so fast," but before you can answer, his eyes open, and there's no fire, nor fury, just hurt; "and I need you right now, but not if you're going to be like this."

Oh, you're going to be sick.

It's apologies that spew out of you, nervous, still only half ready, and regretting every word that made Felix look at you like that. He tries awkwardly to tell you that it's not that bad, that he just wishes it felt like you were on his team. Insisting that you are gets you a weak smile from your best friend, but he still leaves seeming unconvinced.

There are voices outside, on the grounds. The party has begun, the sun will be set soon.

Half of your costume hangs up beside Felix's, your elegant, green gossamer robe shining next to the matching, gold gossamer pirate shirt that you had made for Felix. Neither leave the wardrobe, and perhaps you are underdressed in what was basically a set of incredibly ornate, bejewelled, and bedazzled lingerie, and boots, but you couldn't even bring yourself to care.

Perhaps, you consider, if Felix had blown up before you'd gotten this much on, you'd be as dressed down as he was for the event.

Before you leave, however, you go to double check yourself in the mirror, and don't think to knock. Oliver catches sight of you in the mirror before you properly realise he's there. Both freeze, both deer trapped in each other's proverbial headlights. Both with red-rimmed eyes. You wonder if he knows, if he waited with baited breath and an ear pressed to the bedroom door as Felix tore him down and you immediately gave him up to keep your best friend happy.

"You look like a dream," Oliver's voice is hoarse, and he turns to properly face you, to give your costume a generous look over, "merry wanderer of the night," he offers, meeting your gaze again. The line, pulled straight from the play upon which the whole night was based, was one you'd gleefully recounted to him when you told him you would be going as Puck.

There's a slight, sad smile on his lips, a shyness to the way he leans against the counter, but none of the awkwardness he carries around others. There, in his boxers alone, you realise how vulnerable he truly is in this moment, the moment you've so callously interrupted. But Oliver doesn't call you out, nor does he shy away from your gaze.

All words have escaped you in this moment, however. Even the idea of Felix's reaction to his moment makes you feel ill, but part of your heart still breaks for Oliver, for this boy so overwhelmed with love that he would do anything for it.

"I can go," Oliver says softly, apologetically, when you seem frozen even still. It breaks you out, however, and you shake your head vigorously.

"No, its okay Ollie."

"Your," he says slowly, pointedly, "Ollie." He'd heard. Fuck; how much? "I heard all of it," he admits slowly, approaching you. This time, you are the wild animal, cornered in the bathroom. Oliver doesn't look at you like prey, he doesn't approach you like a predator; he doesn't want to spook you, "I didn't mean to get between you and Felix," his voice is soft, and he sniffles a little, but tries to smile through it, "ever; back at Oxford, over Summer, ever."

But you can't bring yourself to look at him. Gently, you loop a finger through the fine, silver chain around his throat, keeping your gaze focused on it without ever tugging it too hard.

"I'm trying," you whisper, voice watery despite your best effort, tears gathering in your eyes, "but I -"

Oliver pulls you into a hug as the damn finally bursts, and the tension, the pressure of the day that had already been pressing down upon you finally breaks. Oliver lets you cry on his shoulder, petting your hair gently.

"But you're a good dog," he murmured as he pressed a kiss to your temple, and you're too distraught to catch the echoes of resentment in his tone.

"It's all I know how to be!"

"I know, pet, I know."

Once you've calmed down, you apologise for your outburst, for having him comfort you at a time like this. There's something different about him, about his smile, the look in his eyes, as he just assures you that it's fine, that he's going to still try and enjoy his night.

After cleaning yourself up and fixing your makeup, finally you make it downstairs. There's more people on the first floor than you'd been expecting, so you have to worm your way through the crowd to search for Felix.

"My gentle puck, come hither!" Felix voice rises through the crowd; if your ears could prick up, they probably would. Just the brightness in his voice lifts you from your melancholy, and when you finally reach him you're beaming.

And he's already drunk.

Which you would like to be too. As if anticipating your requests, he puts two fruity looking drinks in your hands, and picks up another two with a wide smile. You trot along behind him as he cuts a path through the crowd towards the sofas where your friends from Oxford had found themselves. A cheer rises when they see you, all glad for your company, all desperate to hear how your Summer had been so far.

At first, you're simply sitting on the arm of the sofa, beside Felix, bright and animatedly engaging in conversation with the others. Felix finishes his first drink and his arm goes around India, tucked up against his other side, but as soon as his second drink is finished, and you've leaned across him to put your own empty cup on the coffee table between you all, he uses it as an excuse to pull you into his lap.

"Felix," India says when she means what the fuck are you playing at right now? Felix gives a surprisingly cold smile, his hand slipping from her shoulder, moving lower to grip her side rather possessively. You simply wait, ready to move at a moment's notice.

"What?" There's something biting in Felix's voice, something that sounds so uncharacteristically mean as he raises his voice enough for the group to hear, "aren't you all still deluding yourselves about me and Y/N? Don't you still think we're related - or whatever it was Farleigh told you all?" Immediately the tension in your little circle of friends spikes. Felix's hand is practically between your thighs, gripping your thigh like he owns you. In any other circumstance you'd probably enjoy this, but every single one of your friends is suddenly looking at you like they'd never seen you before.

"You hot people disgust me," India finally breaks the tension flippantly, and everyone else cackles with laughter. Felix does actually grin at her, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

"No we don't," he teases gently, and India tries to continue playing at being annoyed, by insisting that she needs something stronger than the bar could offer. As she stands, she looks back, holding out her hands to you and Felix.

"Come on, disgusting hot people; I know you're both already high and probably want some more."

"Knew there was a reason I liked you, India," you grinned, glad to have escaped that encounter without much of a mental or physical scratch, though Felix does make a point of grabbing your ass as you stand, even with India holding his other hand.

However you're another line deep in the bathroom, with India, Felix, and two of the others who'd followed along, when that good mood evaporates. Oliver stands in the door, waiting, watching; you're the first to notice him, to catch his gaze properly, but all he does is clear his throat. Felix looks to him when Oliver finally calls his name, but pointedly acts like he doesn't in the next moment.

"Can I, er, talk to you for one second?" Oliver asks faintly, but is met with no response. Instead of looking at Oliver, Felix momentarily flicks a frustrated gaze at you, like he feels your sudden discomfort and fidgeting is a personal betrayal, "you can't ignore me forever," Oliver tries, but Felix gives him a cold smile.

"I can try."

"Fi," you hissed, but all you get is another glare.

"Felix, we need to talk," Oliver was begging now, but he turned his attention to you, pleading, "can you get him to please listen to me, just for a moment -" but his words have your heart freezing in your chest. You can't even stutter Felix's name out before he's dismissing you both.

"I tried being nice about this," Felix huffed, "but if you're still insisting on playing Devil's Advocate for him, the both of you can fuck off and go bother the rest of the party." He relights his cigarette, but he doesn't even look at you once. One more time you try, reaching out, apology on your tongue, but he shrugs you off and finally gives a cutting look, "no I told you, okay? You're over it; fucking great for you. I'm not, and I don't have to be, so piss off and be over it away from me."

You stand, momentarily unsteady on your feet before you regain your balance and head to the door. Everything in your mind is a mess of emotions. The drugs and alcohol are sending you into overdrive, though neither is the reason you're feeling so sick. Still, while you know where Felix is coming from, one look at Oliver as you reach the door and you can't help but stop. Turning back, you hope Felix can read how damn hurt you are by all this;

"I'm not a monster for having a heart, Felix."

And you take some small victory from the surprise in his eyes. Before he can respond, however, you grab Oliver's hand and lead him away.

With another two fruity drinks, you and Oliver sit on the edge of the fountain outside, watching the revelry, mirroring each other's weary slump.

"How are you finding your birthday party?" You asked lamely after a few minutes. Oliver took a few moments to deliberate, while you sipped down your drink quite quickly.

"Don't know anyone," he says mildly, "and the people I do know think I'm a joke -" right, he'd heard Felix's earlier comments about the group from Oxford's feelings, "and I was aware kind of from the start of knowing youse," he casts his gaze to you now, turning to you, eyes meeting yours, "that my two best friends were bonded like those cats at the shelter, the kind you can't separate from each other or they'll cry all day and refuse to eat until you put them back together," the smile he gives you is humourless, and doesn't even reach his eyes, "but one hates me and the other has no spine," he shrugged like he hadn't just insulted you, going back to people-watching, "so I don't think it'll go down as my best birthday ever."

"I have a spine," you scowled, as if straightening your posture proved his point at all.

"Why? You don't need it," still as mild as before, Oliver takes a long, loud sip of his drink, "you've got Felix."

"I'm trying to help you, Oliver, I swear -"

"You don't know how to stand up for yourself, Y/N," this time, the look that he gives you is simply pitying, "I'm sorry I asked you to try and stand up for me." The words ache like a punch to the gut, "you're not even trying to help me for me, or for how much you supposedly love me; you love that I love Felix."

"Oliver, I love you!" You insisted through angry tears and gritted teeth, "how your mind works, how you figure things out, the books you like, the way you're constantly watching and cataloguing and remembering, it shows you care about the world around you and the people in it. I love that you're obsessive and ambitious and that you can be ruthless -" it comes out messy and unrehearsed, but you slowly see the shock and genuine awe on Oliver's face as he comes to terms with the fact that you're being genuine. For the first time all evening, you think you see guilt in his eyes. It's gone too fast, Oliver turning away.

"I love you too," he says gently, following it carefully with, "but we both know who you crawl into bed with at the end of every night." Then, under his breath, sounding so forlorn, "do not separate."

"Oliver-" but he stands, stretches, and finishes off his beer.

"He's probably already missing you, waiting to forgive you," he puts his empty beer bottle down on the edge of the fountain, and for just a moment, he reaches out and gently holds your face. Nothing is said, but there's endless, unreadable emotions in his eyes as he gazes into yours.

Then he's gone.

Making your way back to the estate itself, you forgo looking for Felix, half ashamed of the idea that Oliver was right, and instead slip beneath the velvet rope that cordoned off the upper floors of the house. Back in your bedroom, the stash of coke Felix had raided before the party was still reasonably well stocked, and the bottle of bourbon that you'd stashed in the broken piano last Christmas was thankfully untouched. There was something seriously sad, you think to yourself, about drinking and snorting alone in your room, upstairs from a party where you know your friends are all doing it too. But you don't want to see them. Don't want to see anyone.

The remainder of yours and Felix's matching outfits taunt you silently from the closet door on which they hang. They're beautiful and vapid and cold; you hate them.

"Oh, sorry, didn't realise you were -" it's Felix at the door - of course it is, who else would it be? - who startles you out of your thoughts. There's no frustration in his eyes anymore, no anger, just surprise. His gaze roams over you, from the drugs balanced on your knee to the half-full bottle cradled in your lap, "you okay?" Oliver's right, of course. Oliver's right about a lot of things.

"Yeah," you sniffle, taking another swig of the drink, "what did you need?"

"Think they're gonna sing happy birthday to Ollie soon," Felix leans against the doorframe. You share in an awkward silence for a long moment.

"That why you're here?"

"I came up to see if there was any of that coke left from before," he says, looking at the mirror on your knee and the still mostly full baggie on the bed next to you. Then, he gives a sheepish little grin, "yeah," he admits.

"We should be down there," you say without thinking. Felix's expression falls, and he kicks at the doorframe for a moment, "you do care about his family," spills from you; you're not even sure from where. Felix's expression grows darker.

"Why are you so insistent about doing this?"

"Because you love him, Felix," you remind him firmly, before putting down the bottle and rolling up the already significantly curved bill beside you, "and he loves you, and you know that," picking up the mirror, you make short work of the last line to avoid looking at Felix. Dragging your finger across the glass, you pick up the last of the residue, wiping it on your gums. Your hands remain busy as you pack the remainder of it all into the little, wooden box it was kept in, as you spoke, "you hate the parts of you he figured out, the buttons he learned how to push; Oliver," you snapped the box shut, looking up at him, "was too good to be true, and that's why you're hurt; you're scared it's like Eddie all over again, too good to be true -"

"You shut up about Eddie -" Felix warned, but you stood, box in hand, approaching him with a fierce, intoxicated determination.

"Eddie was never too good, you were just in love! Eddie wasn't even loyal!" You cried, shoving him with the box, letting out a desperate sentiment that you'd let fester in the darkest part of your heart for over a year, "he was never going to be loyal! He never loved you as much as you loved him! Never! And you were so blinded by how happy he seemed to be with this 'better life' you were offering him, you could never bloody see it -"

"You are drunk and high," Felix spits at you, clearly holding himself back from tears.

"But all I ever want is you to be happy," hanging your head, you push the box into his grip and stumble back to the bed, searching for the bottle, "why can't you trust me about this?"

"Oliver fucking lie to me, betrayed me -"

"Us!" You shouted, unscrewing the lid with vigour, "to keep you in his life. You just don't like what the lies he used to keep you around say about you." And with that you furiously started chugging more of the drink.

"I'm done with you," Felix's voice is weak, hands coming up to cover his face. Lowering the bottle, all you can do is stare at him. It's like you've been splashed with ice water.

"Fi -"

"I need space; I need you out of my room for the rest of Summer."

"Fi, please -"

"I thought you were fucking better than this!" He snapped, finally stalking away, while you were too disorientated to even go after him.

The first thing you manage to do is stumble to the bathroom and throw your guts up into the sink. Physically you feel a bit better, but the nausea you can now tell is psychological. Downstairs, though you don't know how much time has passed, the house has transformed itself into a rave. Too bright. Too hot. Too sticky. You think you catch sight of Ollie, but your gaze quickly moves to Felix, silhouetted by neon and haze, looking like an angel. Beside him, India sparkles and giggles and her hands are all over him. You want him to be happy, you don't want to interrupt but you have to -

Someone catches you before you faceplant in the middle of the dancefloor, and it turns out it is Oliver.

"You look like a bit of a mess," he says, aiming for a light, joking tone, but it almost sets you off. Seeing you about to start crying, Oliver starts to panic, and suggests the two of you get some air. Though you want to protest, you see Felix and India, hand in hand, making their way to the side doors. Oliver, champagne in one hand, has his other arm under yours, supporting you as the two of you made your way out too.

The night air is cool, a sharp contrast from inside, so sharp it almost stings.

"I should'a kept my mouth shut," you whimpered, "I didn't need a spine, why did I listen to you?" Oliver is simply quiet, listening to you ramble, getting the gist of what had happened between you and Felix as you slowly made your way to the maze.

"I don't wanna go in," you whispered at the entrance, looking down it's tall, green corridor. Oliver looked at you strangely.

"Worried you'll get lost?"

"I could never get lost, Felix made sure of that plenty of times." Carefully, you extract yourself from Oliver, sitting cross-legged by the entrance of the maze, looking out over the rest of Saltburn with your back to the hedges; Oliver watches you curiously, "I can wait for Fi here."

"I can't wait," Oliver finally says, "I don't have the time. I have to try."

You, surprisingly serene and content with your decision, more at peace than you'd been during the entire walk over, make no attempt to stop him. You just tell him you'll be here when he gets back. This time you genuinely smile, insisting he go in without you.

"I'll be here, I promise; I'll wait."

So he goes, and you listen to his footsteps retreating. After a few minutes, however, he returns.

"I think you need this more than I do," and he hands you the bottle of champagne he'd been carrying. Turns out there's only really a quarter of the bottle left, but at least you think it won't be enough to make you sick again.

As frustrated as Felix could get, he's never not forgiven you. That's all you can think about as you finish off the bottle.

You would apologise. You would make it up to him. You could make this better again.

Except...

Hang on, wait, who was that who just ran out of the maze? Someone ran out of the maze? You were pretty sure someone did anyways... maybe India, if Oliver had confronted -

Oliver is the second to escape the maze. Instead of heading directly back, he waits, unseen for Felix to leave, observing the way he'd stumble out, not even glancing around enough to see you on the ground in the shadow of the maze itself. Once he was sure he was alone, Oliver crept over to your catatonic body, mouth agape, bottle still clutched but empty in one hand. Still breathing, though it was shallow, he checked your pulse only to feel a heartrate like a humming bird. If he called out now, Felix could hear him, could get help, could save your life.

But Felix would want for nothing as long as he had you by his side.

When you start convulsing, Oliver leaps away, startled. But he watches, and remains quiet. He takes the bottle, and just for a moment presses his forehead to yours.

"I'm sorry," it almost gets caught in his throat, "I loved you, I promise I did."

And he leaves.

Oliver wakes to a knock on the door. While Felix doesn't exactly seem happy to see him, it appears he has bigger things to worry about.

"Is Y/N in here?" He cuts right to the chase; there's dark circles under his eyes.

"Have you gotten any sleep?" Oliver yawns. Felix shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"I've checked literally every other room in this house," ignoring him, Felix explains himself, "I told them last night I wanted them to stay somewhere else, but I didn't mean it," he frowns, peering around Oliver as best he could, trying to see for himself. Oliver, who already knew this, but still played dumb, went wide-eyed.

"You didn't talk to them last night?"

"I was talking to them a lot last night -"

"They were waiting outside the maze for you; they were there when I left."

Oliver's never seen Felix run so fast.

It takes Duncan informing the rest of the family over breakfast that a gardener has spotted Felix sat by the edge of the maze for the past hour, to clear up his whereabouts.

"And have you heard from Y/N?" Elspeth adds, though Venetia buts in.

"Probably at the maze with Felix," she rolls her eyes; Oliver looks at his eggs, his runny, sickening eggs, and keeps his mouth shut. Elspeth sighs and requests someone go and collect them, tell them that lunch is ready, and promptly directs a smile at Oliver, asking how he'd enjoyed his birthday.

Oliver's halfway through an awkward thanks, assuring her it was grand, before Duncan re-enters. For the first time since Oliver first laid eyes on him, he looks genuinely shaken.

"I, uh, I do apologise," his words keep getting caught, and he can't seem to focus his gaze for too long, "I have some tragic news; Captain Y/N has passed away."

The world stops.

Felix Catton sits in the shadow of the hedge maze with you, his best friend, the love of his life, dead in his arms.

"I thought you were fucking better than this!"

His last words to you echo endlessly in his head as he cradles you to him. He'd found you slumped over at a painful angle, clearly having been sitting cross-legged on the grass, waiting, just as Oliver had said, still wearing part of the outfit you'd prepared. You looked so cold, so he'd wrapped you up in the robe he'd been wearing, maroon; you'd always said it was your favourite of his, but you'd never wear it, said it looked better on him.

"Can't believe I made you wait," it wasn't the first time he'd muttered it since finding you, "I'm so sorry, I won't do it again," he assured, and leaned in, pressing his forehead to your cold shoulder and collarbone, "and I didn't mean it about needing space from you; I couldn't even do it for one night, I got so lonely I spent the entire night searching all hundred and bloody something rooms we have, for you."

"Felix?" Venetia's voice is the first one he's heard since Oliver's, and it shakes, "Feef?" And maybe it's the way he can tell she's started crying, or the nickname he hasn't heard since he was six, but it all hits him at once. Finally he starts to cry, the shock giving way to anguish as Venetia drapes herself over him at the sight of you. Farleigh goes into shock, silent, falling to his knees before he brings his head down too, completely shutting down.

Oliver doesn't know how to react, doesn't know if he can. He stands back from the others, back from even James and Elspeth, silent. He did what he had to do. It takes him a long time to realise he's even started crying too.

Elspeth and Sir James try to keep up a sense of normalcy around the house, but barely anyone is able to keep up. Farleigh and Venetia show up and barely speak, Oliver can't bring himself to even look at anyone at the dining table, and Felix hasn't shown up for three days straight. He's been locked in his room, and none of them blame him.

None of the others know that he comes out at night. Well, he opens the door during the day since the staff have started leaving plates of food for him at his mother's request. But during the night, Felix leaves his room to crawl into Oliver's bed. Oliver never makes comments, but he always makes room, and Felix still hasn't kicked him out of the house. Small steps to victory.

"All those lies, all that shit you told us, you did it because you'd do anything to keep us around," on the third night, Felix speaks into the darkness, back to Oliver under the expensive sheets.

"To keep you around," Oliver corrected quietly, "I knew as long as I had you around, I would have them too." After a few moments, he could hear Felix start to sniffle. Carefully, testing his luck, Oliver shuffled around to face Felix. Wriggling closer, he draped an arm over Felix's chest and pulled him close, pressing himself against Felix's back. In the moment, Felix takes Oliver's hand and laces their fingers together.

"They always loved you, Felix; I never saw anything like it."

Small steps to victory.

At your funeral, Felix finally sees your parents. He wonders if looking at them is anything like looking at the idea of who you would have grown into. He doesn't think so; their expressions are so cold beneath their performance of grief.

They do, however, seek him out, ask his name, and hand him a framed photo. They say they won't be needed it anymore. It's you and Felix beneath the Eiffel Tower, arms around each other, each of you using your free hand to together form a heart between you, laughing at something just off camera. Oliver makes a disdainful remark about your parents, but slips his hand in Felix's, and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

Elspeth asks if Felix wants to keep the photo in his room, and when he remarks that he doesn't know, she suggests it gets placed with the other family photos over the fireplace in the television room. It fits in perfectly.

"I love you," Felix mumbles in the dead of night, pressed up along Oliver's back, lips in his hair, arm around him, "like proper love you." Oliver is quiet, "the kind of love I've been wanting to tell you for a while, but now I'm terrified that the reasons I love you aren't even real."

It's been a few weeks, he's intergraded back into life at home, but has taken a leave of absence from Oxford. As has Oliver. He still hasn't left Saltburn, he wonders if he ever will, if he ever has to.

"What parts?" Oliver said, voice barely more than a whisper, "I'll never lie to you again; I want you to know the truth of me." There's a rush of electricity, his fingers and toes feel all tingly; he doesn't want to sound too enthusiastic, but can't help but feel a giddy rush.

"I like how you can figure heaps of stuff out, but," Felix hesitates and hums, "I don't think I like what you figured out about me," he admits.

"I'll never bring that up again," Oliver reassures him, but Felix just hums once more, "and I figured out more stuff about you, good stuff; I figured out what made me love you too."

Felix presses a kiss to the back of his head. He doesn't smile, but that's to be expected nowadays. Felix doesn't really smile a lot anymore.

But Oliver takes it for what it is; his victory.

{ epilogue }

#felix catton x reader x oliver quick #saltburn x reader #felix catton x reader #saltburn imagine #felix catton imagine #felix catton x you #oliver quick x reader #felix catton x y/n #oliver quick imagine #oliver quick x you #oliver quick x y/n #head heart hand fic #manic writer

285 notes · View notes

azulock · 4 months

Text

this has been sitting in my drafts for sooooo loooong, it's mostly born from how mean people can be in this fandom about poor Oli looking the way he does. I love his messy 'I don't have my life together' look, it's very relatable, but today we putting him under tha razor!

summary. when Oliver finds himself forced to get a clean shave for some important club event he tries to rope you into doing the work for him. and you do it, cause he is too charming and you can't resist spoiling this man

pairing. Oliver Aiku x reader

wordcount. 2,6k

warnings. some slight mention of nsfw stuff but veeeery slight, it's mostly domestic fluff, just pure distilled domesticity shot straight into your veins, you've been warned

helping hand.

"Really Oliver, you pestering me during work hours to do that for you?"

Giving one last hard stare at your screen, you groaned and swiveled you chair around to face the man currently breaking the peace in your office. With hair still damp from his shower, Oliver stood bare foot before you - a trail of wet footsteps clear behind him. God, you'd lost count of how many times you'd told him he'd end up sick if he kept doing that.

"Oh come on, it's not that big of a deal," he insisted, cutting off your thoughts, pouting as you fitted him with a steely gaze. "I neeeeed you."

You roll your eyes at his whiny antics - and complete disregard for your work life. It was almost funny to see a grown man pout like this, especially when you contrasted the silly expression with this statuesque of a man. You couldn't help but let your eyes roam free for a moment, taking in the sight of him. Water droplets still rolled down his strong torso, taking your gaze to the short hair trailing down his lower abs, to the point where his sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. Shit, he was diverting your attention.

"Oliver," you sigh, rubbing your eyes to try and exorcise the images stealing your focus, "you've been doing that by yourself your entire adult life, you don't need me."

"That's not true, it goes way better when you do it for me," Oliver whined again, and even in his husky tone, you could hear it, the begging, so shameless.

At this moment he looked every bit like a dog, a ragged mutt pleading for attention at his owner's feet. Hell, he was even trying to shoot you the best puppy eyes he could muster, pout returning to those pretty lips. You'd say it was ridiculous, but maybe it was the smell of soap or maybe the warmth emanating from his skin, but something was making you want to give in.

"That's nonsense," you groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose as you tried to convince yourself to not let him sway you. "I'm not a barber, and you've been shaving your own damn self for years. I'm pretty sure you can keep your eternal stubble under control on your own."

"Well, I could," Oliver shrugged, remaining unfazed by the exasperation in your voice. "Though, this time I'm gonna have to shave it clean."

"What?" Suddenly, you were fully immersed in the topic, even though you felt like you'd fallen into a trap.

Oliver had to contain his smile when you suddenly went from nonchalant to interested. It was really cute. He knew you liked feeling the scruff around his face, which he always thought was absolutely endearing. Now, sadly, he'd have to part ways with it, albeit temporarily.

"You remember tomorrow's party? Well, the team's president is an old school kinda guy. He's gonna get pissed if he sees the team's captain shows up looking so unclean for an important event," he answers with a full body sigh, eyebrows arching high as he raises his shoulders.

"That's ridiculous," your words cut so dry that Oliver can't help but laugh at the barely contained disgust in your tone.

"Well, I think so too. But I like my position right now, if the old man wants me clean for the party, I can make the sacrifice," he answered with a wave of his hand, stepping closer to your chair before leaning in, using his hands to prop his body onto your armrests. "But it could be less painful if you helped me."

You sat in silence, staring him down for a long minute as he leaned in close, that charming smile never faltering. From this close, you could smell the conditioner on his hair and feel his breath on your skin. Shit, you could feel yourself falling for it. Rubbing a hand over your face, you slumped further down the chair, sighing as you went.

"Fine," you groaned, looking back up to his beaming face. "Go soak the soap and the brush, I'll be right there."

Closing the distance between you, Oliver met your lips with his in a short kiss before pulling back in a breath, his skin still damp and warm from the shower. "Already done that, I'll go get myself a chair."

You hummed as he got up, lifting your body heavily off of the chair after he'd disappeared into the hallway. You spoiled him too much, you were sure of it, but you guessed he had the same type of charm as a big dog who still believes they are lap sized. It was hard to say no to that.

Following the wet footsteps, you found yourself in your en suite bathroom, Oliver sitting on a high chair he'd taken from the kitchen counter. At least he'd left everything ready, so all you had left to do was commit the dismal crime of doing away with his stubble. A pity, you'd miss the feeling of it on your skin. For however many days the shave would last, that is.

Picking the plastic bowl of shaving soap, you started moving the barber brush in circular motions to begin lathering it up. Taking a step forward, you approached Oliver as your hands worked, shaking your head as he snaked an arm around your waist.

"You are spoiled," you mumbled, feeling him laugh as he looked at you both in the mirror, your gaze following his.

"Maybe," he hummed, "but I spoil you plenty too."

"Well, here we go I guess," you said with a chuckle, making him straighten to give you a better access to his face and neck.

When the soft brush touches his face Oliver hums, closing his eyes as you begin spreading the soap over his jaw. It felt nice, both the gentle smell of lemon grass and the feeling of having you taking care of him. Yeah, he was spoiled, he knew it, but could he really be blamed for liking being pampered?

Oliver was only human after all, and having to unwillingly part ways with his facial hair was not his favorite thing. So it only made sense that he'd try to squeeze whichever little joy he could from this situation. And having you do that for him was joy enough on his book. Between feeling the warmth coming from your body and the comfortable silence that had settled, he could almost forget he was being forced to do this.

Opening his eyes he found your face close to his, gaze set in concentration as you moved the brush around his neck, finishing lathering it up. It was beautiful, really, sometimes you'd focus on something so much you wouldn't even see the things around you. Cute, and he couldn't resist the urge to take advantage of that, lowering his lips to meet yours in a quick peck.

"Oliver," you exclaimed as he laughed, "you gotta cooperate, you bastard. Now I got soap on my face," you grunted, looking at the mirror and then back to him.

"Just a little bit," he chuckled, reaching out to clean your face with his hand as you sneered at him.

You shook your head and turned to put the brush back, watching from the mirror as he still chuckled at you. Pestering you when you were focused never seemed to stop amusing him. And to boot, you couldn't deny there was something infuriatingly endearing about it. Or maybe you were just blinded by the casual charm of his smile - again.

Picking up the safety razor, you turn back to him again. "Now, you better behave if you don't wanna have to clean your blood off of the white floor."

"So mean," Oliver pouts before smiling that heart shattering smile again. "Alright, I'm in your hands then."

You roll your eyes as he straightens up, hands gripping the sides of the chair. When the blade first meets his face you feel Oliver shiver at the cold touch of the metal, but as quick as it happens, it's gone. You move your wrist and the blade glides down his warm skin in short strokes, following the grain of the hair on his stubble. Oh, it's gonna be so sad to see it gone. Especially knowing how a good part of Oliver's appeal came from how he looked at least a little like a mess. You couldn't even recall the face of his club's president, but you now hated the old man.

There is ease in the silence that settles as you carefully work the sharp blade along his face and neck. Only the rough sound of metal scraping against the hair and skin fills the bathroom as an oddly well-behaved Oliver sits in stillness. It feels almost suspicious, even, but you guessed he had no interest in showing up to the party with a cut on his face. Not that you believed even that could do much harm to his good looks.

When that first pass is done you turn to the sink and wash the razor before picking up the brush start the cycle and lather his face again. Though, just as you turn back he catches you off guard, forward and capturing your lips in a quick kiss - but he almost topples his chair over in the process. Desperately you steady him up, pushing his large frame back by his shoulders.

For a moment there the scare takes the best of you, brows furrowing in a scowl, ready to chastise Oliver for the stupidy. But then he starts laughing, the warm and husky sound enveloping you as they echo off the walls, breaking your defenses. You laugh along, slapping his shoulder but leaning against him for a short moment. Sometimes he could be an idiot, but that too was part of the appeal.

Once you both recover you go back to your work, lathering his face, putting the brush back in place, picking up the razor, and bringing it to touch his face. This time you move it cross grain, once more enjoying the sound of the metal moving over his skin. It's all peaceful, for at least half of the process until Oliver grows bored, his large hand finding your bare leg, fingers traveling over the back of your thigh until they reach the hem of your shorts.

You grunt in warning and he only hums quietly in what sounded like a mocking acknowledgment. Oliver disregards your death glare completely, his palm touching your thigh, rough fingers massaging your skin as they move. Even then he doesn't stay put, hand traveling up and groping your ass, kneading the flesh under your shorts just as your reach his neck. For a moment you consider giving into the desire to leave just a little gash on his skin, but you manage to resist.

Just as you try to turn back again he he uses the hand on your ass to pull you closer in. You don't even have time to protest as his lips crash against yours - and you can already notice the strangeness of not feeling his stubble. Still, he doesn't give you much time to think on it, tongue slipping past your lips and exploring the wet insides of your mouth. He tastes like coffee, and you can't help but let the taste lure you in, the sensations enveloping you, warmth rising in your face until then it's gone.

His lips part from yours with a quick peck and you are already missing the kiss - what a bastard, teasing you like that. You huff and shake your head when Oliver winks at you, slapping your ass as you turn around and repeat your previous motions of washing the razor and grabbing the brush again.

You lather his face, then throw the brush in the sink before picking up the razor and letting it touch his skin for a final pass, this time against the grain. Oliver hums when you lean in and it sends shivers down your spine, his hand finding your leg again but this time he just let it dance over your thigh absentmindedly. You find comfort in the warmth of his palm and in the ritualistic nature of this whole thing - it's a soothing type of repetitive task.

This time the blade hugs close to his skin, and when you get to his neck you can feel his steady pulse. Sitting so still, so calm, the beating of his heart feels strangely slow, yet heavy and powerful. You know it's the telltale sign of that athletic resistance and ungodly endurance, but the slow rhythm never ceases to seem almost eerie.

When you finish you run a hand over his face, feeling the smooth, still damp skin. It's strange, but you take solace in knowing it's temporary. Soon enough it'll be gone, though not without leaving Oliver itchy for at least a day, and you always found it funny how bothered he was by that. He smiles at you and you can feel it go straight between your legs - fuck, you are sure he did that on purpose.

But you don't give the pleasure of attention, instead turning around to rest the razor on the stone sink. You hear Oliver yawn from behind you, and watch from the mirror as he stretches as you pick a towel from the rack. Turning back to him you pat his face dry, and as if he wasn't already being spoiled enough, you rub the aftershave lotion on his skin. When it's all done Oliver climbs down from the chair and pulls you in by the waist, placing a soft kiss on your lips before you both turn to the mirror.

"There you go," you say, resting your hip against the sink as Oliver leans in, "how you feeling?"

"Like I'm seven years younger," he responds, touching his face with his free hand. "Which is a nightmare, actually," he pouts.

"Oh, come on, it's only temporary. You gonna be back to having the stubble and looking great again in just a few days."

"Hey," he grunts, squinting his eyes at you, "what do you mean by that? You talk like I'm not handsome anymore," he almost growls in a joking threat, a smile playing at his lips as he cages you against the stone counter, hands on each side of your body. "What's up with that, huh?"

You chuckle as Oliver says the question low in your ear right before assaulting your face with soft kisses. You laugh, grabbing at his shoulders as he snakes a hand around your waist. He's rubbing his face against yours and you can't help but notice how odd it is not to feel the stubble you'd grown so used to.

"Oliver," you laugh, dual colored eyes looking up at you as he peppers kisses over your neck, "this is so strange, your face is so smooth."

"Ah, but you gonna have to deal with it," you laugh as he rubs his face against yours almost like a cat before taking his lips to yours and placing a quick peck. "You gotta make up to me for saying something so mean."

"I've just done your shaving for you, ain't that enough?"

"Nah, I can think of something better."

He pulls you in closer, rubbing his pelvis against yours, letting you feel the large bulge under the the fabric of his sweatpants. Of course, he was like that, it didn't surprise you at all. But you guessed you could spoil him just a little bit more, as a reward for behaving so well even under such difficult circumstances. Yeah, he deserved a bit more pampering, why not?

now for a word from our sponsors: @wishiknewwhatiwasdoingwithmylife

#oliver aiku x reader #aiku x reader #oliver aiku #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader

245 notes · View notes

teaboot · 10 months

Text

I mentioned last summer how scars can go bright pink in the sun, and some of yall asked what I meant but I healed too fast SO

The lighting is weird, but basically what's happened is I've gotten a sunburn on my shoulder. My normal skin has burnt, making it redder than my natural sorta pale olive tone, and when it heals, I'll be more tan.

The scar that's there, though, is a different sort of tissue, and has no melanin- its hard to tell cause I'm naturally low in pigmentation, but if I had say brown or black skin, that scar would still be pink.

Part of that means scars like mine don't tan. They burn, yes, but once the burn heals, it will not appear a darker tone the way the rest of my skin will- it will still be pale, and will easily burn again straight away- and faster than the rest of me!

That said, if you can see the little brown freckle on the far right side of it? That's some pigmentation that's grown back! Some scars come back darker rather than paler, and some scars eventually grow back the pigmentation of the surrounding skin.

Also, fun fact- scar tissue like this also doesn't sweat or grow back hair follicles! So if I was in a hot, dusty environment for a while and started to sweat, my scars would stay clean and dry!

#Scars #Information #Writing tips #Human body #Art tips #Super late answer lol sorry

551 notes · View notes

tigertales9 · 1 year

Text

QB1

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Warnings: 18+ / Smut / Cheating

Time/Place: February 11, 2023 (the night before the Chiefs/Eagles Super Bowl) - Phoenix, AZ

Description: A chance meeting in a dimly-lit club changes the course of your life.

A/N: I refer to reader's boyfriend as QB2 throughout the fic. He's an NFL QB, about the same age as Joe, with a girlfriend but not married. Y'all can insert whoever you wanna do dirty. 😉 Also, let's suspend disbelief and pretend Joe is single in this (and that he had some scruff during SB week-end).

Part 2 is now up : QB1 - Part 2

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

You take a sip of your martini, wrinkling your nose at the taste just as a loud rumble of laughter breaks out across the room. You're mortified for a second, absolutely convinced people are laughing at you until you shoot a glance in the direction of the laughter. You breathe a sigh of relief when you realize no one is looking at you. No one at all.

"What am I doing here?" you whisper to yourself, annoyed that your boyfriend has once again left you alone in a club, strategically relegated to a far back corner booth while he lives it up with other pro ballers and cleat chasers.

"So sick of this," you mumble, giving a bored glance at the throngs of people interacting in the dimly-lit environment. Your man is nowhere to be seen, and you're just about to grab your phone and send him a text saying you're heading back to the hotel when your eyes land on a tall figure standing at the bar. Is that him? you think, your eyes going wide when the man turns his head and locks eyes with you. Def not him, you think, quickly averting your gaze, more than a little embarrassed to be caught staring at one of your man's rivals.

You take another tiny sip of your cocktail before sneaking a clandestine glance back at Joe Burrow; he's still staring straight at you in a way that causes your pulse to kick into overdrive. He holds your gaze, his sinful lips curling into a panty-dropping grin before you break eye contact. What the hell is he looking at? you think to yourself, knocking back the rest of your martini in one go. You set the empty glass on the table and are about to grab your purse and jacket and head for the exit when a deep voice startles you.

"Hey."

You drop your purse on the floor and knock your empty glass over all in one mortifying motion; you watch as a large hand quickly reaches out and grabs the glass before it hits the table. Cat-like reflexes, you think to yourself, trailing your gaze up the long, outstretched arm, not at all surprised when you see the arm belongs to Burrow.

"Sorry," he chuckles. "Didn't mean to startle you." He flashes a smile before reaching down to grab your purse; his bare arm grazes your bare leg and you gasp at the skin-to-skin contact, giving him what you hope is a nonchalant look when he hands you the bag.

"Thanks," you mumble.

"You're welcome. Can I join you?" he asks, waiting for your nod of approval before dropping onto the banquette beside you. You scoot over to accommodate his large frame in the small booth, your cheeks going from pink to red when his manspread causes his leg to touch yours. "I'm Joe," he states matter-of-factly, like every single person in the club doesn't know who he is.

"I know," you giggle, moving to put a little more distance between you before realizing you're literally up against the wall. You flick your eyes down to his thick thigh nestled snuggly against yours; the heat radiating through his jeans sends an electric hum through your body. "I'm y/n," you murmur, hoping he doesn't notice your breathless tone.

"I know," he grins. "Where's QB2?"

You shrug. "I was wondering the same thing. Haven't seen him in a while."

"He left you alone?"

"Yeah," you mutter, "as usual." You feel the weight of his gaze on you for several seconds before he reaches a hand out toward your cocktail napkin and grabs a toothpick with two fat olives on it. "You don't like these?" he asks, lifting the pick to his lips, giving you a feral grin as he bares his pearly white teeth and pulls one of the plump orbs into his mouth.

"I … umm … yeah, I like them," you stammer, watching his chiseled jawline flex as he chews. Fucking ridiculous bone structure, you think to yourself, your eyes going wide as he holds the toothpick in front of your lips, offering you the remaining olive. You meet his gaze and open your mouth for him, mesmerized by the look in his eyes as he watches you slowly pull the olive into your mouth. Goddamn, you think to yourself, this man could feed me dog food and I'd happily lick my chops and beg for more. You chew the olive while visions of Joey B. feeding you something naughty dance in your head; after a few seconds you see his lips moving but are too caught up to register what he's saying.

"You zoning out on me?" he laughs, finally pulling you out of your porny fantasy.

"Oh … sorry," you mutter, hoping your thoughts aren't written all over your face. "What did you say?"

"Can I get you another drink?" he nods at your emtpy glass. "Dirty martini, right?"

"Yeah," you wrinkle your nose, "but it's not really what I wanted."

"Did they get your order wrong?"

"No. QB2 says apple martinis are immature and unsophisticated so he refuses to order them for me."

"God, he's such a pretentious prick," Joe snaps, rolling his eyes. "Be right back with your appletini."

As he goes to grab your drinks, you snatch your makeup compact out of your purse and give yourself a quick perusal -- hair looks good, no lipstick on teeth, no boogers. You put your compact away and set your purse down where it will serve as a barrier between your thigh and Joe's thigh. So glad I got a fresh bikini wax. "Where did that thought come from?" you mutter under your breath, giggling before scowling. You got the wax because your man promised y'all would spend some time in the resort pool but so far that hasn't happened. You narrow your eyes as you hear your boyfriend's snarky voice in your head. Joe doesn't want you. Don't embarrass yourself. "Screw you," you mumble. Just before Joe gets back to the table you move your purse. Fuck it, you think. It's probably the only action I'm gonna get tonight.

Joe sets your drinks down and eases back into the booth beside you, his thigh immediately pressing against yours. You swallow hard and try to control your breathing, acutely aware of the contact while he seems completely oblivious.

"Thanks for the drink," you smile, taking a sip.

"You're welcome," he grins, taking a sip of his own drink while maintaining eye contact with you. You blink a couple times before breaking eye contact, more than a little flustered by his close proximity. Your gaze is drawn to his throat as he takes another sip, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing in a way that makes you wonder what it would feel like under your tongue.

Good Lord, you think to yourself, get a grip! You avert your eyes, searching for a safe place to rest your gaze:

His broad shoulders which look tasty in that tight black tee? No!

His thick thigh pressed against you? Nope!

His long, agile fingers playing with the edge of your cocktail napkin? Oh Hell No!

You squeeze your eyes closed for a second, admitting defeat. There's no safe place to look at this man. Every single part of him screams SEX.

His deep voice breaks into your naughty thoughts. "What are you thinking about?"

You feel another surge of heat in your cheeks, hoping it's too dim for him to notice how hard you're blushing. "Oh nothing," you say, aiming for easy breezy but sounding more chokey croaky. "Just zoned out for a sec."

He gives you a throaty laugh that sets off tingles in interesting places. "That's twice you've zoned out on me. Am I that boring?"

"God no!" you chirp, a little too quick and a little too loud. "I mean … I'm just not very good at small talk."

"Me neither," he smiles before leaning a bit closer. "I'm gonna let you in on a secret. I don't trust people who are good at small talk."

"Really?" you giggle. "Why is that?"

"Cause that shit is awkward as fuck." He gives you a slow wink before continuing. "Nobody should be good at it. Makes me think they have an agenda."

You nod your head in agreement even though you have absolutely no idea what he said after that naughty wink. You bite your bottom lip as your mind frantically searches for something to say. You take a quick sip of your cocktail and clear your throat. "I, ummm, I was really impressed with your statement on abortion rights."

He narrows his eyes at you. "That's dangerously close to good small talk, ma'am. What's your agenda?" The playful twinkle in his icy blue eyes makes your breath catch in your throat. Just trying not to cum from your mere presence, you think. The look on his face makes you wonder if you said that out loud for a sec before he gives you a smile. "Zoning out on me for a third time?"

"No," you protest, giggling when he raises an eyebrow in disbelief. "Okay a little, but I was impressed. You took major heat for that from the good ol' boys, but you also gained a lot of fans."

He shrugs. "Any man who thinks he gets to decide what a woman does with her own damn body is a toxic shithead." He makes a disgusted face. "Trying to control women is the ultimate in small dick energy."

I bet there's nothing small about you, you think to yourself, a little embarrassed when you feel another damn blush rise in your cheeks. You're pretty sure he notices the blush but is enough of a gentleman to ignore it.

"How's your drink?" he asks.

"Delicious." You take a swig and smack your lips dramatically before giving him a smile. His gaze focuses on your lips for several seconds before slowly sliding back up to capture your eyes. Your blush deepens at the heated look and you break eye contact and take a deep breath, trying to control your runaway pulse. Simmer down, you think to yourself. He's not coming on to you. He's just being nice. You frown as you hear your boyfriend's voice in your head. He could have damn near any woman in this club; he doesn't want you.

"I like your dress," Joe says.

You give him a weak smile. "Thanks," you mutter, feeling your mood deflate.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," you mumble, staring at the table instead of meeting his gaze.

"Did I say the wrong thing?"

The concern in his voice makes you lift your head and lock eyes with him. "No," you assure him, "it's just …"

"What?" he coaxes.

You shrug. "I like this dress, too," you admit, glancing down at the slinky dark teal halter dress that's currently riding up to show a nice amount of thigh. You tug the hem down a bit before continuing. "But I got a negative reaction from QB2 when he first saw me in it tonight."

"What did he say?"

The edge in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. "He said the dress was awesome but it would look better if I had bigger boobs."

Joe's eyebrows shoot upward. "What an asshole! You look fucking amazing in that dress." He lowers his voice and leans closer to you. "And I bet you look even better out of it."

You bite your lip hard enough to sting. "Thanks," you whisper, squirming a little at the steady throb of arousal his words set off.

"Does he put you down a lot?" Joe asks, his voice as sharp as his jawline.

"He doesn't really put me down; he just tells the truth." You shrug. "He wants me to get a boob job. He says since I have thick thighs and a big butt that bigger boobs would balance me out. I guess he's not wrong."

Joe's shaking his head no before you finish your sentence. "Fuck that. He's 100% wrong. You're perfect just the way you are." He takes a swig of his drink before continuing. "Does he understand that women come in all shapes and sizes? This ain't fucking Build-A-Bear," he grumbles.

You giggle and lift your gaze to meet Joe's. "I wish he felt the same way," you sigh.

Joe studies your wistful expression for several seconds before scooting closer to you; he leans in close enough for you to smell his subtle, spicy cologne. "You're gorgeous," he whispers, his hot breath in your ear setting off a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. You mumble another weak "thanks." You've spent so long with a man pointing out every single perceived flaw that it's almost an out-of-body experience to have a man compliment you, have him look at you in a way that makes your toes curl.

Joe studies your face in the dim light, his gaze lingering on your lips for several heartbeats before sliding up to your eyes. This close up you can see his scruff, dark blonde and well groomed. You wonder what that scruff would feel like if he kissed you. What it would feel like on your breasts and between your thighs. You bite your bottom lip and squeeze your legs together as that naughty thought causes a gush of liquid heat deep inside you. Joe's gaze flicks down to your restless thighs before meeting your gaze again; he gives you a look that you feel in your core, clearly reading your body language as easy as he reads a zero blitz.

You break eye contact and take a gulp of your cocktail. "We don't really have sex anymore," you blurt out.

Joe is stunned into silence for several seconds before he responds. "Why not?"

"I don't think he's attracted to me."

"Then he's crazy," Joe states. "You exude sex, baby girl."

You check his expression to see if he's kidding, but the look on his face tells you he's 100% serious. You take another sip of your fruity beverage and decide to just unload what you're thinking. There's something about this moment with this man that makes it seem like the right thing to do.

"He only wants me to give him head but no actual sex."

"Are you kidding?"

You shake your head. "He says I don't get aroused fast enough, so it's just easier for me to give him head instead of having sex."

Joe's mouth is literally hanging open at this confession. He shakes his head in annoyance before speaking. "Why the hell would you get aroused for a huge asshole who negs the shit out of you? As your man, he should be building you up not tearing you down." Joe shoots a quick glance around to make sure no one is within hearing distance before continuing. "Does he even try to get you aroused?"

"He used to, but he'd just get frustrated if I wasn't immediately ready. The pressure was a huge turn-off for me, but he got really defensive when I told him that." You sigh and give a defeated shrug. "He also hates that it takes ages for me to orgasm. He says it's not his fault that I'm broken, and he shouldn't have to kill himself trying to please me." You give Joe a sad smile. "I probably am broken. He's the only man I've ever been with, so he knows a lot more about sex than I do."

The incredulous look on Joe's face slowly segues to pissed-off. "He's full of shit!" Joe grits out. "I bet he loved that you were a virgin so you wouldn't have anything to compare him to. That's . . ."

Your phone chirps before Joe finishes speaking and you hold a finger up. "Just a sec," you whisper, pulling your phone out of your purse to read the text. "He left," you mutter, "he's at a different club. Told me to find my way back to the hotel." You hand your phone over to show Joe the text. He reads it, his chiseled nostrils flaring in anger. "This motherfucker's 'bout to get told," he seethes, quickly typing a response.

"No!" you chirp, taking your phone back before he can send the text. "You can't ever tell him I told you all of this."

"Oh, I'm not just gonna tell him, I'm gonna beat his ass!"

"Please no!" you beg, your eyes misting up with unshed tears while you plead your case. "I've never told anyone else, and I only told you because I thought the info would be safe with you."

He takes a deep breath and gives you a lingering look before speaking. "It's safe with me," he promises. "You're safe with me."

"Thank you," you whisper, relief flooding through you.

"Why haven't you ever told anyone else? Friends? Family?"

You shake your head. "They all hate him for talking me into dropping out of college to move with him. I was almost finished, but he didn't want to wait on me." You shrug. "I guess I just don't want to hear 'I told you so'."

"You made a mistake and that's okay. We all make mistakes." He gives you a soothing smile before continuing. "But the worst thing you can do is keep making that same mistake just to save face. Own it, learn from it and move on."

"You're probably right . . ."

"I'm definitely right," he interrupts. "You need to put this asshole in your rearview mirror. You're not broken, okay? He's a manipulative dick on top of being a lazy selfish lover." Joe runs a hand through his hair in agitation before continuing. "If you're not gonna let me call him out at least let me prove him wrong."

"Ummm … how?"

"Any and every way you'll let me," he states matter-of-factly, his gaze sliding down to your thighs before slowly reversing course. Your heart literally skips a beat at the look in his eyes. Is he offering what I think he's offering? you wonder, afraid to ask in case you're dead wrong. No way he's attracted to you, your boyfriend's voice sneers in your head. Probably not, you think sadly, but just maybe . . .

You're still pondering Joe's intentions when he removes all doubt. "I want you," he states, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth in a way that puts your clit on notice. "Guarantee I won't have any trouble getting you off."

"I'm already wet for you," you whisper, a little appalled that you just said that to his face. "Where are you staying?" you ask breathlessly. He says the name of his hotel and you smile. "That's where I'm staying too."

"How convenient," he purrs, giving you a look so hot it would melt the panties off the Statue of Liberty. He stands up and holds a hand out. "Let's go."

-------

The second the door to his hotel suite closes he's got you backed up against it, his hot mouth and soft scruff on your neck making you squirm as his big hands travel to your ass. You drop your purse and jacket and wrap your arms around him, moaning into his mouth as he captures your lips; his kiss is intense, a sensual assault of lips and teeth and tongue that has every pulse point in your body throbbing in unison.

Your breath catches in your throat when you feel his long fingers sliding up your inner thigh. "Damn," you whimper when his hand cups your lace-clad pussy, grinding against you in a way that makes your eyes roll back in your head. "You're gonna make me cum!" you gasp. "Not yet," he growls against your slick lips, sliding both hands back to your ass before easily picking you up; you wrap your legs around his waist and hold on for the ride as he carries you into the suite, easing down onto the black leather sofa with you straddling his lap.

He deftly unties the halter behind your neck, pulling the slinky material down to expose your breasts. You hold your breath as his hot gaze takes in your biggest insecurity. "You're perfect," he breathes, his big hands immediately cupping your breasts, long fingers teasing your nipples. You watch as he latches his pretty lips onto a hard peak, sucking it before flicking his tongue over it several times; he looks up at you through those sinfully long lashes as he nips it with his teeth before sucking hard. You hiss as your core contracts at the delicious sensation. I'm gonna be SO embarrassed if I cum just from him sucking my nipples, you think to yourself, moaning when he teases your sensitive nub with his scruff. "Damn," you whimper, grinding your crotch against his when he repeats the action. "You like that?" he purrs, giving you one more loud suck before focusing his attention on your other nipple. "Y … yeah," you whimper, lacing your fingers in his unruly curls as he continues to tease you, taking his sweet time instead of rushing through it like you're used to.

He continues to tease your nipples while sliding a hand down to your crotch, rubbing you through your panties before sliding his fingers inside, both of you moaning when he touches your slick folds. You're more than a little surprised at how soaking wet you are. QB2 always tells you it's your fault you don't get wet for him, but you're starting to realize it's actually his fault for not putting in the effort.

This feels like a dream, you think to yourself, shuddering as Joe slides a finger inside your slick heat. "So tight," he groans, rubbing his scruff against a super sensitive nipple as he adds a second finger, sinful lips curling up in a dirty grin when you whimper his name. "Does it feel good?" he asks, leaning back to look at your face. "So good," you breathe, a little dizzy at the sensation of his long, thick fingers moving inside you. He brushes his thumb over your clit, groaning low in his throat when your core clenches his fingers. "Fuck, baby, you look so hot riding my fingers," he purrs, "I wanna watch you cum." He buries his fingers deep inside you and grinds his thumb against your clit. "Cum for me," he urges, smiling when you throw your head back and do as ordered.

You fall forward as your climax hits, moaning against his fragrant neck as he continues to stroke you through your orgasm. His free hand rubs soothing circles on your back as you gasp for breath, several minutes elapsing before you manage to speak. "That was absolutely ridiculous," you mumble against his neck.

"Good ridiculous or bad ridiculous?"

"You know it was good," you giggle. "I think I almost passed out." You lean back and lock eyes with him. "Now it's your turn," you whisper as you reach down and grind your thumb against his erection through his tight gray jeans. "I need you inside me," you purr, absolutely lightheaded at the thought of taking his big cock.

"Later," he promises. "I'm not finished with you yet."

You gasp when he picks you up and spins around, sitting you on the sofa, his muscles rippling as he strips his shirt off before focusing his attention back on you. He's got your high heels off and your soaked panties halfway down your legs before your pleasure-fogged brain realizes what he's doing. "Oh my God," you breathe, your pulse jackhammering as he drops to his knees between your legs, spreading your thighs wide while licking his lips. He gives you a feral grin before lowering his head.

The noise you make when his tongue slowly licks your slit is a little embarrassing; before you have time to actually be embarrassed, he spreads you open with his thumbs and thrusts his tongue deep inside you. "Oh my God!" you whine, tangling a hand in his tousled curls as he repeats the action. This position would usually have you feeling self-conscious, but the way he's tongue-fucking you with strong, deep strokes makes you forget to breathe much less suck in your stomach.

He brushes a finger across your clit, groaning when your core clenches around his tongue; "I'm close!" you whimper, gasping when he drags his tongue up to your clit, teasing it with his scruff before giving a hard suck while sinking two fingers inside you. He curls his fingers and hits your sweet spot, causing a jolt of electricity to every nerve ending in your body. If you could draw enough air into your lungs you'd scream his name, instead you settle for pulling his hair as the coil of pleasure in your belly tightens then explodes, a sensual supernova that has you grinding shamelessly against his mouth as you ride out the intense climax.

"Goddamn," you wheeze, gasping for breath as he chuckles against your throbbing clit. "Still think you're broken?" he purrs. "Fuck no," you pant, blinking your eyes a few times to bring him into focus. Your essence glistening on his lips and the dark blonde whiskers on his chin is one of the hottest things you've ever seen. "You're really good at that," you whisper, watching intently as he collects the moisture on a finger before sucking it into his mouth. "Really fucking good at it," you repeat.

"Thanks," he grins, giving you another one of those dirty winks. "I try to be the best at everything, on and off the field."

You giggle at his cocky smirk. "Well I'm ready to give you the Lombardi Trophy, the MVP, an Olympic gold medal and any other award you want."

"Glad you enjoyed it," he purrs, his cocky smirk reaching epic levels just as you hear your phone chirp.

You make a face. "That's probably him," you mutter, watching as Joe walks to the entryway and grabs your purse and jacket off the floor; you adjust your dress back into place and give him a sad smile as he throws your jacket over the back of the sofa before handing you the purse. "Thanks." A feeling of dread overtakes you as you check the text. "He's locked out," you say, shaking your head in annoyance. "Lost his key card and is now sitting in the hallway outside our room."

"What a dumbass," Joe sneers, gently taking the phone from your hands before you can type a response. "He can wait," Joe states, sliding your phone back in your purse before holding a hand out to you. "C'mon," he orders. "We're not done yet."

Your pulse jumps as you place your hand in his much larger one and allow him to lead you into the bedroom. He grabs the hem of your dress and pulls the slinky garment over your head, his hot gaze raking up and down your naked body in a way that causes a flood of wetness between your thighs. He's already made me cum twice and I'm still desperate to have him again, you muse to yourself, watching closely as he strips naked before walking into the bathroom. Your eyes are drawn to his ass, beautifully plump and firm sitting high on top of those long legs. Fucking work of art, you think to yourself, breathless with anticipation for what's to come.

When he walks back in the bedroom he's slowly pumping his cock. Fuck, you think, watching intently as he continues to stroke himself. Imagine watching him jack off.

"Lay on your back and put a pillow under your hips," he orders, rolling a condom onto his impressive erection while you do his bidding, crawling to the center of the king-sized bed before shoving a pillow underneath you to tilt your hips up. His thigh muscles flex as he crawls onto the bed and positions himself between your spread legs, gliding the plump head of his cock through your slick folds several times before pushing inside; he takes his sweet time giving you every. single. inch. before he's fully seated. You grit your teeth at the way his thick cock stretches you, the pleasure/pain combo so good it literally takes your breath away for several heartbeats.

"You're huge," you eventually whimper, your walls contracting a couple times at the delicious invasion. "Does it feel good?" he asks, hot gaze pinning you in place as he starts to thrust. "God yes," you whine, gasping when he hits bottom before slowly sliding out.

Your last semi-coherent thought is that he fucks like he kisses - deep, thorough, intense, his big cock hitting every nerve ending inside you as you writhe beneath him. "You feel so good, baby, so tight," he groans, switching up his angle just enough to hit your sweet spot then picking up his pace when you whimper his name, as skillful in bed as he is on the football field.

"Please," you beg, arching up to meet his deep thrusts while digging your fingers into his muscular shoulders; he reaches between your sweat-slick bodies and rubs lazy circles on your super sensitive clit. "Can you cum for me again?" he purrs. "Yeah," you whimper, moaning as he continues to tease you. He gives you a smouldering look, his normally light eyes dark with lust as he lowers his head to capture your lips; you immediately open your mouth for him, sliding your hands into his messy hair as he twirls his hot tongue against yours.

After what seems like an eternity on the edge, he nips your full bottom lip just enough to sting while pinching your clit, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger; that's all it takes for you to come apart underneath him while he continues to ride you hard, your cries of pleasure and spasming core eventually pulling him over the edge with you.

He collapses on top of you, careful not to put his full weight on you as he pants against your neck. He eventually rolls off, landing on his back against the soft mattress. "Pussy like a snapping turtle, baby girl," he croaks, still gasping for breath.

"Is that good or bad?" you pant.

"It's very good," he chuckles.

After a few more minutes of mutual heavy breathing he gets up and walks into the bathroom, coming out a bit later with a damp washcloth; you spread your legs so he can clean you up, the intimacy of the action causing a throb of arousal. This man has given me three massive orgasms and I'm still sprung, you marvel to yourself. QB1 on the depth chart for real.

He tosses the washcloth back in the bathroom, watching as you ease off the bed. "I better get going," you murmur, grimacing a little at the delicious soreness between your thighs as you grab your dress.

"You don't have to go back to him," Joe states. "I'll take the key card down and let his ignorant ass in the room."

You smile and shake your head while shimmying into your dress. "That's super tempting, but I have a lot of shit I need to figure out. I'm not sure what I'm gonna end up doing. It's a whole ass mess, to be honest."

"If you need any help let me know, okay? A plane ticket. A place to stay. Tuition money. Someone to help you bury the body."

You laugh at the look on his face when he delivers that last line. "You've already helped more than you'll ever know," you sigh, standing on your tiptoes to drop a kiss on his pretty lips. You grab your purse from the living room and walk in the bathroom, quickly fixing your hair and makeup. You grin a little at how fucked out you look, knowing your so-called man won't even notice.

When you walk back in the bedroom Joe is completely dressed; he gives you a smile while holding out your panties and high heels. "Thanks," you grin, pulling on the still-damp panties before sliding your feet in the heels.

"Here's the story -- we're just getting back from the club," Joe says, grabbing your jacket and holding it for you while you slide it on. "Got it?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Let's go." Joe places a hand on the small of your back and steers you toward the door.

"Wait. You're coming with me?"

"Obvs. I'm seeing you safely to your room since your asshole boyfriend left you to fend for yourself." Joe gives you a wink. "If he kicks off about it, I'll beat his ass."

"Are you hoping he kicks off?"

"Maybe," Joe shrugs, giving a devilish grin when you shake your head at him.

Y'all step off the elevator 3 floors down and head toward your room; as you round a corner in the hallway you see QB2 sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. Joe speaks up as y'all approach.

"Really shouldn't leave her alone in the club, bro. Lots of bad things could happen."

QB2 looks up, squinting to try and focus his alcohol-fogged vision. "Burrow?" he croaks, swaying a bit as he gets to his feet. "Thanks for taking care of her, man. I had a few too many and wasn't thinking straight."

"Be happy to take care of her anytime," Joe mutters, hitting you with a loaded look. You bite your lip and dig in your purse for the key card, holding your breath as QB2 speaks up again. "Ol' Joey B. coming in clutch as usual. You're a true bro for that, man." He slaps Joe on the shoulder before snatching the card out of your hand and walking into y'alls room. Joe slides a foot out to keep the door from slamming shut before locking eyes with you. "You deserve better than him," Joe states. "I meant what I said earlier. If you ever need anything just call me."

You nod your head. "Thanks," you whisper, giving him a tight hug before he turns and walks back down the hallway; just before he disappears around the corner he looks back and gives you a lingering look. "How am I supposed to sleep tonight?" you mutter under your breath as you walk in your room, rolling your eyes at QB2 who is sprawled on the bed fully clothed and snoring like a chainsaw. It's gonna be a looong night, you think to yourself, walking into the bathroom to turn on the shower.

You undress and meet your eyes in the mirror. "I do deserve better," you state, smiling at your reflection, truly liking what you see for the first time in a long time. "Joey B. coming in clutch for real," you giggle, your mind already made up as you step into the shower.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow imagine

538 notes · View notes

severalforraelee · 8 months

Text

The Wedding: Thomas Shelby x Reader

Photo credit to the.shelby.followers on Instagram

Word count: 2,072

Written by raelee / Posted Sep 6

Masterlist

Peaky Blinders Masterlist

I stare at myself in the mirror, dabbing a bit more blush onto my cheek.

“Can’t you just say that you love me, Tommy?” The tears fall down my cheeks as I stare at him, desperation written all over my face. He just stares back at me with a blank expression. “You- you don’t even act like it.”

“What do you mean I don’t act like it, ay?” He asks, taking a step forward. His eyebrows furrow, showing anger, however it’s a hint of emotion. “I bought you that necklace you couldn’t stop staring at the other day.”

“Just buying me things isn’t the same thing as showing me that you love me, you use it as a way to shut me up every time this conversation occurs.” I throw my hands up in frustration.

I could repeat that a hundred times- in fact, I have, but Thomas Shelby is never going to understand what he doesn’t want to understand.

“You know what, I can’t do this anymore,” I stomp towards the door.

“Do what?”

“This, Tommy,” I shout, turning around to face him for the last time. “Be in a relationship with you. You’re too focused on your Peaky Blinders shit to ever pay attention to me, and I deserve more than that. Well, I’ll give you all of the time you need, because we’re done.”

I shake myself out of the memory, quietly cursing once I realize that I put on too much blush. My hand reaches for the brush to blend it in.

This is my wedding day. My wedding day to Oliver. Tommy is the last person that I should be thinking about.

Tommy and I had that passion and intimacy, everytime that I was near him he would reach for my hand to hold to rub his thumb on the back of, or wrap an arm around my waist to squeeze. I could always rely on Tommy to feel like I was protected.

But I can rely on Oliver to actually be protected. Tommy lived a dangerous life, head of one of Britain's biggest gangs, while Oliver is just a banker. But being just a banker is okay because I don’t have to worry about staying alive every single day.

I can go to school and teach without having my partner’s safety on the back of my mind all day, and then go home and spend my evening with him without having to go to the bar every other night.

A loud bang goes off on the other side of the door, followed by screams and shouts. I rise from the chair in front of the vanity, staring at the door with fear and curiosity.

Do I leave the room to find out what’s going on? Or do I stay in the safety of the room, waiting for the danger to find me?

Before I can make a decision, the screams and shouts stop and it’s dead quiet again. I still have a decision to make of when I leave this room. My feet turn me around and I’m staring back at myself in the vanity’s mirror.

My white dress is on, my hair is curled, my makeup is done, and my ring is on my finger. I’m ready to get married.

My heels click on the tiled floor as I make my way through the church to the great room. My father stands in front of the large wooden doors, facing them.

“Papa?” I call out softly.

He turns around and smiles lightly at the sight of me. That’s not what I’m focused on, though. I’m focused on his pale skin and the sweat covering his forehead.

“You look beautiful,” he compliments.

Despite it, I frown. I step closer to him, gripping the bouquet of daisies tighter in my hand. I don’t even like daisies, but Oliver’s mom grows them so they’re my bouquet.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he stutters out.

“Are you sure? You just look… disheveled.”

“Everything will be alright, Y/N,” he tells me.

His tone is reassuring, but it’s difficult to distinguish who he wants to reassure, himself or me. But why would he be trying to reassure me? What’s going on?

He holds his arm out and I lock mine in, both of us facing the dark wood now.

The doors open and the church music begins to play. My eyes are forward and a bashful smile is on my lips before it drops completely once I see who’s standing at the altar.

There’s not the familiar blonde hair or brown eyes of Oliver. There’s no shy smile that I’ve become accustomed too, or his tall, lanky frame. Nor the powder blue suit that we’ve been planning he would wear today for months.

Instead, I’m facing familiar brown hair and blue eyes. The cold, blank expression that he’s become known for is on his face- surprisingly, a cigarette isn’t hanging out of his mouth, but I’m sure in five minutes it will be. A full navy blue suit sports his frame, the chain that I got him for his birthday last year decorating his torso.

It’s Tommy Shelby.

“Papa, what’s going on?” I whisper softly, anxiety starting to flood through my veins as my eyes flit around the room.

My family and friends are still here- all seated on one side of the room and appearing petrified as they look back at me. On the other side, though, Oliver’s family is not to be seen. Instead it’s filled by Tommy’s friends and family and all of the Peaky Blinders.

My eyes return to Tommy and he gives me a small smile once he sees the gears in my head begin to shift.

“Just walk for now, darling, don’t think about it,” my dad’s words are reassuring but his voice breaks, telling me that whatever’s going on right now isn’t good. I could’ve guessed that by the way my stomach dropped as soon as I walked into the room.

I follow his advice, keeping my eyes on the cross behind Tommy as we walk down the aisle. I avoid eye contact with everyone, unsure of what’s going on and what everyone knows that I don’t.

“Tommy,” I whisper as we reach him and he reaches out for my hands. “What are you doing?”

“Let’s take that off,” he grabs my left hand, tugging off the gold band with a diamond on it, holding it behind him. “Arthur.” Arthur grabs the ring, throwing it on the ground and instantly stomping on it. My eyes widen at the action and I hear several gasps of shock from the people seated on my side of the aisle.

Tommy pulls a ring out of his suit jacket’s pocket, sliding the silver band with a much bigger diamond onto my finger.

Finally, he looks at me, smiling. “Marrying you.”

“Tommy, I-”I look around nervously, then speak quickly. “I’m supposed to be marrying Oliver, you and I broke up-””That doesn’t matter,” he harshly interrupts me.

I stare at him in shock, both from what’s occurring right now and the tone that he spoke to me in.

He clears his throat.

“None of it matters,” he speaks more smoothly now. “What matters is that we’re in love, we’re going to get married, and then we’re going to build a family and a life together.”

“I don’t know if I’m in love with you,” I confess gently.

His grip on my hands tightens then loosens. “What do you mean you don’t know if you’re in love with me?”

“It’s just, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Tommy. I mean, the last time we saw each other you couldn’t even say that you love me and now you want to marry me?”

His facial expression doesn’t change. “You’re right, I can’t say that I love you. But I can show it.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “We’ve talked about this-””You’re right, we have. Fine. I love you. Is that what you want to hear?” He asks, anger lacing his tone.

“You shouldn’t have to be pressured into saying it,” I argue, “You should want to do it because it’s true and you want to tell me, not because we’re fighting about it.”

Like he read my prior thoughts, he pulls a box of cigarettes and a lighter out from his pocket, plucking one out and lighting it.

I’ve always hated it when he smoked, but I know that it’s a hard habit to break. He says that he smokes so much because he’s stressed all of the time- and I understand why this conversation is stressing him out.

But this conversation shouldn’t be happening in the first place. I’m supposed to be marrying Oliver today, god forbid he’s still alive, but Tommy says that I’m marrying him instead.

“I can’t marry you today, Tommy,” I confess.

He tilts his head, an unasked question.

“We have so many problems and a negative history. I’m supposed to be marrying Oliver,” I remind him.

His face darkens at the mention of Oliver. “Well, now you’re marrying me, love.”

“What if I don’t?” I whisper out.

His face darkens even more. “What if you don’t what?”

My breath quickens, unsure if I want the words to escape my lips. Tommy will definitely have a negative reaction, but just how bad I’m not sure of.

“Go on, speak up,” he encourages mockingly.

“What if I don’t marry you?”

His hand reaches out, gently caressing my jaw. Just by that soft action, I know how much I fucked up.

“Oh sweetie,” he talks softly, like he almost feels sorry for me. “I think we both know what will happen.”

And I do. I know that he would burn down my flat, get my father and brothers fired from their jobs, threaten the local grocery store into not selling to my mother, and have Peaky Blinders follow me around so that I’m constantly paranoid and checking over my shoulder.

In fact, I’m surprised that didn’t happen when I first broke up with him.

But I guess I didn’t matter that much until he found out that I was marrying another man.

“So what do you say? Do you want the priest to start the ceremony?”

A single tear rolls down my cheek as I stare back at the man that I once loved, his cruelty now controlling his personal life as well as his professional life.

“Yes.”

“I haven’t gotten the chance to tell you how beautiful you look tonight,” he whispers in my ear, arms wrapped around my waist. Mine are around his torso, resting my cheek against his chest as we sway slowly to the gentle romantic tune that I had picked out as Oliver and mine’s first dance song.

“Thank you,” I whisper back.

Thomas Shelby is a troubled man. He has dangerous enemies all around the globe trying to find out his weakness to use against him, hoping to gain power and control.

Thomas Shelby has never had a weakness. He’s physically in shape and active so his body’s not weak. He’s cunning and intelligent so his mind’s not weak. His family is just as tough as him so they’re not his weakness.

His enemies have been waiting for years for him to get married, hoping that a potential spouse and children would be his weakness.

And I know we will be.

It makes me angry that Tommy put me in this situation where I have to always be looking around for someone who might end my life. I want to be able to walk to the coffee shop and meet a friend, or go for a walk around the local rose garden without looking over my shoulder or having a peaky blinder assist me.

But… he’s Tommy. And he’s been my Tommy since the day that I first laid eyes on him. His cold exterior is what drew me to him, the curiosity of what hardened him, keeping me hooked on him for a year before our break up.

It still draws me to him.

When he gives me that look that he reserves just for me, I know that there’s a sweet man inside who just wants to feel my love surround him.

And that’s why I lean up, kissing him on the lips in front of all of our friends and family.

#tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagine #peaky blinders imagine #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders x reader

366 notes · View notes

simp4eshal · 2 months

Text

Reassurance

Spencer Reid x girlfriend!reader

an: this was supposed to be a Beck Oliver x Reader thingy but idk, i felt like it was better with spencer ???

warnings: insecurity, talks of jealousy, being kinda shady toward JJ but not really, some suggestive words and actions but it's really just fluff and comfort, they're so cute and he's so in love

It was dark outside. So dark, the stars were barely visible, and you wondered if the moon was okay. While staring out in the cold night through your boyfriend’s window, you felt a hand sneaking lazily around your waist. “What are you thinking ?” Spencer said, tracing stupid patterns on your hips “Nothing, really.” you replied, feeling suddenly called out. He stopped and stared at you, a worried glint behind his eyes. “I know there’s something else. You’ve been awfully quiet and, not to be a jerk, but you’ve been here for 2 hours straight and by that time I would’ve usually been sinking into your tight, dripping cunt” his tone was playful, sultry even, as he said so. A proud smile adorned his features once he heard you laugh lightly, muttering a shy “stop” while cuddling next to him.

Silence fell upon them. His hands roamed your body almost innocently, and you almost felt like you were able to talk to him now. “Talk. I feel like you need it” he said. You sighed against his chest, and started confessing. “Do you…like JJ ?” he looked confused as you said so “JJ ? Of course I like JJi, she’s my friend” You sighed again, this time looking deeply into his eyes “No. I mean like, like JJ.” Spencer stopped for a moment, then realized. “Oh. Ohhhh. Is this what this is about ?” his hands came and cupped both of her cheeks, a sweet smile forming on his plump lips “I know that JJ and you have been friends for God knows how long, and I know that my jealousy is ridiculous but- I just, I just need reassurance.”

He smiled again looking at you, his heart filling with love “Don’t say that. Your emotions are not stupid, they are completely valid.” he stopped for a moment “I know that JJ and I are pretty close. But you shouldn’t worry. You really shouldn’t. However, I am glad that you told me about this.” his hands found yours, kissing your knuckles fondly. “I love you. I truly do. And I am so glad that you mentioned JJ, because as much as I love her too, I don’t want something to happen, this time between you and me.” You knew what he was referring to. His messy break up (break ups ?) with other girlfriends, always somehow including JJ. You didn’t blame the girl. But because you knew that she was enough of an issue to play part in his past break ups, you were just so afraid to see it happen to the both of you too. JJ was a really smart and attractive girl, but she was way too… tactile ? present ? whatever, too something for you. No shade, though. Which is why you felt like you needed to talk to Spencer, and not to her.

“If you want me to, I’ll put boundaries between JJ and I. More boundaries.” he said confidently “No ! I don’t want things to be weird between you guys, I just want…emotional boundaries ? Maybe, slow down with the random calls while we’re together and stuff ? I mean, obviously, when those calls are not about work…” you asked shyly, yet with underlying confidence, because you knew that this was important to you. He stared at you again, his hands now under your shirt, cradling your skin. “Okay. I will.” he looked once again into your eyes, smiling, so so happy that you felt secure enough in your relationship to just address it. “I love you” he whispered, pecking your cheeks, then your nose, and your neck. You giggled, your chest lighter, and your heart full with love for your adorable, adorable boyfriend “I love you too”.

68 notes · View notes

celandeline · 3 months

Text

Summer of Like // Farleigh Start x OC (19)

It’s well past midnight when the party is over, and even later than that when I retreat upstairs, following after a drunk Venetia to make sure she doesn’t fall on the steps. My feet hurt from my borrowed heels, and the thin straps of the blue cocktail dress Venetia gave me are beginning to cut into the skin of my shoulders.

“You’re sure you don’t need help getting out of your dress?” I ask as Venetia opens the door of her room.

“You just want to see me naked.” She teases, leaning so that her nose almost brushes mine.

“And what if I do?” I tease back.

Venetia giggles. “Goodnight Evie.”

“Night V.” I return, heading into my own room.

This time, when I see Farleigh sprawled over my bed, I’m not as surprised. He grins, tilting his head. “Do you need any help getting out of your dress?” He drawls.

I shrug out of the straps, wincing as the elastic scrapes across my tender shoulders. “No, but if you wanted to rub the red marks out of my shoulders, I wouldn’t say no.”

He rolls his eyes, but sits up, gesturing for me to sit on the floor in front of him between his knees. The straps of the dress dangling from my shoulders, I sit down, tipping my head back against the edge of the bed so that I can look up at him while he kneads at my shoulders.

“So.” I ask.

“So.” He replies, eyes flicking between where his hands work against the indents left from the straps and my eyes.

“What brings you to my bedroom?” I ask, grinning. “Besides the obvious things.”

“The obvious things being..?” He asks, the look in his eyes telling me that he knows exactly what I’m implying. He’ll never say it though, not unless I make him.

“That you’re madly in love with me.” I say.

He laughs, just a little breathy thing, and rolls his eyes again, but notably doesn’t deny it, only - “That seems a bit dramatic.” He says. “But - if you must know, Oliver said some… things.”

“I see.” I say. “You’ve come to complain.”

He digs his fingers into a particularly sore part of my shoulders, and I sigh, melting further against the bed. “I’ll leave, if you want.” His tone is teasing, and his eyes twinkle.

“No, no.” I say. The thought of him taking his hands away from my shoulders seems like the worst thing in the world right now. “Keep going. Tell me about Oliver.”

He continues his massaging. “When you and Felix and V got up to get drinks, I asked him, fuck, chuck or marry - Richard III, Henry VII, or Henry XIII?”

“Fuck Richard III, marry Henry XIII, chuck Henry VII.”

Farleigh hums. “Interesting. I also said fuck Richard III, but I would have switched the other two. Not the point - he, first, outright says that I could just fuck him instead, which, what the hell does that mean? And then, second, tries to talk to me about how he understands what it's like to come from an unstable home and how humiliating it must be for me to have to ask James and Elspeth for everything, which is such bullshit coming from him. I swear, he gets off on having to ask Felix for help.”

“Mm.” I say. From what I know about Farleigh - from what Venetia has told me and what I can piece together from the way the rest of the family talks about him when he’s not around - it’s something of a sore spot, how his mother is running on fumes and how he has to beg for James and Elspeth’s kindness. From what I know about Oliver, he’s been riding on Felix’s coattails since they became friends, and happily. I’ve seen it myself, the adoring way that he looks at Felix, and how he devours even the smallest kindnesses with such vigor it’s almost disturbing. It’s a little offensive, that Oliver would pretend to understand how Farleigh feels when he so clearly doesn’t mind having to beg at all.

“He knows that I don’t like him. I don’t hate him, obviously, but I don’t-” He pauses. “He just gets under my skin. I mean, he would lick the dirt out from between Felix’s toes if he asked him to, and he would smile about it. It’s pathetic, but it’s exactly the sort of shit that makes these people go wild, and I can’t-” He stops, and lets his hands slide from my shoulders. “Sorry.”

I turn in my spot on the floor so that I can look at him. “Sorry for what?”

He waves a hand through the air, dismissive. “It’s stupid, really. Felix’ll get tired of Oliver by the end of the summer and that’ll be that.”

“Sure.” I say, standing up from the floor. “But it seemed like, and you can correct me if I’m wrong here, you were going to say that you can’t grovel like Oliver does. And I don’t think that’s stupid to be mad about. You shouldn’t have to grovel, I mean, these people are your family.”

Farleigh sighs, turning his head to look out the window, out over the pitch blackness of the grounds. “Yeah.”

“Sucks.” I say, sitting on the bed beside him.

He turns to look at me as I do, his eyes searching mine. I let him, and after a moment he groans, and flops back onto my mattress. I follow him back with a grin, propping myself up on my side so that I can look down at him. For a minute, we just look at each other, before he breaks the silence.

“You’re a pretty good singer.” He says.

“So are you.” I return easily, my free hand moving to brush through his curls, playing with the coarse strands, pulling at the little ringlets.

His eyes flutter shut as my fingernails scratch against his scalp. I take the opportunity to let my eyes wander over his face. I could stare at him for hours and be content the whole time. If I were a painter, he would be my favorite subject. A modern reimagining of Apollo.

“You’re just looking at me.” He says, eyes still closed.

Even though he can’t see my face, I smile. “I’m always looking at you.” I say, dropping my voice in the same way that he did that night on the roof.

He opens his eyes to meet mine. He almost looks helpless, looking up at me with wide eyes while I play with his hair.

I lean down, slowly, stopping when the barest hint of our lips brush together. I can feel his sharp intake of breath against my cheek, and before he can say anything, I ask, “Will you unzip my dress?”

He swallows. “Sure.”

Backing away, I slip off the bed, and turn so that my back is toward him. I feel him stand up behind me, and I pull my hair over my shoulder, exposing the zipper. His slender fingers tug at the zip until the dress falls open. I don’t bother holding it up, letting it fall to the floor and leaving me in my underwear.

I turn back around. There’s a needy look in his eye, and for a moment, I’m tempted, but there’s still a good month of the summer left. Better to stretch it out, I think. “I’m going to go to bed.”

“Okay. Yeah.” He says, sliding past me to head towards the door. Once he reaches it, he lingers, one hand on the doorknob. “Thanks for letting me vent.”

“‘Course.” I say, following him over to the door. “I always like talking to you.”

Farleigh laughs, disbelieving. “Sure.”

“No, really.” I say, winding a hand into his shirt. Gently, I pull him down until we are face to face. I watch his eyes search mine, still just as helpless and needy as before. I let my gaze drop to his lips so he knows what’s coming.

I tilt my head to close the gap between us, and he meets me halfway, our lips meeting in a warm embrace. Using the hand I have wound into his shirt, I pull him flush to me, and his hands settle on the small of my back. His hands are warm, and he kisses like he’s hungry for it, like he’s been waiting. And I know he has.

Just when things are getting really hot and heavy, and his hands have started to wander, I pull back, gently sinking my teeth into his bottom lip.

He groans, low and whiny in the back of his throat. “Fuck.”

I slide out of his hold, and step back into my room. “Goodnight Farleigh.”

He grins, and opens the door. “‘Night Eves.”

I watch him slip out into the hall, and wait until the door’s fully shut behind him to giggle, and flop back down on my bed.

< previous part | next part >

#farleigh start x oc #farleigh start x reader #saltburn #farleigh start #farleigh x reader #saltburn x reader

61 notes · View notes

girl-next-door-writes · 1 year

Text

There You Are: Burns

Characters: George Weasley x reader

Summary: Soulmates are supposed to be a magical and exciting prospect. Unfortunately, that is not always the case. Surely if George had met his soulmate, he would know, right? Or was having a soulmate just wishful thinking?

Word Count: 1087 words

A/N: Okay, so @regulusblackswhorecrux sent me a request about a soulmate AU and the idea just kinda grew and now it’s a 5 part mini-series. So… I hope you enjoy it.

Soulmates. That one word held so much within it, not surprisingly really given what it truly meant. People spoke about it in hushed tones, as if even uttering your desire to know there was one person out there in the universe who was your perfect match would somehow snatch it away from you. It was heralded as the pinnacle of romance, something you were lucky if you got to experience. Songs were sung about it. Stories told. Girls would dream about the day they got their first sign and celebrate with their friends when it finally happened to them. The angst of the uncertainty, not being sure you would be lucky enough to have that connection, was also the subject of many poems and tearful confessions.

You often wondered if that might be easier. To have that uncertainty rather than knowing there was only one person for you. Knowing there was only one ‘option’, that was stifling. Not that you could actually say that to anyone, no, they would assume you had lost your mind. Perhaps you had.

You knew you had a soulmate from your first day at Hogwarts. The soulmate connection became active when your path crossed with your match, but it was never as easy as it seemed in the movies. There was no blinding light, no making eye contact and just knowing. No. That would be too simple. Instead, this connection allowed your body to feel the injuries of your soulmate, and that was where your problems lay.

For the past few years you had found various bruises and scrapes littering your skin, leaving you uncertain as to whether the injury was your own or not. It was a little like waking up with a hangover and several unidentified bruises which you had no explanation for.

At first, you had tried to figure out who your soulmate was. After all, they were right here in the castle. The search proved rather fruitless. For a while you had suspected Oliver Wood, but then he broke his arm and you found yourself a little disappointed that you didn’t share in that pain. It was then when you realised that if your soulmate had been searching for you too, then you would have found each other by now. Perhaps they didn’t want to be found. Perhaps they knew you were their soulmate and were disappointed. That was when you stopped looking. You ensured you covered as much of your skin as you could, to hide any tell-tale signs, and resigned yourself to a life alone. Better to be on your own than be rejected by your soulmate.

“George!” Fred’s voice cut through his brothers thoughts and a clump of grass landed on his face.

“What?” George asked with a frown as he sat up, brushing the blades of grass from his eyes with a huff.

“You haven’t been listening to a bloody word, have you? Honestly, how are we going to pull this off if you spend all your time staring up at the clouds?”

“I’ve been listening, though it’s not anything you’ve not already told me fifty times before.” George shrugged, laying back down and watching another cloud drift by.

“Seriously, what’s got into you lately? Such a sulky git.” Fred kicked the bottom of his brother’s shoe, earning him an eyeroll.

“Maybe he’s in lourve.” Lee teased with a wide grin. It was well known between the trio that George was the hopeless romantic of the group and usually he took their teasing with good humor.

“I wish.” George sighed softly, his eyes still focused on the sky.

“Oh, come on, mate. I know you were gutted about me finding out I’ve got a soulmate that’s not you, but that doesn’t mean you’ve not got one.” Fred shifted a little, giving his brother a sympathetic smile.

“Yeah, you don’t see me sulking because I’ve not got weird bruises or scars. It’ll happen when it happens. Until then, we can have some fun. Besides, if Fred’s soulmate hadn’t twisted their ankle then he’d never know. Maybe your better half just hasn’t hurt themselves.” Lee reasoned.

“You don’t get it.” George mumbled, closing his eyes and trying to drown out their words.

“Maybe they aren’t at this school. Come on mate, this isn’t the only place in the world.” Fred shook his brother’s leg, trying to cheer him up at least enough for him to agree to their latest prank.

“Fred, if I do have a soulmate, and they ARE here, well, I get injured enough for them to know I exist. Just because they haven’t been injured doesn’t mean they couldn’t have found me. What if they know exactly who I am and have decided I’m not worth it?” George sat up, hugging his knees to his chest. He hated these moments of insecurity, but it had shaken him when Fred found out he had a match.

“You’re an idiot.” Fred scoffed, “I know I’m the better looking twin but you’re not bad Georgie boy. Like anyone would decide you’re not worth it. You don’t half talk bollocks. Now come on, we’re going to scare the shit out of Filch with those new fireworks we’ve been testing.”

George got to his feet and rubbed the back of his neck. “You sure they’re ready?”

“So little faith! Come on.”

Twenty minutes later and the three of them were hiding in the cloisters, Fred sheepishly apologizing to his brother as he examined the crescent moon shaped burn on his right forearm.

“Look, it wasn’t exactly my fault that it sparked so much. I didn’t know it was going to veer off and hit you like that.”

“I said they weren’t ready.”

“We’re so close though! They are nearly there.” Fred shrugged, handing his brother some more healing cream.

“So close to my arm nearly being on fire.” Huffed George, concentrating on healing his injury before Filch could find them and use it as proof they had been up to no good.

If any of the boys had really been paying attention then they would have seen you in the courtyard, clutching your right forearm, your face pinched in pain as you cursed your stupidly clumsy soulmate. You had no idea what the hell they had been up to, but looking at the burn on your arm, you could only hope they weren’t being tortured somewhere. One burn was more than enough for you to be dealing with today. That was something you and George definitely agreed on.

#George Weasley #George Weasley x reader #gndw mini series

263 notes · View notes

dadriusbiggestfan · 3 months

Note

Drabble idea - Darius hears some random bystander complain about Hunter being adopted by him, and Darius snaps.

Darius had been having a relatively good day, He had managed to negotiate with Hettie Cutburn over building plans, successfully give Hunter a gift without the boy trying to repay him with in the first twenty minutes, got Eberwolf to take his weekly bath early, and even managed to get rid of that one annoying black head on his nose.

However he needed to get him quickly before he missed the start of ‘Real House partners of the left foot.’ It was a new season, and he had managed to talk Hunter into watching it with him!

He was walking through a deserted street, trying to get home, when he noticed two men working at the end of the road.

One of the men was entirely foreign to him, with rich dark skin and a thick mop of dark orange hair, but the other was annoyingly familiar, the ex-scout had been assigned to him for one to many missions.

“And it’s just not fair- that little brat used to walk around the place like he owned it, and he gets away with no consequences, and I honestly don’t believe that abused crap for a second- we’d have known if the Emperor was beating him, for titans sake! Just because everyone is fooled by his sweet little Angel act, doesn’t mean I am, he’s lying to everyone about his true self, and I’ll prove it!” The former scout, a muscly man with olive green hair, a pale complexion, and a thin scar over his eyebrow, said bitterly.

Darius was only half listening, the words not properly processing in his head, until…

“And then the spoilt brat gets adopted by some rich, stuck up coven head! As if he wasn’t being spoiled enough by his uncle. He’ll be the next big issue we have to face, mark my words.”

Darius only knew one child who’d ever been supposedly beaten by the emperor, and was conveniently adopted by a rich coven head. His child.

Hunter meant so much to Darius, and him making the decision to confess the abuse he’d suffered at the hands of his Uncle to the court trying to track Belos’s extensive crimes had been a decision he’d cried and sobbed over in the days following, despite the surprising amount of support he had received from scouts and guards in the castle who had seen blood stains and bruises which had matched his claims.

And to hear someone dare deny it, to say his poor baby had been spoiled and had never suffered filled him with boiling hot rage, pricking and tearing at his skin.

As much as he knows he could easily win a fight against this man, he has Hunter to think about now. He can’t go and start fights with people because they say one irritating thing.

“Honestly- I’d have paid to watch that little brat get the shit knocked out of him-“

Nevermind, yes he can.

The man is on the ground before Darius even realised what he’s doing, Darius is screaming profanities at the man who is struggling to get away, clearly taking him and his orange haired accomplice by complete surprise.

Darius does let the man go, eventually, before encasing him in a wall of abomination.

Darius stalked closer to him, the man was made of muscle, but for however buff and toned he was, Darius was always that little bit stronger, and it was obvious the man had received a nasty fright.

“Don’t you ever talk about my poor boy like that ever again, you have no idea what he’s been through, and if I ever even suspect that you’re talking shit about him like some gossiping teenager, you’ll be sorry.” Darius promises, looking at the trembling man. His orange haired friend had left the scene.

Darius let the man go, and let him run off.

Anyway- where was he?

Right, his show starts in around fifteen minutes, he has to hurry, especially if he wants to hug Hunter beforehand.

#hunter deamonne #the owl house #darius deamonne #dadrius #this is so sloppily written #but I’ve had a rough draft of this type of scenario for a month or two #and i May as well put it to to use

25 notes · View notes

casuallivi · 8 months

Text

The Midnight Kiss

I live bitches! barely lol. Slow and steady wins the race, they say. Hope that shit is true. 🤷

Enjoy. Comments are welcomed and cherished :)

Part 7: Here comes Jhonny

Morrigan Moretti never cared much for her catholic background.

For a spoiled little girl approaching the age of twelve, being catholic only meant Sunday mornings were reserved for church or else her nonna would have a fit. But going to church didn’t mean Morrigan attended the mass, no. The girl was well accustomed to finding her way to the backdoor, killing time behind the opulent white building till her grandma had enough of singing hymns.

In a boring Sunday mid spring, Morrigan snuck out of to find a boy sitting by the shade of a tree, their faithful meeting changing the curse of her life forever.

“What is this?” Morrigan scrunched her nose, looking over the little boy’s shoulder.

“A magazine.”

Mor squinted at the black woman in a yellow two piece sprawled on a beach towel, before her lips quirked in a sneer. Did this boy bring porn to church?

“A dirty magazine?”

She had seen naked women in her father’s hidden magazines before. And she was not impressed.

“A fashion magazine.” The boy corrected impatiently.

Oh, he did not have porn then. But his answer somehow made it all worse. What was a boy doing with a fashion magazine?

“That’s for girls,” she snickered under her breath.

The girly boy did not seem to like her words, because next thing she knew vexed hazel eyes cut to her so harshly, Mor flinched. Over his left brow, a pink cartoon band-aid creased.

“Fashion is for everybody."

With sharp page flip, he dismissed her completely, grabbing the pencil behind his ear to make annotations alongside the margin. In her short twelve years of life, few were the times Morrigan was ignored.

Okay, who was this boy?

She sat beside him on the steps, attempting to lure the boy back in conversation.

“I never saw a boy with a magazine like that,” then, when she had no answer, “have a dress that color…”

“Is it fun?” She tried again.

“…”

“Can I see it with you?”

No matter how hard she tried, the boy continued to ignored her, going as far as turning his back to her, making little Morrigan baffled. Huffing, she got up, cleaning her behind, eyeing the handkerchief under his butt, stopping his grey suit from getting dirty.

“Hey, I’m talking to you!” She exploded, getting angrier by the minute.

Now she was really annoyed with him. He must not have recognized her, or know about her, because everyone in this town knew Morrigan Moretti was to be treated as nothing short of a princess.

Being the only child in a family were couples had a hard time conceiving lead Mor to grow used to being doted and catered for. House in the suburbs, private school, tutoring sessions, ballet lessons, and her long-life membership to the bay area Young Promising Ladies Club –which was passed down from mother to daughter– made sure she was well-educated and fine breeding lady who charmed everyone in the vicinity. Being a beautiful blonde, taller than most girls her age, with alabaster skin – which strayed from the general olive-ish tone of the Morettis – and the owner of a peculiar pair of brown eyes didn’t hurt either.

Everyone loved cute little girls, and Morrigan Moretti was cute as they come, never struggling for attention a day of her life.

Crossing her arms, Mor glared at the boy.

Despite his suit being perfectly pressed, and his black hair being meticulously combed to the side, she could see pink cuts coming out of the collar of his shirt, scratch marks on his wrists, and another colorful band-aid across his knuckles. All those cuts and bruises screamed trouble-maker to her.

How dare this shorty, trouble-maker, ignore her? Weirdo.

Feeling extremely irritated that he paid her no attention, her eyes set on the oh-so-precious object in his hands.

“You are very rude!” Morrigan said, kicking the magazine out of his hands. The boy gasped as the copy landed in a mud puddle, finally giving her what she wanted, and would want from him from that day onward: attention. “Oops. Sorry.” She wasn’t sorry one bit.

Serves him right for ignoring her.

The boy opened his mouth, but no sound came out, instead, the loud bells signaling the end of the mass caught her attention. At that moment, the big oak double-doors opened, a flock of elderly, couples and dutiful children spilling outside.

“Morrigan!” The happy voice of her noona reached her. “There you are, sweety. Come here child, I want to introduce you to my friend. Sofia, here she is. This is my granddaughter, Morrigan.”

Sofia turned out to be her noona’s best friend, who gave Mor a big huge and stained her cheeks red with lipstick. Discreetly, the blond girl cleaned her cheeks, feigning the polite expression she had long mastered. While cleaning herself, Mor payed little attention to the elderly women, eyes set on the boy swaggering towards them till he was standing behind Sofia. This boy looked nothing like the presentable boys she usually saw at church.

This one looked a foot taller than her, older too, with pants that barely reached his sockless ankles, sporting a loose faded-red tie which hanging from under the collar of his wrinkled shirt, a loud Gameboy firm in hand. He eyed him from head to toe, brow rising at the pink scratch marks on his cheek. The worst part was his hair: long enough to be tied at his nape with an ugly leather band. Ugh, she hated boys with girls’ hair. Morrigan made a face while he wasn’t looking.

When she was done analyzing the boy, Mor payed attention to her grandmother’s conversation, soon discovering the little hobo cosplay, and the boy who annoyed her earlier, were Sofia’s grandsons, who were moving in with her and would now be “a part of their community”.Her nonna was over the moon with the news, Mor not so much.

The weirdo’s name was Azriel. His older brother, Cassian.

When Sofia ordered the boys to greet her, Azriel merely nodded. She glared at the shorty, now hiding behind his noona.

“He’s a shy kid.” She smiled, patting his shoulder.

Mor couldn’t tell if he was really shy or resentful at her, but the one called Cassian seemed to be his opposite.

Cassian introduced himself without waiting for his grandma’s command, beaming as he kissed her hand, going on and on about how it was a pleasure to meet the pretty little girl he had heard so much about. Despite the gesture not being uncommon to Mor, who was used to people of all ages fussing over her, calling her pretty, granting all of her wishes, she liked him instantly.

Her noona, on the other hand, had no interest in Sofia’s older grandson, eyes shining only to Azriel, rushing him from behind Sofia, holding him and Mor close together.

“He’s your age, bambina. You are going to be best friends just like Sofia and I. I can tell.”

The two old ladies laughed.

Mor didn’t.

At the time, Morrigan had no idea how close she and Azriel would grow to be. Close enough to spend a decade in a relationship, flirting their way into it long before that.

Now they were no more.

Azriel had cut ties with her.

Their break up was no news to Morrigan. Azriel had done it a couple times before, set on separating his life from hers.

“I’m unhappy. I can’t do this anymore, Mor. I can’t.” He said the last time, breaking up with her again. “I’m done. I’m sorry, but I’m done.” “I won’t take your calls, I won’t answer the door, I won’t see you. We’ve been through so much, I don’t know – I don’t know how to stay friends with you. I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry it has to be like this, but this is the only way for us.”

Mor let him go that night, as she constantly did when she felt too tired to deal with his bullshit. Always something with that one.

Azriel had been hers for decades. She knew it was better to let him cool down, give him a few days and he’d be back to her again. Deep down Morrigan liked Azriel. The problem was Azriel was as emotional guy who like a boring monogamous relationship, and sometimes a girl needed a little break from routine. Not that she would not return to him afterwards. Mor always returned to Azriel’s side. There was nothing on this earth capable of separating them. Morrigan was a model because of him, Azriel worked for a fashion magazine because of her, their lives were way too intertwined to go on without the other.

So they lived like that. Morrigan gave him enough to keep him satisfy, hoping he could keep her satisfy, but he could. She would get bored, and he would want more, because Azriel always wanted more. He wanted full commitment, marriage, a house with dogs and kids. Morrigan wanted freedom, to enjoy life. So they’d start fighting, and she’d would get sick of him, letting him go for a while to cool down while she enjoyed the perks of the single life. Then, when things got boring again, she’d return to his side. Return to the man who loved her more than life itself.

Morrigan Moretti knew she’d marry Azriel Marino.

Eventually.

For as long as Mor could remember, Azriel had been irrevocably and undeniably in love with her. And for as long as she could remember, Mor had been irrevocably and undeniably in love with being loved by him.

In all honesty, Mor did not make it easy for him when they were kids, but to his credit, Azriel was not dissuaded by her hard personality. No one, in the whole world, loved her like Azriel did. In their twenties, Azriel dropped out of his dream college in Milan to move to Atlanta, because Mor was casted by a model agency in the city, and was “scared to be alone” there. One call. All it took for him to give up his dream and support hers was one phone call and a couple of fake tears while she painted her toenails.

Azriel went back to finish college later, but not before she turned into a runway model and moved to Milan herself, signing with a new, bigger agency. The little boy whose magazine she kicked grow into a man who had no difficulty in molding his life around hers, dedicating all of his free time to take care of her schedule, take care of her, so of course, Mor would reward him by settling down at his side.

Could you blame her for wanting to life her life before settling down? It was only fair to have some fun before being someone’s wife. Afterall, no matter how many times they broke up, they always got back together. Always.

Lately, one thing had been keeping her on edge, though.

Their break was too long.

This time Azriel had been taking his sweet time to crawl back to her side, longer than he ever did before. So long that Morrigan ended up hooking up with his brother.

Again.

Azriel didn’t know, would never know, but Morrigan had lost her virginity to Cassian. Had have a couple of one-nights with him along the years as well. She would never assume him, of course. If Mor wasn’t willing to lost her freedom in prol of Az, who never touched another woman in his life, imagine losing it to his man-whore of a brother, who loved no one but himself. Morrigan refused to be owned, she didn’t want a man to have that kind of power over her. And being owned by Cassian was beyond absurd.

“You’re coming with me to the office Christmas party.” Cassian announced one night, stripping his shorts. Morrigan hated how he wore short everywhere, like a young boy refusing to grow up. Would it kill him to put on some pants? Wear suits more than once a year? “What for?” Mor asked, unzipping her dress. “I need a girlfriend. The new shareholders will be there. They’ll feel more confident in the investment once they see me as a family-oriented kind of guy.” She waited for him to laugh, to tell her it was a joke. When he didn’t, Morrigan laughed and laughed, turning red in the face. “What’s so funny?” “You.” “Me?’ “You.” She repeated, “thinking I’m your girlfriend.” Cassian placed his hands on his hips, not amused. “You are my girlfriend.” “I’m no one’s girlfriend.” She was no one’s. Feeling the mood turn sour, Morrigan got of the bed. Cassian grabbed her arm before she took another step. “Let go, Cass.” “I’m not done talking to you.” “Well, I am. Let go.” “Still scared of relationships, blondie?” “I’m not scared, let me go.” “Get over yourself, Mor. You are not a fucking child anymore. You’ll fuck me every other night but won’t date me? Cut the horseshit. We are going, playing the happy lovable couple, then we’ll come back here and I’ll give a reward.” He moved her hand to his groin, show her exactly what she was getting. “I don’t want your shabby reward!” she spat at him. “You sure? Let me chance your mind, then.” Under heavy protest, Cassian threw her over his shoulder and carried her to the bathroom, showing Morrigan the kind of rewards he had in mind.

True to her word, Mor didn’t go to Cassian’s stupid Christmas party… but she couldn’t escape his stupid New Year’s Eve party.

Cassian had nothing to do with that, of course. Going to that party was the only way she had of seeing Azriel, who was also being true to his word, cutting all contact since their latest break up. Her calls weren’t answered, his doorman wouldn’t let her up anymore, her threatening texts were ignored, and the one time she managed to see him, Mor had to beguile Cassian into convincing his brother she was the perfect model to appear in Marino’s cover. To the increase of her stress, Azriel had remained strictly professional during the shooting, ignoring her efforts to meet afterhours. And then, at that awful karaoke party, he had the audacity of kissing someone else.

Dressed in an elegant black cocktail gown, Mor sipped her wine, eyes trained at the table on the far end of the restaurant; a table Azriel shared with no other than her.

Her.

The poorly dressed child-like woman she saw him kissing that night.

The same woman Cassian, for some reason, judge worthy of receiving a separate introduction during New Year’s Eve. Oh, Mor noticed their matching shirts instantly. She also noticed the dumb stunned look in her face when Cassian called Mor his girlfriend. That woman wanted to fuck Cass. Badly. Which let Mor utterly confused when she spied her all over Az. Her Az.

Despite being emotional one in their relationship, there was one thing Azriel and Mor had in common: Az did not like public displays of affection. Never had. Yet, he let himself be kissed just to spite her. Now here he was, going as far as taking that woman out, pretending to be on a date, doing everything in his power to make her jealous.

Mor blinked at the sight of the lousy girl.

What was her name again? Elide? Elisa? Elena? Well, who cares!

In the back of her mind, Morrigan had a faint memory of that woman being on set the day she posed for Marinos. She also remembered not liking her one bit. Too bubbly for her taste, too excited, too… happy. No one was that happy. Besides, A woman like Elisa would never attract Azriel in a million years. His taste ran on the refined side of things, not on women who dressed in shirts with comics printed on it. He should have chosen a better partner to pretend to be with.

That day Mor left the studio with a searing headache after spending half the day listening to distasteful jokes being traded left and right between Elena and Cassian –who was also present the shooting, despite her explicitly asking him not to– acting as if they were two pre-teens in a locker room. The other half consisted in her and Azriel going back and forth in a thousand of small irrelevant discussions that no one else seemed to follow.

Mor pushed her sunglasses up, stunned by the way the woman pointed her finger in Az' face. Their yelling getting louder. “Ignore them. We all do.” Cassian advised her. “You should call security.” “Nah, Ellie is not violent.” He slid his arm across her shoulders. “This is nothing, you should have seen the May shooting. She threw a binder at him.” “She did what?” “Don’t worry. They’ll reach an agreement in a sec.” “This is absurd.” “Nope, just another day with Az and Ellie. Believe me, I get tired of it too.” “Why don’t you fire her?” “Can’t.” “Why?” “Azzy won’t let me.” At that, Mor frowned. Why wouldn’t Az fire someone he couldn’t work with?” “Why?” Cassian shrugged. “Beats me. Az turns me down every time I found a replacement. Said is a hassle to train someone else when Elain gets him.”

The whole conversation made no sense to Morrigan. The more she watched them, the more out of character Az acted. Contrary to what she had seen him do countless times in the past, Azriel did not order the photographer around. He did threaten to fire her countless times, but everyone could see he didn’t mean it. The worst part was watching him discussing ideas with her, listening to hers as well, going as far as incorporating her inputs in the itinerary.

That day Morrigan caught Azriel doing a measly a staff’s job because she asked him to.

Mor returned from reapplying make up, to catch Azriel and the photographer mid conversation, the couple conversing quietly in the corner of the set. “Marino,” “No.” “Marino, please!” “I said no.” “I keep getting shadows in her face.” “Have her under another light stand.” “I can’t! This is her best angle so far, I don’t want to lose it.” Azriel rubbed his temple. “Just photoshop the shadows away.” “You’re the one spanking my ass the other day for using too much photoshop!” Azriel’s ears turned pink. “I spanked no one’s ass!” he hushed stressed. “Figure of speech. Help me out, will ya?” “What do you want me to do, Archeron? There’s no electrician here.” “Hold it for me, please?” Elain held his hand in hers, bouncing up and down while blinking repeatedly. “Twenty minutes tops. Promise.” Struggling, Azriel pulled his hand from her grip, cleaning them with his pocket square. “Don’t be stupid, I won’t hold a light for twenty minutes ‘cause you want me to.”

As if the dialogue itself wasn’t bizarre, to see Azriel taking off his shoes to step in the sterile zone to hold a light stand had Morrigan shocked.

And as she sat here, in this restaurant, watching him hold the photographer’s hands, kissing her palms without a care in the world, Mor’s hatred for the yapping-girl ten folded.

Mor snickered into her glass, finding it funny how Azriel was doing everything in his power to get her attention. She didn’t know why he bother parading that one around. Soon she’d be nothing but a smudge in his latest attempt to break up with her. All those who came before her didn’t get a second date, this one would not either. Azriel Marino was obsessed with Morrigan Moretti, there was no space for anyone else in his heart, nor his mind.

In the distance, Azriel fixed the girl’s frizzy hair behind her ear, pinching the tacky earring daggling in her lobe. Mor's intention to sip her wine was replaced by her downing the entire goblet.

“How’s your lobster?” Her boring, bald, partner’s question caught her by surprise, bringing Mor’s attention back to her own table.

She sliced a piece of meat, curling her lips around her fork with an exaggerated moan.

“Delicious.”

Her companion’s eyes gleamed with malice.

She gave him a sultry smile, but in her mind, Mor was already back to ignoring him.

Azriel having a “date” in the same restaurant she was meeting with her newest spoon was no coincidence. The man new everything about her, there was no way he came here not knowing she had this dinner schedule for tonight. Stalker much? The boring man served her more wine, which Morrigan gladly accepted.

Well, since Azriel was trying his best to get her attention, Mor would be generous and grant his wish. After she was done with this sponsor, she’d visit Azriel to do what she did best: speed the inevitable end of his doomed relationship. And Azriel would go back to doing what he did best: pine for her.

~~~~~~~~~~

45 notes · View notes

magicfootballstuff · 1 year

Text

Distractions (leila ouahabi x reader)

You can’t keep your eyes off Leila.

You’ve always known that Leila is pretty - she caught your eye as soon as she first joined Manchester City in the summer - but right now, under the dimmed restaurant lighting, she’s a Spanish goddess with a perfect smile and gorgeous tanned collar bones you’d love to run your lips over…

Wait, what?

It’s a team night out, a weekend without a match that most of the Man City girls have decided to use as an excuse to get glammed up and bond with each other over a fancy meal and a couple of cocktails.

Leila, who sits opposite you, is wearing a white tailored jacket that only emphasises the olive tone of her skin. The jacket itself is not the problem but the fact that she’s not wearing anything underneath it means that the deep ‘V’ from her shoulders down to the button that fastens it together shows off her long neck and way too much skin.

Hence the collar bone problem. Your little gay brain is finding it quite hard to concentrate on the delicious, but comparatively uninteresting meal on the plate in front of you.

Leila throws her head back as she laughs at something that Laia says, and you’re once again captivated, unaware of anything except the way the muscles in Leila’s neck move as she laughs.

“Are you okay?” Leila asks, when she notices you looking at her.

“Mm hmm,” you hum, with a nod, trying to compose yourself. “I was just thinking that your jacket is really nice.”

It’s a poor escape, but Leila seems to buy it.

“You like it?” she asks, as if she hasn’t yet realised that she looks like the reincarnation of a goddess.

“I…” you stammer, unable to find the words, before you settle for, “You look incredible, Leila.”

She smiles, disarming you and knocking the air out of your lungs with a single look, before she replies, “Thanks. So do you.”

Her foot brushes against yours under the table but instead of moving it away, she leaves it where it is, your ankles touching as she turns back to Laia and starts chatting in animated Spanish once more.

If Leila knows what effect she’s having on you, then she doesn’t show it.

———

You somehow make it through dinner. When you’ve all finished eating and there’s a discussion taking place at the other end of the table about whether to stay here for one more drink or move to another bar nearby, you excuse yourself from the table and head into the bathroom, where you stand in front of the mirror and adjust your hair.

Not even thirty seconds later, the bathroom door opens behind you and Leila steps inside. She says nothing, but stands at the sink next to you and starts to touch up her eye makeup in the mirror. You freeze, one hand caught in your hair, staring at Leila’s reflection. When she realises you’re watching her, she makes eye contact and smirks.

“Don’t give me that look,” you warn her.

“What look?”

“The ‘I want to kiss you’ look.”

Leila turns, leaning against the sink with her arms folded across her chest.

“But I do want to kiss you.”

“Then just fucking kiss me.”

Leila steps into your personal space and does exactly that. She might be a massive tease when she wants to be, but there’s a thrill to knowing that she wants you just as much as you want her.

You don’t really know how to label what you have with Leila. It started as a spark during training, something you tried to ignore so that it wouldn't complicate the team dynamic, but now it’s been three dates, several days off spent hanging out together and quite a few sleepovers at both your apartments. You really like the direction it’s moving in, even if it seems like an impossible task to admit aloud just how much she’s starting to mean to you.

Kissing Leila, however, is easy.

She smiles against your lips, clearly pleased with her attempts at teasing you all evening. You bite her lower lip in response, and she gasps, and suddenly you have the upper hand. You use it to flip your positions, spinning Leila until her back is against the sink, your hands on her hips as your hungry mouth seeks out hers for more desperate kisses.

You pull away, but only far enough to see that Leila’s pupils are blown wide and her lip gloss is smudged. You know you probably look just as wild.

“Do you know what this outfit has been doing to me?” you ask, hands sliding up her front to hold the lapels of her jacket.

“Show me,” Leila challenges you.

“Oh, I intend to,” you promise, as you lean in for another kiss.

The door crashes open and you leap apart, your hand coming up to fix your hair where Leila has mussed it up. It’s Lauren, who stops in her tracks, eyes flitting between you and Leila, who looks equally as just-kissed as you feel.

Sure enough, Lauren must immediately know what she’s interrupted, because she looks at the floor as she hurries into a cubicle and says, “Don’t mind me. I’m not here!”

Leila looks at you, eyes still dark with lust, but the moment has passed so she shrugs and gestures towards the door.

“I’ll just…”

You reach out, touching Leila’s face to wipe away a little smear of lip gloss at the corner of her mouth, then say, “See you back out there I guess.”

Leila returns to the restaurant and you, actually needing the bathroom, as well as a moment to compose yourself before you rejoin the rest of the team, disappear into one of the cubicles. You do your business, then flush the toilet and emerge at the same time as Lauren, who makes eye contact with you in the mirror over the sinks and smirks.

“So, you and Leila, huh?”

You stay silent.

“I did wonder why you hardly touched your food but that explains a lot. Hungry for something else?”

“Piss off, Hempo,” you quip back, and Lauren sniggers.

“How long has this been a thing?”

“A few weeks,” you answer.

“Is it serious?”

“We’re just seeing where it goes.” You add as an afterthought, “It’s important to us, if you’re wondering why we haven’t told anyone yet. But Leila didn’t want it to be team gossip while she’s still finding her feet in Manchester.”

“I understand,” Lauren nods. “I won’t say anything to the rest of the girls.”

“Thanks.”

“For the record, I think you’re really cute together.”

You smile at Lauren’s reflection.

“I know I’m biased, but I think so too,” you tell her. “She makes me very happy.”

Lauren grins and drapes an arm around your shoulder as you walk back to the bathroom door.

“That’s so gay,” Lauren says.

“Shut up,” you mumble back, though not even Lauren’s teasing can pop the bubble of euphoria that you’ve been living in ever since you and Leila first started flirting with each other.

As you return to the rest of the team and sit down again opposite Leila, she says nothing but arches a questioning eyebrow

“All good,” you tell her.

Leila looks away but her foot finds yours beneath the table again, a small comfort and a big tease all in one. Your breath hitches, still worked up from the kiss in the bathroom, and though she’s not looking at you, the way her mouth twitches ever so slightly at the corner confirms what you thought.

Leila knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

#woso imagine #woso x reader #leila ouahabi imagine #leila ouahabi x reader

380 notes · View notes

raedear · 11 months

Text

By request, for @polarcell : language barrier + "I won't deny I've got in my mind now / all the things I would do"

Nicolò's hands are warm. It sticks out to Yusuf, more than almost anything else, that on such a cold night, his hands should burn where they rest on the back of Yusuf's neck, on his thigh. Nicolò's hands are warm, and his mouth is warmer still where he sinks hungry kisses into the thin, delicate skin where Yusuf's beard fades out on his throat.

Yusuf doesn't speak a word of zeneize, Nicolò speaks a bare minimum of Arabic in a dialect somehow decades out of date, and between them they have a smattering of Greek enough to make the barest minimum of wants and needs known.

It doesn't stop Nicolò from speaking. He murmurs endlessly between kisses, coaxing Yusuf into his lap and off his shaky perch on a long dead and fallen olive tree. Yusuf goes without protest, clutching back just as hungrily with cold, shaking hands.

The light of their fire isn't strong enough to illuminate more than the shine of Nicolò's eyes, not with Yusuf in its way, settled firmly in the cradle of Nicolò's lap where he can feel Nicolò's cock press hard and hot enough to brand against his thigh.

'Please,' Yusuf whispers through lips pressed tight to Nicolò's cheek. He doesn't even know what he's asking for, barely knows how they got here, just that he couldn't go another moment without knowing how Nicolò tastes. 'Please—'

Nicolò hushes him and hitches up his hips, settling Yusuf again with his groin pressed against Nicolò's hip; his side. It's a line of pressure right along Yusuf's cock and he cries out with it, bucking once against Nicolò before he can regain control of himself.

Nicolò chuckles, cups his chin, kisses him once, twice, soft and then so deeply Yusuf sees stars when it's over.

He says something. The tone is firm, but smiling, like an order given to someone happy to obey.

With gentle hands he pushes and pulls at Yusuf's hips, guiding him in a rolling beat that with every peak drags his cock again and again against Nicolò. Yusuf gasps with the filthy pleasure of it; the heat trapped between them, the way Nicolò has Yusuf rutting against him like an animal.

Any self-consciousness is lost between the steady motion of Nicolò's hands, the sweet heat of his cock under Yusuf's buttocks, and the way he never, ever stops speaking.

Yusuf would trade almost anything to understand him truly, but the meaning isn't entirely lost on him. He knows what words of love and lust sound like. Knows how it sounds when a man is desperate with desire and holding back only for the benefit of his lover.

Yusuf knows what a command to come sounds like, even when the words are a mystery to him.

The desert swallows Yusuf's screams. It has to be quick, Nicolò chases after them. He pulls Yusuf's face up to meet his own so he can kiss Yusuf like he wants to swallow him whole. He nearly unseats Yusuf when his hips jerk below him, thrusting up into Yusuf and holding him in place with hot, shaking hands.

Yusuf knows what pillow talk sounds like too, and, after, rests his head on Nicolò's shoulder to listen to the sound of it.

youtube

#Youtube

66 notes · View notes

lilpunkrock · 2 years

Text

Remember Me

Status: Drabble

Pairing: Jack Russell x Fem!Reader

Find my other Jack Russell works here and here.

AN: When I learned that Gael sang this song from Coco, there was no way this wasn't happening. I don't own the rights to "Remember Me" from Coco, but this song definitely owns me. Enjoy. x

Translations:

“Por qué?” — “Why?”

“Mi amada” — “My darling,” “My love”

“Ten piedad de mí, mi amor” — “Have mercy on me, my love”

“Mi amor” — “My love”

. . .

“I love this song.”

The darkness of your living room is cast in a soft shade of blush pink as Coco plays on the TV screen. When you had asked Jack if he wanted to watch a Halloween movie tonight, Coco wasn’t exactly what you’d been expecting. Still, the suggestion made sense to you. You imagined he had seen enough horror to last a lifetime in his line of work, and he knew you were always eager to learn more about his heritage. With him leaving for a work trip in the morning, you were just grateful for the opportunity to hold him a little tighter tonight. Sure, the truth of Jack’s nature had been a little…challenging to process at first, but you had quickly learned that love opened the mind and heart to all possibilities.

And really, you couldn’t make a single complaint about his choice of film. The scene of Héctor singing to his daughter, the one currently playing on the screen, melted your heart every time.

Your beloved wolf boy turns his head from where it lays in your lap to look up at you. The baby pink glow of the TV screen makes his warm-toned skin look like it’s shining from within. “Really? This one? Por qué?”

You smile down at him sweetly. “It’s the lyrics. The meaning behind it. There’s something so wonderful and precious about the thought of someone you love carrying you with them always. Parted in miles, but close in heart.” You smile wider, that cherished feeling of warmth that you only ever felt in his presence spreading from your heart, to your bones, to the tips of your toes and fingers. The feeling you never want to let go of, the one that leaves you feeling dizzy and love-drunk. “It reminds me of a certain someone I know.”

Jack beams up at you, his teeth a brilliant white in the dark of the room. The adorable crook in the upper left side of his teeth smiles at you, too. Your heart melts instantaneously. “Your heart makes me smile, mi amada,” he says softly, his olive eyes glimmering in the low light. He lifts one hand to cup your cheek, his thumb finding rest at the corner of your mouth. You lean into his touch instinctively. “I always carry you with me, wherever I go.”

The request comes to you unbidden. “Sing it to me?” you ask quietly, weaving your fingers through his.

A slight crease forms between Jack’s brows as he gazes up at you, confused. When understanding finally dawns on his expression, he gives a small, nervous chuckle. “Ah, I don’t know, mi amada. I’m not much of a singer.”

You shake your head emphatically. “It’s not about how it sounds. It’s about the feeling behind it.” You gaze down at him with wide eyes. “Won’t you please?”

Jack’s eyes search your pleading face for a long moment. When he realizes you’re not giving up, he heaves a sigh. “Ten piedad de mí, mi amor,” he says. In spite of his sigh, his face is not exasperated, but amused. “You know I cannot refuse you.”

You flash him a dazzling grin and readjust to get a better view of his face. When you touch your hand to his cheek, he gazes up at you like you hung the moon and the stars. With a deep breath, he begins to softly sing, “Remember me…”

His salt-and-pepper hair parts like waves between your fingers. Soft as silk, rich with the aroma of his pine-scented shampoo. Jack’s eyes fall closed at your touch.

“Though I have to say goodbye, remember me…”

Your fingers slip from his hair to thoughtfully explore the faint lines of his forehead, the dark hair of his brow. When had this crease cleaved his brow? Year One Hundred? Two Hundred? You trace it with adoration, grateful for those years that led him here to you.

“Don’t let it make you cry. For even if I’m far away, I hold you in my heart…”

Your thumb sweeps over the dark circles under his eyes tenderly. Perpetually in place, and yet he’s the most energetic person you know. His smile always bright, his eyes ever alert, attentive. When they’re on you, you feel as if you could scale a mountain, conquer any obstacle. Limitless.

“I sing a secret song to you each night we are apart. Remember me…”

Your finger traces the strong line of his nose, the soft swell at its end. Your mind buzzes with the memories of kissing that very spot time and time again.

“Though I have to travel far, remember me…”

You graze the gentle dip of his Cupid’s bow, the plush curve of his bottom lip with adoration. Heavens, his lips. The tender way they caress your name, the way they guard that beloved crooked smile, the warmth they’ve spilled across your skin as they’ve trailed from your forehead, to your lips, to your ear, your collarbone…

“Each time you hear a sad guitar. Know that I’m with you the only way that I can be…”

The pad of your thumb sweeps over the soft grit of shadow along his jaw. The memory of that stubble lovingly brushing against your cheek, the hollow of your throat, the flesh of your wrist, the inside of your thighs, sets your skin alight. Your heart flutters in your chest, giddy and breathless.

“Until you’re in my arms again…Remember me.”

As the last note slips from his lips, he opens his eyes, gazing up at you with an endearment that makes your heart ache. The quiet sounds of the movie in the background feel far from you now. The only thing that matters in this moment is him, the adoration in his olive eyes, the peace in his brow, that beloved smile on his handsome face.

“That was beautiful,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion. You trace his jawline again, thumb lingering just below the swell of his bottom lip. “And you said you’re not a singer.”

Jack’s chest rumbles with a warm chuckle. He places the lightest of kisses to the pad of your thumb, soft as a feather. “If you believe in me, mi amor, I suspect I can be anything.”

It’s the nail in the coffin for you, the final straw. You dip down toward him in a rush, palms cradling his grinning cheeks as you press your lips to his. Warm and eager, his touch envelopes you, never-ending, all consuming. The way his lips glide against yours feels like worship. The way his thumb caresses the tender hollow just below your earlobe, a spot that only he knows, feels like a sin. Above all, the way you can feel every emotion he’s ever felt, every thought he’s ever pondered, every word said and unsaid in the press of his lips, feels like a drug. The way you can feel just how dearly he loves you.

When you finally part for breath, he presses his forehead to yours, nuzzling his nose against you. When you look into his olive eyes, you know that this is it. This is everything.

“I love you.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Tags (since y’all liked the first one :) - @h0wv3ry @the-ginger-draws @howlingco @ratisshortforratalia @safeikik @russell-ed @emilynightshade89 @mobiusismyfav @thepjofanqueen

#jack russell #jack russell x reader #jack russell x fem!reader #werewolf by night #marvel #mcu #mcu phase 4 #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #werewolf #werewolf by night x reader #gael garcia bernal #marvel phase 4

333 notes · View notes