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adelheidvonschicksal · 5 months

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hey! Was just wondering, could you do a part 2 for puppy! Yuji x reader, where Yuji successfully breeds reader, (don’t ask how it’s possible lol) and reader doesn’t know she’s pregnant, so Yuji tries to tell her she is by rubbing her belly, or laying on it and always holding it. Also some smut if you still do that kinda stuff! I understand if you wouldn’t want to do it! But I would really appreciate it! Live your work btw! <3

Based off I Love Yu

Kind of a what-if since originally there was an implication that he couldn't breed Reader, but let's do it! <3 Thank you to Avy for beta-ing for me again.

AN: It's been a while since I wrote non-solo smut I think. I love Itadori he's already really sweet and cute like a pup! I tried to fit some smut in there so I hope this is something like you were thinking.

CW: NSFW, Smut, Oral (F!Receiving), Interspecies (Puppy Hybrid), pregnancy✨

Filter tags Notsfw, Adelssmut, tw: hybrids, tw: pregnancy

You didn’t understand what was wrong with you.

You’ve been feeling so rundown. No matter how much you sleep, the fatigue doesn’t break. It didn’t help that you could barely keep anything down either, surviving off nothing but toast over the last three days.

The only bright spot in your day recently is your precious puppy boy. Yuji is so sweet to you nowadays, well, he’s always sweet but even more so as of late. He constantly stares at you with big brown eyes and holds his arms around your waist while resting his head against your belly. The warmth of his full weight on you did wonders for the random waves of cramps that hit you after a long day on your feet.

This time when you get home from work, immediately collapsing on your bed with nothing but a towel on after a long shower, he’s there. His fingers tiptoe along your shoulder, a curious set of pokes against your steaming skin.

In a small burst of energy, you plant your hand between two furry ears and briefly pet his head before passing back out into the sheets, sparing no care that you were making them damp. The coolness of them felt too good right now.

Yuji presses a hand to the back of your head, mimicking your actions as he lays on his side to try to catch a glimpse of your face.

“Mad?” he asks.

“I’m not mad, sweetheart.” You work the energy to turn your head to face him. It isn’t the first time you collapsed into the bed in the same fashion. Usually, it meant you were burnt out at work by an assignment or a stupid co-worker. “I just don’t feel good today.”

Big eyes going soft in an apology, he frowns at you before having the excellent idea to squeeze the back of your ankles and shuffle you around. You never understand exactly where he finds this strength, even with all the muscles, but you don’t fight it as he wiggles you around to flip you onto your back.

His hands slide up the side of your legs, shifting your towel to expose one thigh before wrapping around your torso. He scrambles on top of you. His head pushes to your stomach, and he muffles a soft “love you” against it.

“Love me?” he asks, and it makes you wince. He never really asks that unless he did something that he thought would get him in trouble. He learned to get really good at asking once he figured out that buttering you up was an easy way to slip out of scolding.

This time, it concerns you that he might’ve taken your tiredness as something he did wrong, so you run a hand along his upper back. “Of course, I do.”

His tail wags and his face shines again with that smile you love as he cuddles against your belly again. It’s enough to make you ignore it when another cramp seizes, all save for a small whimper and wince that causes his ears to twitch.

Your puppy moves on his own before you can request him to get off your stomach. Warm, big hands hold down your hips and pull at your towel enough so he can pepper your lower belly with kisses. They progress slowly down the center of your stomach, crossing the border to ghost between your legs.

“Are you trying to make me feel better?” you breathe out. With how his tail increases its pace, swinging back and forth fast enough to create a light swishing sound, and how his smooth wide tongue flattens against your mound, you take it as a yes.

And oh boy does it work to make you forget everything when he sets to work. His nails scratch against your skin, biting into the meat of your thighs as his tongue laps at your clit.

You moan eagerly, gripping at your sheets and lifting your hips to greet his sloppy mouth. He makes out with your cunt, almost like he’s trying to devour it as his tongue slides between your folds and his upper lip brushes your bead.

“Sweetheart, do you still know how to use your fingers?”

Yuuji growls and places a kiss on your thigh, smiling against your skin at the wet stain he marks you with. He brings two fingers at your entrance, glancing back up to watch your crumbling expression as he curls them into you.

“That’s it. G-Good boy,” you praise, and he knows he’s struck the right spot that’ll have your pretty moans vibrating in his sensitive ears.

You smell heavenly when he finally flattens his tongue back out over your clit. He knows you’re his, all his, when your walls flutter and suck his fingers deeper into their spongy hold.

He sucks in a breath through his nose. Your scent makes his cock twitch and the swollen and firm feel of your clit tells him you’re feeling good now, and he’s so happy to return the feeling you give him when you constantly float around with the pheromone of his pups.

Yuuji wraps his arms tighter around you, holding you closer. It makes you force a hand down into his hair, praises of “good boy”, “keep going”, ”almost there, sweetheart” panting wetly from your lips until your legs quiver in his strong hold.

When he pulls away, his face is coated in your release, from his nose down, far beyond where his tongue can reach but he wastes no time sucking your taste from his fingers with a smile as he stares at your spent form.

You may be sweaty and out of breath, but you look much happier now. Yuuji crawls over you, sliding his hips between your legs. His hard length presses against your stomach as he presses kisses to the center of your neck, his soft ginger ears tickling the underside of your chin.

Your heart could almost hold the world when he forces his full weight against you to cuddle you.

“I love you.”

You coo at him, scratching fingers through the back of his hair. “I love you too, Yu Yu.”

When he hears your voice, his cock aches. He whines against your skin, wishing that this time would go faster so he could breed you again already. He guesses it doesn’t matter this time, he knows you’ll still at least feel better after he knots you, even if your body is already occupied.

And the whimper you make when he parts you with his cock proves him right.

When the morning comes, you don’t want to get out of bed. You’d rather spend all day cuddling Yuuji and smothering yourself into the sweet strength of his muscles. Alas, you force yourself to get up and go to the doctor’s appointment you made for yourself otherwise you’d never feel better.

You let Yuuji sleep, sliding out from under him, throwing on the first thing you see in your closet, and heading to the clinic.

You enter the building with the expectation of getting some antibiotics or confirmation of stomach flu at worst. Instead, you’re given a list of vitamins to take, a note with a list of symptoms at the bottom all culminating in a diagnosis that reads: pregnant, and a little baby badge to attach to your bag so people won’t hassle you for using the special seats on the subway.

You’re scowling the entire way back home, stopping briefly at a drug store to pick out a couple of different pregnancy tests. There’s no way those stupid doctors had it right.

When you return home, you slam the door behind you, spooking your puppy as you rush to the bathroom. You take the first test that morning and the second one that afternoon, and they both come back with the same result: positive.

Your heart is racing the entire rest of the evening as you sit on the couch and stare at that dumb stick for what seems like forever, thinking that maybe if you stare at it enough your result will change. The only thing that keeps you from going ballistic is Yuuji sitting underneath you, one leg shuffled between yours and the other on the outside of your right. His chin rests right on your knee as he watches you talk with your friend on the phone.

“Is it someone you met on that app?”

“I haven’t even gone on more than a first date.”

Yuuji starts to get impatient the longer your conversation goes on, and you ignore him. He shuffles up onto the couch and collapses his head against your shoulder, making you grimace and shift, so he doesn’t knock the phone out your hand.

“You don’t think that maybe—"

“No, it was only two, and one was for coffee and the other we didn’t ride together,” you add on, and you never drunk enough to where you think someone could have taken advantage of you. “Yuuji cut it out,” you scold when he starts to whine and pull at your waist. Sensing he wasn’t going to stop any time soon, you decide to hang up. “I’ll call you back.”

You put down the phone, turning to your pup to ask him what was wrong. He snuggles against you, rubbing his head against your shoulder and sliding an arm around your stomach.

He mumbles out your name and starts to weigh you back, just enough so your lower back presses against the arm of the couch and he can scoot down to place his head on your stomach and breathe in deep.

“Love you,” he mumbles and looks as though he could almost fall asleep against you. You almost repeat it before the unsettling realization crashes down on you.

That’s impossible, isn’t it? You’re not even the same species!

“Yuuji,” he snaps his head up, pinning his ears back at the rough sound of your voice, “Did you do this?” you ask him, showing him the pregnancy stick. He doesn’t seem to understand so you put it in words he can. “Breed?” you ask.

He senses that you finally get it and gives you the widest smile you think you’ve ever seen him wear. It’s almost enough to make you laugh. Almost.

“You’re downright proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

Happily, he buries his forehead against your stomach. “Good boy?”

You sigh but pet him anyway, seeing that this is very much your fault in the first place. Besides you can’t stay mad at that face. “Very good boy.”

#itadori smut #yuuji x reader #itadori x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #tw: hybrids #tw: pregnancy #female reader #yuuji itadori x reader #adelssmut #notsfw

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zepskies · 11 months

Text

Midnight Espresso

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized/Latina!Reader

Summary: You’ve never taken Dean’s flirting seriously…until he asks you for an impromptu Spanish lesson.

AN: The muse hit me hard on this one last night lol. I felt like "Midnight Espresso" was catchier than the working title, "Midnight Coffee Shots."

Thanks for the encouragement and inspo: @deanwinchesterswitch @iprobablyshipit91 @freewastelandstrawberry

Song Inspo: "2 Be Loved (Am I Ready)" by Lizzo

Word Count: 7,000

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, mutual pining, body insecurity, ass appreciation, supernatural shenanigans, naughty language, bad bitch o’clock and thicc thirty.

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

When you spot the caller ID on your buzzing cell phone, you have to smile. You answer the call.

“Well if it isn’t Dean I need a favor Winchester,” you tease. You hear his genuine chuckle, deep and smooth in your car speakers.

“Hey, sweetheart…” He hesitates, which makes your lips curve wryly.

“Yeah, Dean? What’cha got?”

“I need a favor.”

You sigh dramatically. “So fucking predictable.”

“Sorry, but look. We really do need you…we’ve got a situation.”

“Oh, a situation? How specific,” you chuckle.

“All right, smartass,” he says, but you can hear the amusement in his voice. “Just listen…”

When he tells you the lowdown on the case he and Sam are on, you have to change directions—all the way to a dusty little town in the south of Texas.

There you find the brothers Winchester outside La Cantina Libre.

You greet Sam first, stretching up to meet his hug. He’s friendly and warm when he rubs your back.

“Good to see you,” he says.

“You too, lumberjack,” you reply, noting the new layer of scruff he’s sporting on his face. Sam gives a dry chuckle and rubs his bearded chin.

“I keep tellin’ him to shave that ferret off his face,” Dean remarks. You turn to him with a grin just as he pulls you in next.

“Aw, he looks good,” you say, giving Sam an encouraging look behind Dean’s back. The taller Winchester sports a good-natured smile.

But you revel a bit in Dean’s warmth when he holds you tight, then let out a little breath when he pulls away, grasping your arms.

“So do you,” he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes and playfully hit his shoulder. “Right. Eight hours of cross-country grime really becomes me.”

But you can’t help blushing a little at his smirk. Always a fucking flirt.

You turn your head to the bar in front of you.

“What’s the deal with this place?”

“The husband of one of the victims is inside,” Sam explains.

According to the police report, his wife returned home from a night out with her friends three days ago. She sat down in the middle of the living room, on the ground. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t eat.

When Hector Rivera brought his wife to the hospital, neither fluids or medication helped her sleep or retain any nutrients. The official cause of death was starvation and dehydration.

It was a baffling case, both for the doctors and the police, who never found any criminal evidence to support a murder investigation.

“Okay, have you talked to Hector?” you ask. Dean raises his brows at you.

“That’s where you come in,” he says. “The guy only speaks Spanish. Neither me or Sam got the chops to Duolingo our way through.”

You can certainly believe that of Dean, but you still make sure to tease Sam on your way inside the bar. He’d studied Latin in high school, but hadn’t bothered to take Spanish?

“Definitely a white boy move,” you tease, which Sam accepts with a chuckle.

But you realize that the guys really would’ve been at a loss here. Most of the bar patrons are Spanish-speaking Latinos (you are a mere stone’s throw from the border of Mexico, after all).

You ask around for Hector and find him at the end of the bar, drinking alone. He’s early forties at most, dark hair, tan skin mere shades lighter than yours. He has three shots down in front of him, and he’s working on picking up his fourth. Sam and Dean trail after you as you slide into the stool next to Hector.

“Señor Rivera,” you greet him in your native tongue and pull out your fabricated police badge. “Good evening.”

He glances at you, then your badge with furrowed brows.

“What do you want?” he asks in Spanish, just a hint slurring.

“I’m very sorry about your wife. I know you’ve already given your statement, but we’re looking further into the circumstances surrounding Nina’s death,” you explain.

He perks up at that, his brown eyes briefly lighting with something other than cold, hard grief.

“The doctors couldn’t explain it, he admits. “They couldn’t do a damn thing. I just don’t understand…”

He glares down at his hands, at the glass of liquor between them. He fights to control himself, but you can see it’s a losing battle. You rest a gentle hand on his arm, and when Hector meets your eyes, you know he’ll find genuine sympathy.

“I want to help you,” you tell him. “At the very least, I can look for a real explanation on what happened to Nina. Can you tell me what you know?”

A moment later, he pats your hand on his arm. And he tells you.

Dean watches from his spot behind you while he and Sam blend in, each drinking a beer. Dean admires how easily you connect with people. How genuine you are in wanting to help them.

He knows you’ve spent years in this job. Maybe not as long as him, but long enough to get jaded. You aren’t, and you care.

Dean thinks it’s part of the reason why you always answer when he calls. You’ve never said no to him, always been there when he and Sam need you. And that, he somehow feels guilty about.

Because what the fuck has he really ever done for you, other than put you in danger?

“Dean,” Sam says, nudging his side.

It brings Dean back to the present when he sees you’re getting up from the bar. Despite his inner conflict, he can’t help but notice the curve of your ample ass in those tight jeans. An enticing ratio of thick thighs to smaller waist, and generous cup size to match.

But when you turn around, it’s your sad smile that grabs his attention. You draw near, and Dean forces himself to stay relaxed when your warm hand rests on his forearm.

It’s a familiar, comfortable thing for you to be touchy. You’re an expressive person, always talking with your hands, full-body animated when you tell stories.

Sometimes you’ll grab his wrist playfully, or brush your hand along his back when you pass by. Or you’ll grab his shoulder to steady yourself, and lean into him when you’ve had too much to drink.

Dean likes it—all of it. In fact, he finds it endearing as hell.

But it’s also a problem. A unique kind of torture to keep himself in check around you…

Frankly, he doesn’t think you know what your touch does to him.

In fact, he knows you don’t, because while you’ve got your smooth, tan hand on his arm, you’re more looking at Sam when you say:

“I think I know what this is.”

“El Sombrerón,” you repeat yourself as you flip through a book on South American lore.

“Shouldn’t you be an expert on this already?” Dean teases as you rifle through the pages. “I thought Latin American legends were right up your alley.”

The three of you are back at their delightfully crap motel of the week. You and Sam sit at the two-seater table while Dean leans against the wall with his arms crossed.

You shoot him a wry glance. “I’m Cuban, not Guatemalan. Though apparently, El Sombrerón appears in Mexican mythology as well.”

Hector said that the night his wife went to the bar with her friends, her friend Jennine saw a man with a black jacket and a hat to match.

She said he flirted with Nina, a sweet but introverted soul. She turned him down, of course, but he tried to cajole her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and touch her cheek. That’s when Jennine stepped in and cursed the guy out, threatening to break his nose if he didn’t back off.

They didn’t see him again that night, but you suspect the damage had been done the moment he touched her…

“All right, so he’s a boogeyman of sorts,” Sam says, gesturing at the vivid illustration in the book he’s holding. You peer over at the page and nod.

“Yeah, I’ve heard the cautionary tale. A man dressed in black, wide-brimmed hat—”

“Like Zorro,” Dean supplies. You give him an amused grin.

“No, not like Zorro,” you reply. “Instead of being a fine-ass caped crusader with a voice deep and gritty as sin, El Sombrerón likes to lure women into the woods.”

Dean raises a brow at your description (Deep and gritty as sin, huh?), but you continue.

“Specifically, he’s got a fetish for long hair,” you recount. “Here it says El Sombrerón’s voice and touch are a curse, rendering his victims unable to eat or sleep. Eventually, they die.”

That falls between you all like hot lead. Until Sam voices the question you’re all thinking.

“So how do we find him?”

“For the record, I’m against this fucking idea,” Dean mutters to his brother. Once again, they’re patrons of La Cantina Libre, each nursing a beer.

“Yeah, you’ve made that known a few times now,” Sam replies in a low whisper. “She’ll be okay, Dean. We’re right here for her.”

They’re just on standby, watching you ignore flirtations from men with a coy smile. You leave a delicate ring of red lipstick on your straw while you nurse a Tequila Sunrise.

Dean subtly (to Sam, not so subtly) watches you. His elbow rests on the counter, chin in hand, hand over mouth, while his eyes roam down your simple black dress. Your ankles are crossed under the bar counter. The toe of your platform heel bouncing against the foot rail is the only thing telling Dean that you’re a bit nervous.

You’ve let your hair down on purpose, trying to entice the “Zorro” monster with the smooth waves running down your back.

On any other night, Dean might’ve enjoyed this place. He has a good beer in hand. There’s some live music tonight, in the form of a man playing a shiny silver guitar, crooning into the mic. You turn your head to watch for a moment, and Dean sees the way your gaze sharpens on the musician.

The man wears a black dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, tucked neatly into his dark wash jeans. His black hair is long and a little wild, almost brushing his shoulders. While he holds out a smooth note, he looks up and finds your gaze. His lips curve on a smile.

Your face heats up at the attention, but you find yourself captivated by those eyes. They’re intense, almost black under the stage lights. And as the musician’s song comes to a close, you feel a trill of something run down your spine when he sets down his silver guitar.

Then he makes his way toward you.

He settles into the free seat next to you and orders two tequila shots.

“I have a drink, thanks,” you say. The man only smiles.

“You’ve been holding onto that Sunrise for two hours,” he says. “I just thought you might like something stronger, before the sun actually comes up.”

Inside, you want to roll your eyes at the cheesy line.

Instead, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and his gaze is drawn to the motion. You notice it with mounting suspicion.

“Maybe I do,” you reply. “What’s your name?”

“Miguel,” he says, offering a charming smile. “And yours, amor?”

You consider him with flirtatious eyes and a tilt of your head. You’re fairly certain you have your target.

You lay a hand on his arm, over his jacket. You lean in close enough to whisper in his ear.

“Do you really need my name?” you ask in Spanish.

Miguel smirks when you lean back. He offers you his hand to help you off of your stool. Wary of actually touching his skin to yours, you try your best to be graceful and sensuous as you slide out of your seat and onto your heels without his help. You then walk out of the bar through the back without waiting for him to follow you (hoping that he does).

Your instincts are right, however. When you make it out of the bar, Miguel is indeed closing in behind you. You glance over your shoulder, offering a coy smile. But when you look ahead, you have to utter a gasp.

Miguel is suddenly there to grab you and pull you in by your waist.

“When will your friends be joining us?” he asks, trailing a finger down your cheek. It makes you shudder, but you pretend to be confused.

“Friends?”

“Dumb and dumber, watching you like a hawk,” he says, raising a brow. “Oh, mi amor. I know a pack of hunters when I see them.”

Sam and Dean watch the musician run back for his guitar, slipping it carefully in its case before he takes off after you.

“Get the guitar. Got a feeling about that thing,” Dean says to Sam. “I’ll follow ‘em.”

The moment Dean walks out the back of the bar, he stops short and draws his gun. His body tenses and his face falls into a glare when he sees Miguel holding you close (and against your will). But Miguel catches sight of Dean.

He forcefully turns you around and wraps an arm across your chest, pulling you back as you struggle.

“Good evening,” Miguel greets with a smirk. He nods at the full moon. “Beautiful night for a lover’s serenade.”

His voice alone is a threat, Dean knows. And by the way your eyes widen, so do you.

“Shut the fuck up, Mike,” Dean snarks. “Mind if I call you Mike?”

He raises his gun, but Miguel tsks at him. You grit your teeth as he pulls your hair back away from your cheek. His breath is hot an unpleasant in your ear, causing you to shudder.

“I do wish we had more time, amor,” he says, trailing a hand down your ass and thigh. “I like to play with my food.”

A hot lance of anger runs through Dean, but it runs even hotter through you, igniting your temper and making your patience run right the fuck out. You snap your head back and catch Miguel in the nose. He wrenches back with a pained cry.

You try to ignore the resulting ache in your head and reach for the silver knife in your thigh holster, beneath your dress. But Miguel grabs you by the hair. Suddenly his face has become grotesque, revealing its true form with a mouth filled with sharp, needle-like teeth.

You gasp as a trill of magic runs through your body from his touch. It paralyzes you as he wrenches your neck back and prepares to bite a chunk right out of your neck.

But Dean shoots a warning shot by the creature’s head, all-too close to yours as he approaches.

“Hey!” Sam calls out. He attracts everyone’s attention, even Miguel’s. Sam holds the silver guitar.

“This is what you use to play Pied Piper, right?” Sam asks. Miguel’s face hardens, but before he can do anything about it, Sam smashes the guitar to smithereens on the gravel road.

Miguel lets out an outraged hiss. While he’s distracted, Dean takes another shot that hits the creature in the shoulder. It gives you the opening you need to grab your knife and stab him in the leg.

Miguel cries out in pain, but before you can scramble away, he grabs your face. His sharpened nails bite into your skin, making you wince. You manage to kick out his knee. It forces him to release you, unless he wants to eat the ground hard.

Sam is there to catch you while Dean closes in. He shoots, the creature evades, grabbing Dean’s wrist and punching him across the face. The hunter goes down to the gravel with hands held out to brace himself. But he has a large knife on his belt that he retrieves next, only to be knocked out of his hand when Miguel bears on him.

He throws off Sam’s attempt to pull him off Dean, throwing him hard against the dumpster in the alley.

While Dean grapples bare-handed with the monster, trying his best to evade gnashing teeth in his face, you find his discarded knife and bury it deep into Miguel’s back.

He howls with pain and tries to throw you off. He manages to backhand you in the face and shove you away. You nearly roll an ankle on the small rocks rolling under your heels, and you end up on your back with the wind knocked out of you.

But Dean’s able to kick Miguel off and finish what you started. Dean pins the man on the ground and twists the knife deeper. And he doesn’t let go until the creature below him stops twitching.

Dean takes in deep breaths to account for the way adrenaline has set his blood pumping. He still sits on the ground with the body next to him. But then, he finds you kneeling next to him in your now dusty dress. Your eyes are worried when you grasp his shoulder and lay another hand lightly on his scuffed knee.

Dean reaches for you on reflex, grabbing your arm. Both of you manage to ask your burning questions at the same time—

“You okay?”

“Are you all right?”

You crack first with a giggle. Dean quirks a grin and thumbs at your cheek.

“Yeah, all good,” he says.

Your relieved smile reaches your eyes, and it warms him. “Good.”

Behind you both, Sam hides his own knowing smile.

Sam and Dean invite you to stay over at the bunker after the hunt, instead of making the even longer drive home. You’re too exhausted to say no.

By the time you get to the bunker, you’re dead on your feet, practically swaying down the stairs.

“I’m so fuckin’ tiiiired…”

“Come on, stop whining,” Dean teases as he helps you down. Sam has dropped your duffel bag on the ground floor and gone on ahead to shower, leaving you and Dean to figure this out.

“Why don’t you just take off the heels?” he wryly suggests.

“Hell no,” you refuse with a stubborn shake of your head.

You don’t want to contemplate how much monster guts have glossed the stairs of this bunker, via the brothers’ boots.

Maybe it’s a silly reason to suffer, but is it really suffering if you have Dean Winchester escorting you with both hands down the stairs?

His hands are warm and you trust the strength of his hold, but when your heel wobbles on the edge of a step, you still go for the railing rather than sink all your weight on Dean. He laughs at you, and you maturely stick out a tongue at him.

“At this point, it’d be faster if I freakin’ carried you,” Dean remarks. He reaches for you, but you stop him with a heel in his sternum.

“Eh-eh! Don’t even try,” you laugh. “I totally got this.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but you lower your heeled foot and manage to climb down the last few steps of the rickety staircase…at least, what your exhausted brain thinks is the last one.

You almost go ass over tea kettle when you miss the final stair with a yelp—but Dean is there to catch you.

His arms are like steel bands around your frame, curving around your lower back and pulling you flush against his chest. You gasp and cling to his arms. When you look up at him with wide eyes, you find his amused face…and maybe something else in his eyes. He tilts his head down at you.

“Well, well. Look who keeps falling for me?” he remarks.

You blush at the flirtatious edge of his tone. The gleam in his green eyes; you take it for amusement only, not realizing that he’s barely resisting the urge to claim your lips.

“Right,” you laugh him off with a pat on his chest. “When was the first time again?”

You make sure your heels are firmly on the ground before you push away from Dean. As you thought, he doesn’t try to keep you. He still looks amused as he lets you go.

He flirts with anything, you remind yourself, when disappointment starts to carve a hole in your heart. Don’t take it so seriously.

You say goodnight before you take up your duffel bag and go to find a free bedroom (and a hot shower). All the while, you bite your lip against a deep-seated feeling of uncertainty.

Dean watches you go, and you don’t see the way his mask of a smile fades into a frown.

After a nice hot shower and changing into your pajamas, that moment with Dean has unsettled you enough that you're not quite ready to go to sleep. Maybe you’re in the mood for a midnight snack.

You take out a couple of supplies from your bag and head over to the kitchen. There you set up your little cafetera coffee press with water, and a generous few tablespoons of Café Bustelo grounds of espresso. While that brews on the stove, you make some popcorn in the microwave.

You don’t realize that the rich smell reaches Dean all the way in his room. He sniffs the air in interest, then in confusion.

She’s making coffee at midnight?

He gets up out of bed and pads down to the kitchen where you’ve taken over. A large bowl of popcorn is ready and waiting for him to snatch a handful, while you’re checking the little metal carafe you have going on the stove.

“What’cha up to, sweetheart?” he asks. You greet him with a smile.

“Café con leche,” you reply.

Coffee with milk, he mentally translates. That much, he can work out.

“You drink coffee at this time of night?” he asks.

“My people invented it. I’ve been inoculated to this stuff since I was eight years old,” you quip. “Want some? Believe me, you’ll love it.”

He shrugs. “Sure. But if I end up too wired to fucking sleep, be prepared to suffer with me.”

You laugh. “I’m sure we’ll figure out something to do.”

Dean’s not sure if you meant that as flirtatious as it sounded. But by your briefly widening eyes and blushing cheeks, maybe you just realized it. He smirks and draws closer while you break out two mugs from the cabinet.

He notices your chosen pajamas with secret appreciation (a large threadbare Journey shirt over spandex shorts). You fill the little shorts out well.

Though Dean spots several small holes in the shirt. He teasingly sticks his finger through one in your short sleeve.

“Lose a fight with a pair of scissors?” he jokes.

You shoot him an amused glance over your shoulder.

“You are the reigning king of dad jokes. I’ll have you know, this is my lucky shirt.”

He snorts in response. “What makes it lucky?”

You just bite your lip and focus back on your task at hand. With the coffee done percolating, you measure out two steaming shots of espresso into each mug.

“Hey, you brought it up,” Dean reminds you.

You sigh, and after you pour in the sugar and the evaporated milk into each mug, you turn around and lean against the counter.

“I’ve never had a bad dream while wearing this shirt to bed,” you confess. His teasing gentles at that.

When you turn back around to put the finishing touches on what you’re doing, Dean’s expression becomes more fond as he watches you.

You then offer him his Batman mug with a brighter smile.

“Buen provecho,” you say.

“What does that mean?” he asks predictably, taking the mug from you.

“Enjoy! Like bon appetite, basically.”

“Ah,” he raises his brows before he takes a sip. Then they raise even higher as he hums in pleasure. “Ooh, it’s sweet…and strong. Shit.”

“Very,” you say with a chuckle, taking your own sip. You make a sound of delight, complete with a little “happy dance” shimmy. “Almost as good as my grandma makes it.”

Dean smiles in amusement at your antics. The two of you sit at the kitchen island, where there are three stools and the bowl of popcorn. The salty snack is just the right balance for the sweet coffee.

“She taught you how to make this?” he asks.

You nod. “Yep! She’s an amazing cook too. Learned everything I know from her.”

“Hmm, might need to sample something of yours sometime,” Dean says, peering at you over his mug. His tone is deceptively light, but you read the double meaning in his eyes.

You hide the way your mouth falls open behind your own mug. Instead of answering, you nod and take a delicate sip. Your gaze veers away from his as you blush.

He’s in a good mood tonight, you think in bemusement.

“So tell me. What are the best curse words in Spanish?” Dean asks.

You have to laugh. Your head ducks as you reach for his arm. His eyes briefly go to your hand, and he smirks.

“Of course that’s the first thing you want to know,” you tease. You take back your hand and think about his question. “Hmm…I mean, there are the basics. Coño, carajo. Like 'damn it,' 'fucking hell,' and so forth.”

“Come on, you can do better than that,” Dean says.

“Well, yeah,” you say with a grin. “Comemierda is a Cuban fan favorite.”

“Which means?”

“Literally? Someone who eats shit,” you laugh. “A stupid asshole, basically.”

Dean’s grin deepens. “Nice.”

“The best one of all time is probably…ugh, my mom would wash my mouth out with soap for even saying it.” You cover your face with both hands, but Dean nudges your elbow.

“Come on, give it to me,” he teases. You peek out at him from between your hands. Then you stage whisper to him.

“Hijo de la gran puta,” you say. It rolls off your tongue in such a way that, even though Dean knows it’s vulgar in some way, the ease in which you say it raises the hairs on his arms.

“I like that,” he says.

You giggle at him. “You don’t even know what the fuck it means.”

“Don’t matter. I just like how it sounds,” he says. “Gimme the Google Translate.”

You shoot him a narrowed look for that one. “It means son of the grand whore. Literally, the chiefest of them all. The grand poohbah of whores.”

Dean splutters with laughter. His hand slaps the table, and you shush him, reminding him that Sam is probably sleeping by now.

“It’s literally one of the worst things you can say to somebody,” you say, though you’re also choking on laughter. By the end of it, you and Dean are chortling like fools and getting high on espresso and sugar.

You teach him how to roll his r’s, and at his request, more slang. You explain how certain Hispanics and Latino cultures use different words for the same thing (at times, very confusing), and how something innocent to an American, like a papaya fruit, means something very different for Cubans.

For Dean’s part, he’s genuinely interested in what you have to teach him. But he also just likes hearing you speak the language. It rolls off your tongue gracefully, effortless and sensuous without you meaning to. He likes it enough that he tells you his honest thoughts.

“It all sounds incredibly hot, I’m not gonna lie,” he says with a chuckle. You blush at that, something he finds endearing.

“You sound like my ex,” you say in amusement. “He only went out with me to help him with his Spanish.”

Dean sobers a bit at that. “What?”

“Yeah.” You chuckle dryly. “He was trying to land some job as a strip club bouncer, but we were in Miami at the time. They needed someone bilingual.”

Dean doesn’t like the resigned tone of your voice.

“Yeah well, the bouncer?” he remarks, trying for a teasing bump of his hand against yours. “Come on. You should at least be aiming for the owner.”

You flash him a brief smile and nod. “Ah, so I set my sights too low. Got it.”

It’s then that Dean starts to wonder about the kinds of guys you’ve gotten with in the past. Not that he has room to judge, but he can see that there was no love lost there for you.

Dean has a thought, deep in his bones, that you deserve someone who sees how special you are. How kind, funny, loyal, caring…

“Seriously,” Dean says. “You can do better.”

“Right,” you laugh. But he’s not laughing. You raise a brow at him.

“What?” you ask.

His lips purse, but he thinks better of what he wants to say.

“Nothing. ‘S none of my business,” he says.

You stare back at him and frown thoughtfully. You think you’re lucky to get a date, the way you constantly move around.

You don’t have stability, and even though you try to keep in shape, try to avoid the shittier fast food, it’s been a challenge to maintain yourself. You worry that you’ve gained five pounds in diner food alone in the past couple of months…

Okay, mostly, you’re happy with your curves. But the way Dean’s looking at you now, you can’t help a flutter of hope that rises in your chest, making your heart beat faster.

Maybe you’re finally ready to know how he really sees you.

“Talk to me, Dean,” you nod, and you reach out a hand to grasp his wrist.

He looks down at your hand. After a moment, he sighs and lays his own over yours. He meets your gaze.

“Look, I think I hear what you’re not saying,” Dean says. “And you’re sellin’ yourself short, sweetheart. That’s all.”

It takes you a moment, but a soft smile spreads across your face. It warms him in a way he doesn’t expect, but maybe he should.

Biting your lip with a bit of embarrassment, you squeeze his hand before you get up to take the two empty mugs with you to the sink.

“Que hombre tan pendejo, hermoso,” you mutter. “Ni siquiera sabes lo que me haces.”

You don’t realize that Dean actually hears you. He perks up, standing from his seat and approaching you from behind.

“What was that?” he asks.

You jump slightly, and a blush burns down your neck as you turn off the sink and spin back around. Dean is there, crossing his arms and staring you down with a raised brow. A hint of a smirk begins to edge around his mouth.

“What?” you ask.

“Oh, no. You said something just now,” he says. Like a dog with a bone, he’s not going to let this one go.

Your lips threaten to smile, but you shake your head stubbornly. “You’ll just have to invest in that Duolingo subscription.”

Dean joins you by the sink. His hand braces on the kitchen counter.

“Well, either you’re insulting me, or you’re flirting with me,” Dean says.

His lips then edge into a smirk. “The first one I could forgive, but the second…might require some retribution.”

Your eyes slowly widen. “What, why?”

Dean has to chuckle, because your expression is all but an admission of guilt. It’s too damn adorable.

“Because you can’t flirt with me without me knowin’ about it,” he says. “That’s just rude.”

His hands brace the counter on either side of you, trapping you in. The only way to get through him is to tell him the truth, or suffer the consequences.

You gaze up at him with wide eyes and a full flush across your tan skin. Is he actually doing this right now?

Your heart beats loud in your ears like conga drums.

“So which is it, sweetheart?” Dean asks. His playful, but singularly focused green-eyed gaze tells you he really does want an answer.

“Well, it was kinda both,” you say with a shy, but mischievous smile. Dean’s smirk deepens.

He tucks a finger beneath your chin and lets his thumb brush your full lower lip…

Then he leans down to kiss you thoroughly. His plush lips move over yours, hot, wet, and sinfully good.

But it’s also short—much too short for your liking when he parts from you to gauge your reaction. He seems to like what he finds in your eyes.

“Was that the punishment?” you tease. “Kinda weak.”

Dean raises a brow. “Consider it a start.”

He pulls you into him by your waist and continues where he left off, with another searing kiss. You hum with pleasure against his lips as your fingers delve into his hair.

His hands move down your back, making a shiver of delight coarse through you. They land on cradling your ass, squeezing and pressing you into him.

You gasp into his mouth. You can feel his length already hard against you. That alone trills anticipation down your spine, and a dizzy feeling, the fact that your touch is turning him on. You nip at his lower lip in response, licking into his mouth. It elicits a sound deep in his throat as his touch becomes more demanding.

He then bends down to reach behind your thighs, and before you know what’s happening, you squeal when he lifts you up on the counter.

You grab his shoulders like a cat clinging to the edge of a bath.

Damn, he’s strong!

“What’s the matter?” he laughs.

“I’m just not used to being manhandled,” you quip. “These hips don’t lie, but they definitely don’t fly.”

Dean snorts. “Says who?”

“My ex, for one thing,” you joke again. Though it isn’t actually a joke.

Dean, again, isn’t laughing.

His hands aren’t large enough to span your thighs, but it’s not for lack of trying. His firm touch burning up your parted thighs are distracting, warm over your skin, and over your thin shorts. His thumbs dip between your inner thighs, making you breathe a bit more shallowly.

“I get the feeling that you’ve been with some ain’t shit guys,” Dean says. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t lump me in with the rest of ‘em.”

Your eyes widen. Dean grins down at you and takes the opportunity to kiss you again. His hand disappears in your hair and he presses kisses down your neck. A pleasant tingle breaks out across your skin as you tilt your head for him, giving him access.

Your fingers begin toying with his collar and glide down his chest. Unlike you, everything about him is firm, you think. But you start to think that he likes your softness, the thickness of your curves.

You didn’t take him for an ass man, but he seems very happy to get a fistful of it. It’s as flattering as it is arousing.

“I’ve wanted to get this perfect ass in my hands since the day we met,” he says. His voice is deep, full of grit and desire, but what he says next surprises you even more.

“Wanted to ask you out that night,” he confesses.

You pause at that. You met Sam and Dean two years ago already. The fact that he’d wanted to ask you out was one thing, but he’d been holding onto this for two years?

“Really?” you ask.

Dean reads your incredulity, huffing a laugh. “You’re really finding that hard to believe right now?”

He rocks against your clothed core so you can feel his reaction to you. You instinctively gasp and hold onto him. You slide your arms around his back to keep him close, even though you’re blushing. He holds you back, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

“Well, why didn’t you then?” you ask. But he hesitates to answer you.

“Dean?” you press.

“It…never seemed the right time,” he says. “And to be honest, you didn’t seem all that interested.”

Until now, goes unspoken. But you frown up at him.

“You don’t really believe that,” you say.

Dean leans back a bit, so you move your hands to his chest, gripping the fabric of his undershirt to he doesn’t go too far. He looks down at you, a bit uncertain for the first time. You can’t believe that he could possibly be insecure about your interest and affections.

“I attract a lot of crap in my life,” he admits. “Shit you want no part of.”

You soften further at that. Someone who was just going to hook up with you once and never call you again didn’t consider things like that. You grab onto the lapels of his plaid shirt and press a soft kiss to his jaw.

“Well, that’s a stupid reason,” you say. Is this the real reason he only calls you when he really needs the help?

Maybe it’s his convoluted way of protecting you…while maybe, still wanting to see you.

“It’s really not,” Dean shakes his head. “Truth be told…I’m no good for you either.”

That disheartens you.

You’re in this job too. And while you know that Sam and Dean are often at the center of a lot of Apocalypse-level shit, you still don’t think it’s an excuse to keep both you and Dean from possibly…being happy.

His gaze is steady, until it starts to lower away from you. You take his face in your hands, picking him back up to meet your eyes. Your thumbs caress the prickly stubble along his cheeks.

“Apparently I get with a lot of ain’t shit guys,” you reply, “but you’re definitely not one of them, Dean.”

He flickers at a smile, but he still isn’t convinced you two should do this after all.

So it’s up to you, you realize.

You bring him down to you for a kiss. It’s slow at first. You ply him with short, sweet presses of your lips to his. But then you both inhale as you deepen the kiss, tilting your head and prying his lips with your tongue. He can’t help but welcome you in, and he takes you back into his arms.

You smile against his lips, letting your hands run down his chest and under the top layer of plaid. He shrugs out of it, then the undershirt as you help him tug it up. It falls in a heap on the floor, followed closely by your hole-ridden Journey shirt, then your little shorts.

Dean takes in the sight of your flushed skin, the rise and fall of your breasts, and even the hesitant downturn of your lips. You’re a bit self-conscious, bared for him for the first time, but he doesn’t give you a reason to have any reservations.

His hands cup your breasts, squeezing and kneading, rolling his thumbs over the hardening buds. You let out a shaky breath against his lips, and you veer away from his mouth to burn a hot, wet trail down his neck. His voice rumbles, and you smile, nipping playfully and touching him wherever you see fit.

“Tell me what you said before,” he rasps into your ear.

You remain playfully tight-lipped as you continue to shower his bare skin with affection. But your breath hitches when a hand leaves your breast to once again slide up the inside of your thigh.

“You’re so fucking sexy, you know that?” he says. “That’s why I need you tell me…”

You lean close to his ear and whisper. “Nope.”

Dean’s chuckle shakes his frame. His other hand cups your cheek, slipping into your hair. You hold him to you, and for the first time it’s skin to skin, with your breasts pressing against his chest.

“All right…you sure I can’t convince you?” he asks. There’s a note of warning that you’re just a bit too slow to detect.

His fingers swiftly bypass your panties, pushing them aside so he can tease the seam of your pussy.

You bite your lip and lean back enough to see his face, to see the mischievous edge of his smirk. You inhale sharply when two of his fingers slip in and probe in your wet heat, but don’t go further than your entrance.

“Dean,” you whine. “Please…”

“Tell me,” he insists, “what you said.”

His lips graze your cheek, down the column of your neck. You feel the rasp of his stubble against your skin. Meanwhile, your pussy is pulsing with need, all but chasing his fingers that do no more than brush and tease. Your nails accidently bite into his shoulders in frustration.

He sucks in a pained breath. You gasp and apologize, soothing over his skin.

Dean just laughs and noses along your throat. He knows exactly what you need, but he wants to win the game.

At this point, you just want him.

So finally, you admit it. You confess into his ear the things you whispered in your mother tongue.

“I said, you dumb, beautiful man,” you say, smiling with your cheek pressed against his. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Dean grins into your neck. You really don’t realize it. But to him, your voice is rich as black velvet, and sexy as hell. Doesn’t matter what language you’re speaking.

Two of his fingers sink deeply into your pussy. You whimper, squeezing gratefully around his hand.

“Please, Dean…”

“I got you, baby. Just relax,” he says with a grin.

He explores your inner channel and begins to discover what you respond to, what angles make you grip onto him tighter, make your voice keen higher, especially when his thumb circles over your clit.

You cling to him for dear life, gripping his hair, uttering encouragements (not all of them in English), and finally praises when that hot coil within you snaps and releases.

Dean holds you while you come over his hand. You’re squeezing the shit out of him, really, in every way possible. But when that dam breaks, all you can do is lean against him and try to catch your breath.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he chuckles. He rubs your back, pets your hair.

“I’m…” you trail. You lean back and take his smug face in your hands, and you kiss him. You put into that gesture what your voice fails to confess.

And when both of you run out of breath, Dean pulls back just enough to see your eyes.

“We’re not done, by any damn means,” he says. That coffee still has him wired. And at this point, his cock is throbbing with need. “But let’s head over to my room.”

“Yeah, I think I need to help you with this before you implode,” you tease him with a gentle hand along his rock-hard length. He utters a strained sound that makes you sympathetic.

But before anything else, you caress his cheek fondly. Tonight matters to you, and you think it matters to him too. Dean flashes you a rare, boyish grin that has you smiling even harder.

Damn it. You might just love this man.

He helps you down from the counter, though his arms stay wrapped around you because of your jelly legs. His resolution is to pick you up over his shoulder.

“Let’s fly, baby!” With a swift spank of your ass, he carries you the rest of the way to his room. You squeal and try to stifle your giggles all the way there.

One thing’s for sure. Sam is going to hate you both in the morning.

AN: 😂 Well, that was fun! Please let me know what you thought.

**Just to preface, I am in fact a plus-sized Latina (Cuban, Puerto Rican and Dominican)! 🌶️🌶️

And I just want to say, I wrote a specific plus-sized body type here, but we're all different and equally beautiful in our shapes, skin tones, and otherwise outward trappings.

I like to think of us as a box of lovely assorted chocolates (not the cheap factory-made bullshit either. The chocolatier, handmade assortments that cost an arm and a leg, shipping not included).

Each delectable and unique, with something extra special inside. 😘

Keep Reading:

Yes, this has become a series! Next up is "Devour Me":

Summary: When you and Dean start to press each other’s buttons, both of your tempers ignite. To make up for it, you give him an impromptu salsa dancing lesson…one he didn’t exactly ask for.

▶️ Next Story: Devour Me (Part 1)

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Tag List:

@sleepyqueerenergy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @theonlymaninthesky @agalliasi @venicesem @waters-2567 @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @skyesthebomb @mimaria420 @this-is-me19 @kazsrm67 @emily-winchester @tearsfortheyouth @teehxk @hobby27 @luvs4dria

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writemekpop · 1 year

Text

Hot & Cold | Lee Taeyong

Summary: All you want is some loving from your ice cold mafia boyfriend Taeyong...

Genre: Mafia AU, angsty

Word Count: 1.3k

You sit across from your boyfriend Taeyong in a dimly lit bar in Itaewon.

You’ve just finished another successful mission for the Seoul mafia. Honestly, you don’t understand why Taeyong called you here – you’re not the type to go on ‘dates’.

“They… offered me a new mission,” you said. “In Japan. For a year.”

You search Taeyong’s gaunt, handsome face for a flicker of pain, but find only seriousness.

“That’s good,” Taeyong said coolly, sipping his beer. “You deserve it.”

You can’t hide a little grunt of frustration that leaves your lips.

Taeyong frowns. “You’re… unsatisfied. You want some show of emotion from me?” He looks away. “Well, you won’t find it.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you hiss. “I would never expect that. It’s not like you’re my boyfriend or anything.”

Taeyong glares at you. “The Y/n I know wouldn’t care about kisses or sweet nothings. She’s lethal – feared by everyone south of the border.”

You bite your lip. “Can I not be lethal and loving?” Your voice drops. “I can’t remember the last time you said, ‘I love you.’”

You slowly realise that this conversation, like every serious one with Taeyong, is completely one-sided. Maybe you should finally give up.

You stand up and put on your leather jacket. “If the mission goes well… I might be moved to Japan permanently,” you say, turning.

You tell yourself you’d be okay never seeing Taeyong again, but you know you’re lying. Secretly, you’re begging Taeyong to say something, to sweep you off your feet. What a stupid, schoolgirl fantasy.

All Taeyong says, coldly, is, “I wish you the best.”

You take a deep breath, wondering if this was the most low-key breakup in history.

---

Three years ago, you were young and hungry, with no family, eager to rise up the ranks of the mafia like Taeyong. However, he barely noticed you.

It all changed when you took a police officer’s bullet for him, saving his life. As you lay there, bleeding out from your leg, Taeyong sat with you for hours, holding your hand with an iron grip.

After that, he would enter your room every night to change your dressings. In the moonlight, he would gently dab your skin, showing impossible kindness. It drove you crazy to have him so close, but you waited for him to make the first move.

One night, you told Taeyong that your leg was healed, but he came to your room anyway. Instead of tending your leg, his hand grazed up your thigh… your waist… your cheek.

Why am I always the weak one? you remember asking. Taeyong almost smiled. Everybody has a weakness, he said, placing a kiss on the palm of your hand. You, my darling, are mine.

Taeyong came back the next night, and the next, and so on… until, in the shadows, you created a relationship.

A part of you always worried that Taeyong didn’t love you enough to be your boyfriend in the light of day. You realised that that was exactly right.

---

Just then, you feel a strong hand gripping yours.

You turn, and Taeyong is frowning, his eyes desperate. “Don’t – go,” he says thickly.

Your lips are tight. “Why?”

“Because – I don’t want you to,” he says.

“Why not?” He gulps. “I want… you. Won’t you stay?”

You stand there, crossing your arms. “Prove it to me.”

Taeyong balls his hands into fists on the table, his face strained. “You know I can’t do that.”

You shrug. “Then you know my answer."

You turn away again, and suddenly, Taeyong is gripping your hand again. He bends, and pulls the long, shaggy hair away from his neck to reveal the soft skin beneath.

A long brown scar snakes around his neck. You gasp, and unthinkingly reach out to touch it. To your shock, he does not stop you. He only grits his teeth.

You’ve heard about Taeyong’s last girlfriend, how she betrayed Taeyong to a rival gang and almost got him killed. He’d never talked to you about it.

“This… made me believe that love is weakness,” he says quietly. “I was wrong. Love is everything.”

He stands, so that your bodies are only a few inches apart.

Taeyong has never been this intimate with you, not in the daytime and certainly not in public.

---

You’ll never forget the first night you saw Taeyong naked.

All those night-time meetups in your apartment had left you sick with desire. You wanted Taeyong, you wanted to love him, to fuck him, but for some reason… it had never happened.

One night, Taeyong abruptly said, It’s not that I don’t want to.

You frowned, not understanding what he meant. Believe me. His eyelashes fluttered. I want to. The problem is that when you see me naked… you’ll no longer want to.

You shook your head, unable to imagine a world where you didn’t want to sleep with Taeyong. Never, you said.

But still, when Taeyong pulled off his black coat, waistcoat and shirt to reveal a body criss-crossed with so many wounds that it was more scar than skin, you felt a tiny jolt of fear. Each one of those scars came from fighting – and winning.

You were about to tell Taeyong that it didn’t matter, that nothing could stop you from being with him, but it was too late. As soon as he saw your reaction, he dressed again. The moment was lost.

You continued talking, laughing, crying together… but you never broached the subject of sex again.

---

You forget how to breathe.

“May I?” he whispers.

“Yes,” you say.

Torturously slowly, Taeyong places his hand on your waist and pulls you tight to him. You love his hard, wounded body. So many nights, you’ve imagined kissing every part of it, memorising each scar.

He leans closer.

You can see the fear in his eyes.

His breath is hot and trembling on your face.

Finally, your lips touch. On a rollercoaster of shock and delight, you forget how hard this must be for Taeyong. You grip the back of his shoulders, and pull him closer, kissing him so deeply it’s as if you’re trying to fuse your bodies into one.

This time, for the first time, Taeyong doesn’t stiffen, he doesn’t pull away. His hard, straight posture melts away, and he leans into you, bowing your bodies.

When you’re finally forced to break away, you’re breathless. Stars dance in your eyes. Taeyong looks possibly worse – his face is flushed and he looks like he might need to sit down.

“That was-“ he starts-

“Incredible,” you say.

“Unhealthy,” he says.

A smile creeps onto both of your faces.

“I suppose I could find a mission in Korea,” you say, taking a gulp of his beer. “Seeing as my boyfriend is so desperate to have me stay.”

He snatches the glass from you. “Don’t forget – I could beat you in a fight.”

Laughing, you skip over to his side of the table and hook your arm around his throat, pushing his head against your chest. “Are you sure?” you whisper.

Your heart is racing. Taeyong might get angry. You might have gone too far with the play flighting, drunk on today’s victory.

Taeyong turns slowly in your grip. You feel his hot breath against your chest. Your arms loosen.

To your surprise, Taeyong brings his lips to your neck and leaves a trail of kisses that is wet and smouldering and completely inappropriate for a bar. Delightful shivers run over your skin.

Taeyong looks up at you, a smile curving his lips. “I can’t believe I was so worried about my own body that I passed up the opportunity…” his eyes run up your body, shamelessly glued to every curve “to see this.”

You intertwine his fingers in yours. “Then let’s not waste another moment.”

Taeyong smiles and rises. “Couldn’t agree more.”

—

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the-hopeless-haze · 1 year

Text

Bet She Was Brutal and Bratty

Part 1 of Series: Accident Waiting to Happen

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/reader

Summary: Enemies to lovers. Called in to the BAU as a psychiatric consult by Reid, you turn Aaron's life upside down for worse or for better. He doesn't understand why Reid likes you, or why you chose a people-facing career, or why you're so goddamn miserable and hellbent on dragging him down too. But you know what they say. Once an adrenaline junkie, always chasing that high.

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

“Why do we need a psychiatrist?” Morgan asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’ve already got one in there and she’s not much help.”

“The BAU, which was originally called the BSU, was actually founded by two agents and a psychiatric nurse. We wouldn’t have jobs right now without her expertise,” Reid drawls, happy to insert factoids into the conversation once again. “It’s what makes it a science. Her name was Ann Burgess, and she—“

“Okay, okay. We don’t need a history lesson. Elle is in there. Are you sure your contact can come down here to fly with us?” Aaron asks.

“She works in the area,” he says.

“And she’s good?” Morgan asks. “You’ve worked with her before?”

“Yeah. You could say that.”

————- “Jesus, Reid, you’ve been holding out on us,” Morgan says, sending you a teasing smile that you meet with a scowl. “Didn’t know you knew women this pretty.”

“Christ. Save it,” you mutter as you board the plane. “I don’t need you drooling on the floor.”

“It was a compliment,” he says, faltering.

“Yeah. And also a backhanded insult to Reid. It’s smarmy and arrogant and the fact you have to put other men down to give compliments to women goes to show you’re terrifyingly insecure,” you respond.

There’s an uncomfortable beat of silence as everyone else gets situated on the plane, letting the weight of your comment sink in and settle in the air.

“Well. She told you, I suppose,” JJ says quietly.

“Anyone else have any comments they’d like to add?” you ask, scanning the plane. There’s Spencer, still scrawny and awkward as ever. You wonder why he bothered to reach out to you in the first place. It’s not often the BAU says they need help from psychiatrists like yourself despite its past history. He looks better, now, though, and this team won’t know it or appreciate it but he’s come far since you last saw him.

Then there’s Morgan, who you know you’re going to butt heads with. Bordering on chauvinist, you assume, doesn’t take the weight of these cases as seriously as he should. Too young, too macho, too arrogant.

He is attractive though.

He can have that.

His lines probably usually work.

There’s JJ, media specialist. She’s pretty, blindingly pretty, has a face and a voice for the TV screen, alright. You don’t see yourself having too many issues with her. She seems like as long as she can do her job you can do yours however you please.

You always worked better with women, anyway.

Next to her is Gideon, an older man with a balding spot in the center of his head. Been doing this too long, probably. Jaded. Maybe even burnt out. Seen a lot of people die.

The jury’s out on him. But he’s a man, so.

And then… there’s Hotchner. Tall, quiet, stoic, with dark eyes and dark hair. He’s the only one who dares to meet your eyes after your outburst with Morgan. Shows he’s not easily intimidated.

You already don’t like that.

“You can cool it with the remarks,” Hotchner has the audacity to say.

“Your agent was just hitting on me when we’re in the middle of a hostage situation and you’re telling me to cool it with the remarks?” you ask. “Why don’t you reprimand the person you actually have authority over? I’m doing you all a favor because apparently you’re all too inept to do this on your own.”

He’s narrowing his eyes slightly at you, and he’s about to say something in return until he’s interrupted by Morgan.

“Okay. Okay. If this is going to be an issue, I’m sorry, alright?” Morgan says, raising his hands in surrender. “I shouldn’t have said that. You’re a professional, and I should have addressed you as such. I’m sorry. Okay?”

“Thanks for all your help, Spencer,” you say, glaring at him.

“Well, actually, in past occasions you’ve said you would prefer to handle situations with what you call and I quote ‘douchebag men’ on your own without assistance from me,” he says. “Something about fighting your own battles.”

“That was before you knew how to fire a gun,” you quip. “But thank you for agreeing that Derek is a douchebag.”

“I wasn’t… I didn’t mean… I was saying that’s what you would say,” he sputters, blushing red.

“Cute,” you tease. “It’s fine. I’m sure he gets it a lot. Anyway. Is anyone going to brief me more than what Spencer gave me over the phone or do you want me walking into this blind?”

“He’s a psychotic,” Hotchner says, his tone clipped.

“Yeah? Is that truly all you think I need to know or is that actually all you know?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “Why did you all even get called in? Christ, I think a local police department is as equipped to deescalate a person in active psychosis as you. And, if you didn’t catch that, by equipped, I mean not well at all. Sending you dogs in there is going to do nothing. Psychosis is a completely different beast than what you’re usually dealing with. None of you have the training necessary.”

“We let Reid call you in for a reason,” he offers, giving you a tight-lipped smile, extending an olive branch.

“Save it, Hotchner. We don’t need to be civil.”

“I see no reason to try and create animosity.”

“Can’t say I agree. How’d you clear me this fast, anyway?” you ask.

“We are the best of the best.”

“Oh, God,” you groan. “I don’t even think I have enough fingers to count how many times the FBI’s very own BAU has fumbled the ball.”

“Hm. Seems civility truly is lost on you,” Hotchner sighs. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have cleared you.”

“Funny,” you smirk at him, glad you were getting under his skin.

“Anyway… submitting you for clearance may have been one of the first things I did when I got the job,” Spencer says, grinning sheepishly.

You roll your eyes at him. “Wish you didn’t.”

“Why’d you come, then?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“For you,” you say softly, wishing the rest of this goddamn team wasn’t here to see you show any point of weakness.

But Reid was a source of weakness for you, an Achilles heel if you will.

Even now that he’s equipped with a gun license and even more of an encyclopedic knowledge, to you, he’s still that kid you met at your lowest point.

“You came all the way down here for Reid?” Hotchner asks.

You shrug. “Do I need a better reason?”

“Most people wouldn’t need one. You…”

“You think you already know me, Aaron? Hm? You think you can profile me?” you ask, leaning forward to look him in the eyes. You see him stiffen when you say his first name.

He hates you.

You love it.

“I think this isn’t an appropriate conversation to have with an audience.”

“Why? You don’t want your employees to hear your astute observations? You invited the conversation. Aaron.”

“It’s Agent Hotchner,” he says through gritted teeth.

“I’d call you by your title if I felt you deserved one. Aaron,” you say, a lilting smile on your lips.

Spencer says your name, hitting you on the shoulder lightly. “Please. I love you, but please stop embarrassing me in front of my boss.”

“Don’t worry, honey. He won’t be your boss for long,” you say, grinning at him. “That wedding ring you keep playing with? You’re on the verge of a divorce, aren’t you, Aaron? Job getting to her?”

“Stop,” Spencer begs. “Stop.”

Aaron feels a fire burning, a migraine starting, a nausea building.

You are antagonistic, abrasive and acrid. Belligerent. Caustic.

And Aaron is a man who prides himself on his ability to keep his cool. Trying so hard to not be his father’s son, to fall as far away from the tree as possible. Catch bad people instead of becoming one. But you? You’re destined to bring out the worst in him, bring out all his terrible qualities he’s tried so hard to stifle, cover up, keep hidden.

He expects the people he catches to anger him and he knows how to deal with that. He knows how to swallow it down and go for a run and be able to sleep at night.

You?

Christ. You’d claw at his throat, coming up like heartburn he can’t swallow down without the acid scalding his chest.

And the worst part is?

You’re getting off on this, on teasing him, arguing with him, seeing him squirm. You think this is fun. Riling people up, pushing buttons, and making them miserable.

You must be miserable to find pleasure in this.

But, begrudgingly, he admits to himself, you’re good at what you’re doing. You are successful at making him irritated and at making the entire team of agents uncomfortable in an environment that was their home turf. You would be an excellent asset in an interrogation room. Who needs physical torture when they could bring you in? He thinks maybe he should send Guantanamo your contact information. They’d certainly appreciate it.

And the fact that you realized he was on the rocks with his wife… lucky guess, on your part, maybe, he doesn’t know many people his age that have perfect relationships with their spouses, but… again, it’s like you knew the exact nerves to hit. And you didn’t care if you hurt the person they belonged to.

Still… you can’t be a terrible person. For you and Reid to have such an easy relationship, understanding, trust… Reid had to know the real you. Reid was closed off and awkward with everyone on the team and it had been months but with you the way you both fell into natural conversation and that Reid had told you he loved you and you didn’t bat an eye… and that the most sincerity you showed was when you said you came down here for him… and Reid is a good kid, kindhearted, genuine.

There’s something deeper than colleagues there even if neither of you will say.

“I go too far, Aaron? You can’t take the heat anymore?” you ask, ignoring Reid.

“It’s Hotchner,” he says again, forcing his tone to be neutral through gritted teeth.

The other thing?

You’re fucking gorgeous.

Morgan wasn’t off-base with his comment, even if it was terribly received and definitely not the right setting. Every time you say his name it goes right fucking through him.

He’s still married. He’s still trying to make it work.

He’s absolutely fucking miserable. You got that right.

If he ever came on to you, ever got you on your knees in front of him, he wouldn’t trust you not to bite his dick off, anyway. Dramatic, maybe, especially from so little time knowing you, but he can’t exactly imagine sex with you as a loving experience. It’d be push and pull, pain more than pleasure, ache more than release.

Exactly what you crave.

Probably.

You look at him, the corner of your mouth lifting in a smirk, like you know just what he’s thinking about. Cornering you against a wall, shoving his knee between your legs, seeing if you’d still talk back then.

You would.

God he fucking hates you. Can’t fucking stand you.

This isn’t like him, either. Elle and JJ are beautiful women that he’s around constantly, and on occasion, his thoughts will travel where he doesn’t want them to go, but they’re easily quelled.

Nothing about you is easy.

“Whatever you say, Aaron.”

The only consolation he has is that it’s a short plane ride.

———

Landing in Texas, you’re immediately assaulted by the heat, and you wish you didn’t have such an affinity for Spencer that you let him drag you out here. And it’s fucking ridiculous, the amount of people they have making up these SWAT teams for one man with a gun that’s more a risk to himself than anyone else on that train.

But whatever.

You weren’t going to change a broken system any more than you were going to fix your own broken psyche.

Spencer was doing the right thing, calling you in. At least one of the agents wasn’t a hopeless fucking idiot.

One of them already managed to get herself in this fucking situation to begin with.

“Well, it took two hours just to convince him to allow a two-way phone. But he won't speak to anyone except what he calls the ‘Higher Authorities.’” The cop says to Gideon, who you’re following into the van they had set up nearby.

“God?” you ask.

“No mentions of religion thus far.”

“Has the Crisis Negotiation lead claimed to be the Higher Authority?” Gideon asks.

“The UnSub won't speak to him any longer,” the cop answers.

“You’re not seriously going to feed into his delusion, are you?” you ask Gideon.

“It might get us an in,” he says, shrugging.

“He gave a deadline of three hours to produce this Authority,” the cop interjects. “And that was two and a half hours ago.”

“Jesus Christ,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Why would you feed into his delusion?”

“Maybe because he’s armed and keeping hostages.”

“Well. Look how far it got you,” you snap. “We’ve got half an hour left and you didn’t get any closer to releasing them. Gideon. You think you can be this higher authority?”

“You want me to feed into it after all that?”

“We need to find out what he wants. We don’t have a choice with our limited time thanks to our lovely local cops. I would do it myself but I doubt even in his delusions he’s enlightened enough to believe a woman is the higher authority.”

“If he makes any reference to an endgame of killing himself and the hostages, it’s over and we’re rushing the train,” Hotchner says.

“He’s not going to kill the hostages,” you say.

“How can you be so confident?”

“He’s more likely to kill himself and only himself.”

“But he could still kill them.”

“Well. If I’m the Higher Authority, I’m not going to him. He’s coming to me,” Gideon says. “We need to help him ask the first question.”

“Whenever we get a leeway, we need to say we need a hostage back, or we can’t make any promises,” you say. “It’s dangerous and unfair to validate his delusion in any way. I’m only advising it because of the gravity of the situation. Be vague. The less you say, the better.”

Gideon nods.

“Any objections?” You ask, turning to Hotchner.

“Not at this present moment,” he huffs in annoyance.

It’s a woman’s voice on the line. She’s terrified, coming off quivering and shaking. “He wants to know who you are. He wants to know who just arrived.”

“Tell him it's someone who can help resolve the situation.”

“What….What part of the government do you work for?” she asks after telling him.

“I never said I was with the government,” Gideon answers.

“Are you FBI?”

“He can ask me himself.”

She tells him, and the phone goes over to him. “Tell me who you are or I’m going to kill myself. I want it out!”

“You know who I am.”

“If you're the Higher Authority, then you can have it removed.”

You hit the button to pause the line, the crisis negotiator looking at you with irritation. You ignore him, saying, “Don’t agree to that. Be vague. Say you can’t do anything until you get a hostage back. Tell him to let the woman go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure! Get back on the line.”

Gideon nods in agreement.

“It'll take some time,” he says cautiously.

“I want it removed now.”

“It’ll take some time. I need one of your hostages back. Let the woman go.”

“You’ll get it out?”

“I need some time,” he says. “And I need the woman back.”

“But you’ll get it out? You have an hour or I swear I’m going to kill myself!”

“I need the woman back before we can discuss that. Can you do that for me? Let her walk out?”

“Yes. Okay. One hour!”

“Good job. Glad you listened to me. Seems someone isn’t inept here,” you say to Gideon, and he smiles, shaking his head.

“Aaron and Morgan aren’t bad agents. You all just got off on the wrong foot.”

“We’ll see about that assessment.”

“The hostages don’t matter to him,” you say. “He might believe they’re working with the higher authorities, he might not, but it doesn’t matter. I believe what he wants is for the voices to stop. I don’t think he’ll hurt them as long as he isn’t provoked. He let her go without much bargaining.”

“Good job, Jason,” Hotchner says, catching up with you two.

“Jason? I got her out,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

Hotchner looks at Gideon for confirmation.

“She did. I probably wouldn’t have tried it myself,” he admits.

“Maybe you should all take orders from me instead,” you say, brushing past Aaron to walk over to Reid.

“She’s something, huh, Aaron?” Gideon asks, smiling at Aaron knowingly.

“Don’t, Jason,” he scolds.

“Reid found us a spitfire, hm?”

“Don’t really know how they’re friends,” Morgan interjects. “Maybe they are more than that. She swooped in to his defense pretty fast.”

“You shouldn’t have hit on her the second she walked in,” Aaron says.

“That was barely a comment. Come on. I could’ve said much worse. And I apologized. Look at her, though, Hotch. If only she wasn’t so… hostile…”

“‘Like a golden ring in a swine’s snout is a beautiful woman with a rebellious disposition,’” Gideon recites. “Proverbs.”

“Well, I think that’s more sexist than my comment, Gideon,” Morgan chuckles. “I know the Bible isn’t known for being progressive, but, wow.”

“I’m not saying I agree with it. I’m just pointing out how quick you are to cast her aside for her attitude. Is she really a waste of beauty because of the way she acts?”

“I mean… we all heard her, right? She is kind of… a lot.”

“Well. There’s a reason for it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what, yet.”

“Don’t make it a habit of trying to sleep with consults, either, Morgan. You never know if we’ll need to call her again,” Aaron interjects.

Morgan looks at him, shocked. “You’re thinking about calling her again? After all that?”

“If she was able to guide us to get a hostage out within minutes of being here, then yes. She’s effective.”

“Effective at pissing you off, too. I don’t know. Doesn’t seem like she’d be good for your blood pressure.”

“I’ll be fine. Go call into Garcia and see if she has any updates on the rest of our hostages.”

“Morgan’s not wrong. You seem extra tense today,” Gideon observes, then walks over to you and Reid.

“He thinks there’s a chip. Common delusion, even by people that don’t have schizophrenia,” you say. “Government is always watching. Whatever. Tell him there’s no chip. Or tell him he needs to leave the train to remove it if you feel the dire need to be assholes.”

“I don’t think that will work,” Aaron says brusquely. “There’s a chance he could kill everyone if we tell him there’s not a chip. He believes there is.”

“Okay. But we know there isn’t,” you say tersely, rolling your eyes at him. “His speech is lucid. There's no sign of neologisms, word salad, or loosening of associations. He can be negotiated with.”

“What if we can remove the chip?" Morgan asks.

"I can do that magic trick. Sleight of hand," Spencer offers.

“Are you kidding me?” you ask, looking at him incredulously.

“I used to do it during exams,” Spencer says. “You remember.”

“Yeah. Not tricking an armed man with schizophrenia. Come on, Spencer. You’re smarter than that. You guys can't risk giving him another agent as a hostage.”

“Teach it to me,” Aaron says.

“Yeah, because that’s so much better,” you snark. “Actually, I’d look forward to not getting you back.”

“Look, if you can do it, I can do it. Show it to me,” Aaron says to Spencer, trying his best to ignore you, but you see his jaw set in annoyance.

You’re pleased with that, at least.

“I’ve been practicing this my whole life,” Spencer says. “We have less than 30 minutes.”

“Spencer, I am not going to let you get on that train in an active hostage situation,” you say. “Teach it to him.”

“I can do this,” Spencer says.

“Now isn’t the time to show off, or try to kiss ass, Spencer,” you retort. “Can’t you talk some sense into him, Aaron?”

“I don’t see a better option,” he says quietly.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me. I didn’t know I came down here to watch Spencer get killed.”

“You’ve got to have faith in me,” Spencer says, grinning.

“It doesn’t matter if I have faith in you or not. It’s common fucking sense not to send people into a hostage situation. He’s not coming back if he goes in there. We all know this, right?”

“Do you have any better solutions?” Hotchner asks.

“I already told you! Tell him there’s no chip there! I guarantee you that what he wants is an end to the voices. That’s what he thinks the chip is doing. So when the voices don’t stop… what do you think is going to happen? He’s going to let everyone go when this chip is removed? Even if he doesn’t think it’s controlling the voices… we have no idea. We’re the higher authority, right? He believes that? So tell him there’s no chip. Or, I don’t know. Tell him he needs to put the guns down and come out and talk to us about it. Anything is better than this bullshit.”

“There’s a chance if we tell him there is no chip he’ll no longer believe we’re the higher authority.”

“There’s a chance the voices tell him to kill everyone on the train when they don’t stop,” you say.

“I thought you said he didn’t care about the hostages? Which is it?” Aaron snaps at you.

“Whoa, don’t get nasty with me. He has command hallucinations, clearly, and he’s armed. I never said there wasn’t a risk. I said you would need to provoke him and removing the chip and not the voices… that’s provocation right there.”

“We can’t remove the voices.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Which is why this is fucking stupid to begin with.”

“I think unfortunately our best bet is to send Reid in there.”

“Okay. Then you’re dumber than I thought. Remind me to never take you gambling if you think this is your best bet. Jesus Christ. Why bring a professional in if you’re not going to listen to her?”

“You’re a consult,” he snaps. “You’re here to advise. I still make the final call.”

“Oh, so you’re going to risk Spencer’s life to get one over on me, Aaron? Make you feel like a big man, huh, exerting your authority? Why would you listen to a woman when you can just do whatever the fuck you want?”

Spencer’s babbling your name nervously, tugging at your sleeve. “Please. I’m okay with it. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

Aaron sets his jaw as Reid pulls you aside to talk you down. He’s never been quite so grateful for him.

“She’s really got it out for you, huh?” Morgan says.

“Quiet.”

“You got it, Hotch,” he says, grinning.

“Wipe the smirk of your face and at least act like you’re working, Morgan.”

“Don’t take it out on me. I’m not the one who’s got you by the balls.”

“Morgan,” Aaron scolds sternly, rolling his eyes as Morgan laughs and walks away.

God.

You seem hellbent on boiling his blood to a fever pitch.

———

“How can you work for a man like this, Spencer?” You ask him.

“I think you’d like him even less if I told you he kicked me a few weeks ago,” he chuckles.

“He kicked you? I’ll—"

“Relax. It was for a case. It… it didn’t even hurt. I wish you wouldn’t antagonize him.”

“It’s how I am with everyone. You know that.”

“Yeah. But… I’m still new here. I’m the youngest here, too, and I… I wanted you to make a good impression. To show I can pull my own weight, that I can be helpful.”

“I’m being helpful. I got a hostage out of there within ten minutes of being here.”

“Right. But… you’ve been rude to everybody.”

“Morgan was rude to you!”

“You are a lot prettier than me,” Spencer says sheepishly. “He’s not wrong to wonder where I met you.”

“Oh, be quiet and stop feeling sorry for yourself,” you say, ruffling his hair.

“I want to prove myself.”

“You don’t need to do this to prove yourself.”

“I… I don’t want to let anyone down. If there’s even a chance this could work… please tell me you think there’s at least a chance. A shot in hell?”

“I mean, yeah. There was a shot in hell I could’ve won the lottery. Did I? No. This isn’t safe, Spencer, and you know it, and don’t tell me your job isn’t safe. This is creating unnecessary risk.”

“But it could work.”

“Yeah. But you have to be very, very careful. And when you can’t leave, because he won’t let you… are you prepared for that?”

“I don’t … I don’t know,” he admits, sucking in a breath.

“You have to talk him down. Don’t validate his delusions. But talk to him. Get to know him. Show you’re not a threat. Convince him to let the train go and that it’s against his best interests to keep them. Tell him we can get him help. Real help. If… if you think you can, tell him you heard voices too. Tell him the higher authority helped them stop but he needs to come out and meet him and put the guns down.”

“Am I validating or not?” he asks nervously.

“You can’t validate anything past the higher authority. We already said that exists. But use that to your advantage. Be vague, though, unless he gives you more insight on what he believes the higher authority is. What he really is… he’s really alone. Anxious. Depressed. And… well… you know what that’s like.”

“So do you,” he says, meeting your squinting eyes in the beating sun.

“Yeah. Well. Whatever. Tap into it. Empathize, don’t sympathize.”

“Can I… can I hug you? In case I—“

“Spencer, if you dragged me down here to watch you die I’ll be the next person with hostages, and that douchebag Hotch is first on my list.”

“Watch it. You’re still talking to an FBI agent,” he teases, walking closer to wrap you in his arms.

“Jesus, do they clean these vests? You reek. Also, cute that you’re walking in there with an FBI vest. You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Stop it,” Spencer chuckles, pulling away from you.

“You do whatever you can to make it out of there. You hear me?”

And, predictably, Spencer does not return when he performs his magic trick and “takes the chip out”.

You knew he wouldn’t.

You truly don’t think anyone here thought he would.

“Aaron? Look at me,” you say firmly.

“What?” He sighs, no longer seeing the point in correcting the way you address him.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re an idiot. What is it, hostage negotiation 101 to not bring somebody else into a hostage situation? Which I said about fifty fucking times, in case you were never taught that. You just put Spencer’s life at risk. You’re an idiot and a sorry excuse for a unit chief.”

“Go to hell,” he says quietly, just under his breath, just barely audible.

You didn’t know the constant stress, the trials and tribulation, the pressure he was under.

Sure.

You’re a professional in your field. No doubt things aren’t exactly a cakewalk for you.

But when people will die if he’s not there… when he makes decisions that risk the lives of his coworkers, the people he’s grown close to… that he cares about… it’s a toll. One you wouldn’t understand.

And he did order Reid right into the crossfire.

You weren’t wrong about that.

You weren’t wrong in your assessment that the unsub would let a hostage go, either.

Fair enough.

He still hates you beyond belief.

How dare you call him an idiot, in front of his entire team, and do your best to undermine his authority at every chance you got, for stupid reasons, too? That you just assumed he was like every other man, dismissing you for your gender, that all he wanted was to get one over on you.

He thinks about what Gideon said earlier, how there was a reason this was the way you choose to act. Maybe some people just come out of the womb born to be contrarian. But Gideon seemed certain there was a reason.

Did it make it any better?

The end result is the same, regardless of why.

Right?

“Go to hell?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, and now you’re a fucking liar, too? Morgan, you heard him. What did he say?”

“I’m definitely not getting involved in this,” Morgan responds, raising his hands in the air.

You scoff. “Of course not. Gotta keep everyone in line. Bureaucracy, right, Aaron? Everyone just blindly follows you? Wants your constant approval? That’s why Spencer went in there. You know? It’s your fault if he dies. His blood is on your—“

“Enough,” Aaron cuts you off, louder, more stern. “That’s enough. I’m going to ask you to leave.”

“Yeah? What if I don’t leave, Aaron? You gonna manhandle me out of here?”

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can you focus on the situation at hand instead of berating me? If not, you can leave.”

“What, you want my advice now?”

“Yes,” he says drily. “Unfortunately. Yes.”

“Smartest thing you’ve said all fucking day. Yeah. I’m making the phone call this time.”

———- “Dr. Bryar? Did I reach Dr. Bryar? I’m someone who can help you. I work for the Higher Authority, like the man you spoke with earlier. I’m a doctor who can help you,” you say.

“No! No doctors!” he shouts. “I don’t want any more doctors. Leo says no more doctors.”

“Right. But I specialize in the procedure you just had done. It’s my understanding you feel like it didn’t go as planned. I do need my technician back, though.”

“There must be another one… I… I still hear the voices… I…”

“Right. There isn’t another one. You would have known, right?” you ask. “I need to see you to assess you to see why you’re still hearing the voices. But I can help you, Dr. Bryar. If you leave the train… you need to come to me. I’ll take you on as my patient and I’ll get you real help. We’re all here for you, Dr. Bryar. We know that you've been hurting. I need you to leave the guns on the train and come out so I can help you."

“But why… no! You’re going to kill me!”

“I promise you we’re not. I can make the voices stop. I need you to listen to me. You… you probably felt alone, right? Scared? Alone? You were the only one to really like math class, right? You were memorizing your times tables while the other kids were playing dodgeball. Right? And you loved it, but you felt alone, at the end of the day. And sometimes… sometimes the voices are helpful, because they help you feel less alone, right? But other times they’re scary. And that’s why you’re doing what you’re doing right now. Because you’re afraid. You don’t want to hear them. You don’t want to do what they say. You want to be your own person like you were before they got this loud. And you can do that. You can put the guns down and you can leave the train and I can help you. Okay? Because that’s what you want. You just want help. Someone to listen. Not just scream at you."

Aaron's listening to this, watching you, watching you turn into a... well, a professional. You've been nothing but crass to him and the rest of his team, but he realizes why Reid loves you, now, why you chose this field to begin with.

You've struggled. You’ve been the outcast, not by choice but perhaps because you were shy, awkward, unchosen. And the rough exterior, well, it's just that. A facade. He knows you'd deny it, say you were manipulating the situation, playing a part to get a desired outcome.

But he knows what he's hearing.

“I… how did you… how did you know? Are you in my head too?” Dr. Bryar stutters anxiously.

“No. I just… I’ve been through it too, you know? Being alone and afraid. That’s why I know how you feel. And I got better, so I can help you feel better, too. Right?”

A gunshot through the speaker jolts you out of your seat. “Fuck off!” You yell, running outside. “I was so close too, what the fuck?”

“Stay back,” Aaron yells, running after you as you run toward the train.

“Fuck off, Aaron,” you snap, trying to bend his arm so you can push past him. “I need to see if Spencer is okay.”

Pulling you back, he grips your arm firmly, glaring into your eyes. “Yeah. What happened to not running into an active hostage situation? You’re not armed or vested. You’re staying here.”

“If he’s not safe--"

“Clear!” Morgan yells from the train, audible from the now broken window. “It’s clear. Everyone’s alive.”

“What?” you furrow your brow in confusion, shrugging Aaron off you.

You rush onto the train, seeing what was likely Dr. Bryar collapsed on the seat, holding his shoulder, the gun he had in his own hand now on the ground next to him.

"I... I had to. I had a shot," a passenger sitting in the back seat whispers, voice quivering.

"You're an idiot," you hiss at him.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard what I said."

"Sorry! I didn't want to listen to you play negotiator. Sorry I wrecked your big payoff. It clearly wasn't fucking working. He was... off guard talking to you. I had a shot. I took it."

"Yeah. He was off-guard because I was doing my fucking job. You can shut up now," you mutter, putting pressure on Dr. Bryar's bleeding shoulder.

“Fucking bitch,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Yeah. Okay. Save it for someone who cares, asshole. Can we get a stretcher in here? Let’s go!” you yell, glaring at Morgan.

“Yeah. They’re wheeling one over. Relax.”

“Don’t ever tell me to relax, Morgan.”

“Noted,” he says, raising his hands in defeat.

Turning to the doctor, you say, "Hey. I'm the doctor. We're going to take care of you, okay?"

"I... I'm sorry," he rasps out. "I'm sorry."

———- “Yeah? Hey honey, can you hear me?” you ask, speaking into the phone. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just dealt with fucking idiot agents. One of them has to go to the hospital so I can't fly back yet. I’ll be back in town probably overnight. I’m okay, Jessie.”

You cough as you inhale smoke, exhaling heavily. “No, I’m not smoking. Why would you think… okay. I picked up a pack on the way over. It’s fine, Jessie. Yeah. Okay. Sure. You can burn them if I don’t chain smoke the whole pack right now. I’ll see you when I get in. Bye. Love you.”

You lean against the wall, taking another drag, coughing again. “You can come out, Aaron. I know you’ve been eavesdropping.”

“I didn’t know you were married.”

You chuckle, flicking your lighter on and off again. “Not married. You’d have to drag my feet down the aisle.”

“Naturally," he responds, a slight mirth in his tone.

“Are you expecting an apology? Because you’re not getting one,” you say, turning to look at him.

“No,” he sighs. “No. I wasn’t expecting one."

“Then what do you want?" you ask, throwing your cigarette on the ground and stamping it out with your boot.

"I... I actually wanted to apologize," he admits. "I should have listened to you instead of sending Reid in there."

"Yeah. It's only what I said like... fifty fucking times."

"Right. You were good, anyway."

"Yeah. When you let me work."

“Right,” he says, coughing awkwardly. Sometimes he hates being the bigger person, to apologize, to get over himself, to acknowledge when he was wrong.

It’s the only way to ensure the apple rolled far, far away from his father’s tree.

“You’ll be calling me again, hm?” you ask. “Deal I worked out for pay isn’t bad. And I got a new patient.”

“You’re… you were serious about overseeing his case?”

“Mm,” you agree. “Only fair. I did promise it.”

“He probably won’t remember.”

“Right. But what if he does?” you say and shrug. “Here’s my card. I assume you’ll need it.”

“I certainly wouldn’t bet on me reaching out.”

“Why not, Aaron?” you say, grinning. “That’s a gamble I’d feel quite confident winning.”

#Aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #hotchner x reader #hotchner x you #hotch x reader #hotch x you #criminal minds fanfiction

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miryum · 1 year

Text

Foundling Villa- Chapter 2

Royal!Charles Leclerc x Reader. Princess Y/n is arranged to marry Prince Charles. There will be many ups and downs that the author hasn’t planned out yet, but read along to find out more! (Yes, I know that sounds super cheesy) Warnings per chapter. Hope you guys enjoy!

Warnings: mentions of sex, mentions of war

ao3 link next chapter>>

Charles didn’t want to leave the palace. Leaving the palace meant seeing Princess Y/n. Leaving the palace meant getting married. Leaving the palace meant throwing away his freedom.

“Charles, let’s go,” Lorenzo beckoned his younger brother. “Don’t throw a tantrum like a child.”

“I thought I would be able to choose,” Charles insisted for the umpteenth time.

Queen Pascale sighed. “We had always known it was a possibility. Williams is a fine kingdom and Princess Y/n is a wonderful girl.”

“We don’t need Williams,” Charles protested. “And you’ve never met Princess Y/n.”

“They have excellent resources,” Lorenzo explained. “It will be a much needed boost to the economy. With Redull suspiciously on our borders it would be beneficial to remain strong. Also, since when do you care about marriage? Other than a few flings here and there, you’ve shown no interest to anyone in court. What could you possibly be throwing away?”

Charles grumbled, refusing to let Lorenzo’s excellent argument get to him. “It’s not about if I have a girl, it’s about my freedom.”

Arthur snickered. “You think you won’t have any freedom? Whenever you want you can get out of here. Go on a trip to Aston or Alpine. Y/n can’t stop you.”

“Y/n?” Charles scoffed at the informalities. “Are you best friends?!”

“She’s my future sister-in-law,” Arthur pointed out. “I’m not going to call a family member by their title.”

“She’s hardly family,” Charles frowned. He wanted to cross his arms like a child.

Pascale hit him on the arm. “Charles Marc! Do not talk that way about your future bride!”

“You’re wrong.” Charles continued to rant, “everyone talks about how when you get married, you’re tied down. You have to run everything by your spouse. You can’t just wake up and decide to spend all day shooting ducks. You need to tell her about it and then she may refuse you to do it.”

“Charles, I’m sure she’s feeling the same way.” Pascale tried to talk some sense into her middle child. “She probably has hobbies she enjoys and is worried you’ll forbid her from continuing them. If you allow her to continue her endeavours, she’ll probably let you do yours. I had the same anxiety when I married your father,” she placed a loving hand on King Hervé’s arm. “But then I realised that he was a loving and kind man. I got very lucky, and if you do not make Princess Y/n feel the same way, I swear, Charles, I will skin you.” Charles flinched backwards and Arthur laughed loudly.

“Have you done it yet?” Lorenzo asked abruptly.

“Lorenzo!” Queen Pascale cried, “What is with you boys today?!”

“We’ll talk later,” Lorenzo made sure Charles agreed. “You too,” he said to Arthur. “Both of you need to know what you’re doing.”

Charles almost gagged. Arthur grimaced.

“Your Majesties,” a knight announced. “Princess Y/n of Williams has entered the palace gates.”

“Oh my!” Queen Pascale exclaimed, “Everyone outside! Let’s go! Aren’t you excited? Look your best.”

“Hey, Charles,” Arthur took him by the arm and held him back as the rest of the Leclercs walked outside. “Don’t screw this up.”

“Inspiring words,” Charles rolled his eyes.

“I mean it,” Arthur grabbed his brother’s arm. “Papa was conversing with Jules the other day. I overheard them talking about the prospect of war.”

“War?” Charles stared at his brother. “Arthur, are you sure your mind isn’t playing tricks on you?”

Before Arthur could answer, the knight stepped back inside. “Your Highnesses, Queen Pascale is demanding your presence.” Charles shot Arthur a glance, but walked out the door. Arthur shook his head and followed.

The two younger Leclerc brothers barely made it to their places before your carriage pulled up. However, you didn’t get out. Blurry shapes in the carriage danced around and Arthur whispered to Charles, “looks like she’s nervous too.”

A footman soon jumped down and sprung open the door. You grasped the footman’s hand and stepped down, your gown swishing around your ankles as you steadied yourself. Charles blinked once, an eyebrow quickly lifting before steadying his expression. His mother was right; you were beautiful. That hardly meant anything, though. Many girls in the court were attractive but were vain and only looked at him and his brothers as pocketbooks. When he saw you, however, all past concerns went out the window. You looked much more demure than he thought; much more fearful than he wanted you to be. You didn’t seem like the type of person to take control of his life. In fact, Charles felt an odd need to protect you. Your anxiousness worried him and he didn’t want you to feel scared in your new home.

Awkwardly, you slowly faced the royal family. Charles made quick eye contact with you. His muscles contracted, keeping him in the rightful place with shoulders back, chin tilted slightly upward, hands clasped firmly before him, and feet shoulder-width apart.

“God, be a statue, why don’t you?” Arthur muttered.

You, on the other hand, bowed your head in silent greeting, fingers fiddling with your dress. One of your maids said something into your ear and you nodded, glancing back at her, eyelashes brushing your cheeks. You murmured something back and the footman readily moved to the back of the carriage and began unloading. Charles noticed how you peeked up at the sky, seeming surprised at the sun high in the clouds. He remembered Williams had a much colder climate than Enza did and wondered if you were regretting your choice at a long-sleeve dress. Taking a deep breath, you paced forward to stand before the King and Queen.

“Your Majesties of Enza,” you curtsied, keeping your voice low and clam. “Thank you for housing me. My mother and father, King and Queen of Williams, send their regards and best wishes. It’s an honour to be here.”

“Princess Y/n,” King Hervé said. “It’s a pleasure to have you join us in Enza. We welcome you and any of your guests with a warm heart. We hope you’ll be happy and comfortable here.”

“Thank you,” you gestured to your maids. “This is Elena and Sara, my handmaidens. I hope they can accompany me during my stay.”

“Of course,” Queen Pascale spoke up. “Any friend of yours is a friend of ours. Will you be joining us for dinner?”

You tried to conceal a grimace. “Unfortunately, I’m feeling awfully tired after my trip. I’m sorry to disappoint, but the ride was incredibly long. I hope you don’t mind if I lay down?”

Queen Pascale looked worried. “Whatever you need, dear. We can send up some food, if you like?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.”

“In the morning, Prince Charles could introduce you to the palace and show you around.” It didn’t sound like a request, though you knew Queen Pascale was just trying to instigate a relationship between you and Prince Charles.

“I would love to accompany him.” Admittedly, you wanted to get to know Prince Charles. If you were to marry him, you thought you should at least know the bare minimum. It would look bad if you didn’t know your husband’s favourite food.

King Hervé said, “Prince Charles can show you to your room if you would like to get settled in.”

“That would be excellent, thank you.”

Prince Charles offered his arm to you. The rest of the Leclercs sneaked inside, leaving the two of you alone. Elena and Sara dropped back, offering some space.

Charles noticed your sky blue dress as the colours of Williams. He felt bad that your wedding dress was to be light red. Although, his pocket square and tie were to be blue, the same colour of your dress you now wore. It was supposed to be symbolic of the joining of unions and the intertwining of kingdoms. However, it was clear that you weren’t ready to let go of your kingdom.

You slowly accepted his arm. Charles felt a pain in his chest. He didn’t want you to be frightened of him, even though he was against the marriage as well.

If you got nothing else, he was satisfied with being friends with you.

“I know you may not ever love me,” he started talking, leading you inside and up a flight of stairs. “And I’m fine with that. This doesn’t need to be a romantic marriage. However, I would like to be on good terms with you. I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to.”

You were suspicious. “I would thank you for that,” you said cautiously.

“I understand you’ll need some time to trust me.” Prince Charles seemed thoughtful, a quality you were grateful for. He didn’t seem like a controlling man. Maybe if you both agreed to stay out of the others’ way, this marriage wouldn’t turn out as bad as you thought.

“I know neither of us want this,” you admitted. “But you’re right; we could be cordial to one another.”

“I would be accepting of that,” Prince Charles nodded.

Prince Charles stopped in front of a large door.”This is you. If you want, your maids could be placed in a room close to you.”

“I would like that, thank you.”

“I’m supposed to tell you that a week from now, we’ll finalise plans for the wedding. The actual marriage is to take place in a month. Your parents are aware, but if you would like to invite anyone else, I would suggest writing to them now.” Charles monologued the script he was expected to tell you.

“Understandable,” you said. “I hope you sleep well tonight.”

It was simply formalities, but Charles replied kindly, “Thank you. You as well.”

You gave the prince a half-smile as you stepped into your new room. Your maids scurried in after you. Charles decided he liked your smile. He wanted to see it more often, as good friends would.

Being forced to marry you wasn’t the worst that could happen. After all, at least you didn’t hate him.

#Foundling Villa #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc one shot #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #arthur leclerc #lorenzo leclerc #pascale leclerc #hervé leclerc #lord perceval #monarchy #prince!charles leclerc x reader #prince!charles leclerc

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comfortless · 14 days

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ur konig fics heal me thank you my morning is better :DD

anww, i had a bit of a question! i wasnt sure if u have already answered this question, but how would konig react if he finds out his darling is somehow affiliated in the same field he's in? whether that be a medic or smth else etc etc aside from that, i love ur fics c:

thank you, beloved! ^^ i did a bit here!

but to expand on that a little, i think you may get more leeway with him being a medic.

Instead of being pestered to return home (his home), you may just get this brute extending a hand to help you out. Not that he’s got a lick of medical training. He can patch a wound with a makeshift tourniquet in the midst of some firefight, knows well enough not to fall asleep when he’s been banged up a bit too much, but assisting you with other people is a very large, pronounced “No.”

Soothe him by letting him hover a bit and watch you work. He’s not supposed to be in here, but it’s nice having some wolf in sheep’s skin nearby to pass you the gauze from across the room. So long as he isn’t lifting or touching the poor injured souls in your care, it shouldn’t be much of a problem, right? No one dares to peep any criticism for your work when you’ve got a smitten Goliath nearby, anyway.

Except, he does get a bit jealous here. You’re so gentle with the operators in your care, cooing to them and tending to their every need like a servant rather than the lovely angel that you are to him. He almost wishes that he weren’t so good at what he does, just to experience that once. Or twice. Or for a lifetime. Whatever time you’re willing to give to him, he will take it.

Maybe he gets a bit reckless, gives himself a minor injury by pulling something in the midst of lifting weights. König doesn’t do that; when he fucks up, he deals with it himself, so it’s more than a little strange to see him crossing into the room with an actual injury. It won’t put him out for long, just enough time to experience your gentle hands over him, see that caring look in your eye directed toward him instead of one of these bastards that doesn’t truly appreciate you, not the way that he does at least.

He misconstrues you just doing your job as an outright declaration that what he feels is mutual, and maybe it is, because the care that you give to him is different. You laugh, not at him or his injury, but out of pure mirth when you ask who’s going to offer you ibuprofen instead of gauze now. Your touch is lingering, and you playfully shove the shoulder that hasn’t been wounded when he tells you a kiss would cure him better than any medicine.

His wayward courtship comes with every nick or scrape he “suffers”. The comments grow increasingly strange the moment you’re on your knees tending to the tiniest bruise you’ve ever seen on a man. You both know it’s absolutely nothing, that all of this is absurd and silly and he should just make some sort of move already. Except, that when he does tell you this scene would be so much better in his room, you’re quick to shush him and request that he leave.

… But you don’t stay angry with him for long.

Your favorite soldier always returns to you.

The next time with a clumsily plucked, yellow wildflower and a stare that borders on unnerving when he thrusts the dainty thing into your face; a tight-lipped apology follows when he tells you that he’s not sure what came over him, you’re just so pretty, and that he thinks about you so often it’s making him more than a little crazy.

The time after that with food from a restaurant away from base and another vague profession of love.

And again, with some pretty necklace in tow that he claims used to belong to his mother. König is more intense than ever when he strings the jewelry around your throat with shaking hands, dips his head down to huff into your ear as an arm snakes around your waist to keep you trapped there against him.

“Is that enough?” is the growl that follows, the warmth of his breath and the sheer intensity in his voice causing every hair at the back of your neck to stand on end.

“For what…?” And you could almost pray he’s not truly dumb enough to attempt to lure you into his bed for a string of jewelry his mother trusted him with.

“To make you like me.”

To anticipate something that sounds so innocent from a man who kills for a living is unheard of. You already suspected after his ridiculous comment about a kiss, already knew from the start with all of the trinkets he’s fetched for you, but the thought that he didn’t know already… poor thing.

So, you tell him that you already do, that you have for a while, it’s just that maybe suggesting you blow him before offering a proper date is more than a little inappropriate. Not that having your overgrown suitor chasing your heels is any less.

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nsewell · 1 month

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tw: brief discussion of religion

North America, 1935. They’ve done a twenty-four kilometer dead sprint circumference of the farmland that borders a desolate inkspot on Nat’s map of the Texas Panhandle, and it’s all rows of cultivated fields and nothing, nothing, nothing. At a copse of cedar elms there’d been a cage lodged into a flaky patch of mud, but that was all that remained of the Trapper caravan that had passed through this area. They’d since moved on, taking their captives with them, and from the tarnishing metal, it seems they’d done so a while ago. Somewhere vaguely westward is all they can gauge.

Ava kicks the cage in frustration, hard enough to crack a bone that mends before the pain can topple her, and then says with mustered control, “We need to be quicker. We need to get back on the trail.”

“We need to rest,” Nat returns patiently and it only takes that for Ava to concede, exhausted with sun and hunger and loathe to deny her.

They slouch in the weeds and the sun burnished grass together and sip from their canteens of blood, replenishing energy expelled in the chase. Nat’s half ration reserve beads down her chin as she drinks with always just a tinge of desperation, and tells Ava about a drought to the north. She talks like this sometimes, just to talk. Relays to Ava current affairs that she’s read in a paper, and does not expect her to answer.

The sky is a yawning chasm above, the heat a brutalizing line on their necks. They’ve kicked up enough muck and dust to coat their bodies entirely, and warrant a thorough washing before reconvening at the inn with the other half of their team for the next leg of their journey. They end up tracing their steps back to a lake that they’d passed, and when they get there Nat says, “Oh,” with a wary eye on the wide waterline and her arms tucked against her sides and Ava understands. As if in a desire to be clean and cool she had forgotten the manner to achieve it.

“I miss the Turkish bathhouses,” Nat sighs. “We’ve traded mint leaves for river reeds.” Ava thinks it a rather meager attempt to cover her trepidation when she can see the way the curve of her wrists are shaking against the fabric of her blouse. Instead, reaches over to grip her shoulder in a reassuring squeeze and lending of strength.

“You philistine. Come to the shore, and I’ll help you.”

Ava wades calf deep to fill her empty canteen with water and returns to Nat who is watching her from the pebbled bank, all willowy grace like a river nymph, or else a specter at the water’s edge. Who will go no further. She directs Nat to kneel low enough so she can douse her face clean, and the younger vampire emits a soft chuckle when Ava presses her thumb into the divot of tender skin behind her ear and hold her gaze to the sky.

“What’s so funny?” Ava asks.

“Just a thought I had. This feels baptismal.” Nat crosses her arms across her chest in an affected, reverent gesture.

Ava lifts a brow. “Were you baptized?” It means nothing to her and she isn't sure why she has a notion to ask. In the swathe of wide topics that have carried them debating through the centuries, religion has never come up.

“Yes, of course. I was born into a self respecting Anglican family of the gentry. Or half of one at least,” Nat recalls, and her accent slips a touch to the cadence of palatial drawing rooms and garden soirees. The one she'd had when they'd first met. “My mother and step-father didn’t want to illegitimize me further, for all the good it did my soul.”

Ava takes a half-step back and carefully watches Nat's face. “You don’t believe that.” They’ve dealt with hauntings, yes. Banshees, ghouls and the like. Things that have slipped through the perilously thin cracks of the Echo World. Never something that was an inclination of the human soul, evidence of a life beyond this one. “After all you’ve learned and seen.”

“In the soul? I’m not sure. I’ve thought a lot about it. Sometimes. Aren’t we as vampires spirits by definition? Left behind imprints of a human that once walked the Earth. If we die do we leave a trace, or has the trace already been left?”

“If you’re going to philosophize you can do this yourself,” Ava tells her wholly fond.

A thread of warm laughter always underscores any teasing that Nat does and this one melts into the dry breath of wind sweeping the north Texas plains. Genial and tender. “There's a very old adage I'm sure you're familiar with, even with all your reclusion, my friend-you started it.”

#my writing #UM idk what this is or where it came from such a random premise. just a dumping ground of prose bc i've been in screenplay format all week #i might take it and turn it into something larger and cleaner at some point we shall see....this feels very abridged

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lokiondisneyplus · 7 months

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For 30 years, Dan Deleeuw has worked in visual effects, from “The Mask” to “Armageddon” to “Night at the Museum” — but he always had a dream that one day, he might get to direct. That opportunity finally arrived in 2019, when “Avengers: Endgame” directors Joe and Anthony Russo — who’d worked with Deleeuw on VFX for their three previous Marvel Studios productions — hired him to shoot some additional photography for the behemoth production. That gig led to second unit directing jobs on 2021’s “Eternals” and 2023’s “Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania,” and then, finally, to the main directors chair for the second episode of Season 2 of “Loki.”

Deleeuw, who oversaw visual effects on Season 1 of the show, presumed that he was hired because of his proficiency handling the action beats of the episode, in which Loki (Tom Hiddleston) and his TVA compatriot Mobius (Owen Wilson) pursue a rogue TVA trooper (Rafael Casal) to 1970s London, and then later reunite with Loki’s variant Sylvie (Sophia Di Martino) at a McDonald’s in 1980s Oklahoma. But Deleeuw says that executive producer Kevin Wright told him he was hired as a director because, even when working on visual effects, he “always talks about story.”

Deleeuw also discussed how both he and Ke Huy Quan — who joined the show for Season 2 — were surprised by how Hiddleston approached rehearsing the show, why the production decided to have Sylvie working at McDonald’s — and his reaction to the recent decision by Marvel’s VFX artists to unionize.

Since Sylvie is living in a branched timeline, did you ever discuss having an alternative version of McDonald’s, rather than the actual McDonald’s?

We started saying, OK, she’s gonna settle down on a timeline, what restaurant do we use? At that point, there was a pitch for RoxBurger — you know, the evil corporation in the Marvel Universe, Roxxon. But it didn’t tell a story other than it was like this faux-restaurant. And so McDonald’s came up as a suggestion. And McDonald’s is timeless, in a way — it crosses countries and borders. Everyone started talking about this nostalgic moment they had with McDonald’s. So quickly getting the audience cued into what Sylvie’s feeling — being on the run so long and seeing normal people, and just wanting to have that and leave everything else behind — we’re using McDonald’s to set the audience in a place where they can pick up on that pretty quickly. That’s what kind of sealed the deal on using McDonald’s.

Rafael Casal in Episode 2 of “Loki.” Courtesy of Marvel Studios

What was one of the biggest surprises about the experience of directing this episode?

Something I’ll always try to do on any other show that I direct: It was the openness to collaboration that Kevin Wright had, particularly encouraged by Tom Hiddleston and his experience in the theater. As the scripts were getting closer to being done, we would invite all the directors to come in for their different episodes. All the actors would come in. The writers are there. And we had a week-and-a-half, two weeks where we went through every single script, and just rehearsed them and played with them and made them better. It was just this wonderfully creative moment on the show. Once we got shooting, we had a really good idea of what we wanted to do. Ke [Huy Quan] sat next to me. He saw it all happening, Owen and Tom playing with lines. He leaned over and he’s like, “Is this normal?” I’m like, “It’s normal for them!”

You’ve been working with Marvel for over 10 years now, largely in visual effects. Did you always have an ambition to direct as well?

Yeah. In high school, in college, we did small films — public access, back when there was public access. It was something I always wanted to do. Even from the visual effects standpoint — designing the sequences and doing animatics — telling the story was something I gravitated to. When I got to work with the Russos, they definitely were encouraging of that and gave me the opportunity to shoot additional photography on “Endgame” that led to me doing second unit directing. I just always approach something from a story standpoint. So Kevin Wright saw that I had that kind of brain, and invited me back for Season 2 to direct.

How did he pitch that to you?

Being at Marvel for 10 years, there’s a little bit of a rumor mill going around. So I knew that they had hired Justin and Aaron, and then heard that Kasra [Farahani], the production designer, had gotten an episode. I was like, “Ah, there’s one left!” And then Kevin called me one day and he’s like, “Yeah, so, how’d you like to direct a ‘Loki.'” “Yes!” It was as simple as that.

Last year, several VFX artists who’ve worked on Marvel projects expressed pretty deep frustration with their working conditions, which contributed to the recent decision to vote to unionize. What has your experience been with those issues?

I support everything they’re doing. I’ve been in it for a long time. The number of hours in visual effects have been ingrained in the system for years. From the very beginning, we always had that crunch time. We take a couple months off, and we come back to it again. What you’re seeing now is, the shows are so much bigger, and you’ve got so many shows. A lot of the artists on set, and especially in the visual effects houses, are going from one big show to the next big show to the next big show.

There has to be something that makes a better work-life balance, for the artists’ sanity and for their families and just their creativity. Otherwise, you’re getting diminishing returns. It’s your crew. You have to take care of them. That is something I think we have to think about and work out.

How did your experience in visual effects have influenced your approach to directing this episode, especially with regard to the VFX?

I can tell a story with something that isn’t there. In the original draft, there was a car chase. It didn’t make a lot of sense why Loki would be in a car chase. We decided we wanted to go a little bit more towards the dark Loki side and move away from a traditional chase. I was imagining one day, “What could Loki do?” and came up with the shadow gags with the horns and things like that.

Was anything you did that a director who hadn’t worked in visual effects might not know to do?

You already know what it costs in terms of time and difficulty, and when you’re trying to get through your day, what you’re going do to [VFX artists] if you try to shoot without getting the blue screen just right Because I know the consequences, I’ll fight harder for getting it right, so the artists don’t have to deal with it. Getting into post-production, you know how much you can use an effect to help with storytelling, in terms of if you need to change the set a little bit, just to make it make sense for where Loki is. There’s an editor we have at Marvel, Jeff Ford, who’s cut a lot of the films. Jeff is a master. He doesn’t change his cut to fit the footage, he changes the footage to match his cut. I think that’s an insightful way of knowing how to use some visual effects in post, without getting get too carried away with it.

#dan deleeuw #director #loki #s2e2

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underfaller · 9 months

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Chapter 11: κ (pt. 2)

Pairing: dottore x angel!reader Summary: You are a Heavenly Messenger from Celestia that’s been captured by a mysterious Doctor CW: Violence, Stockholm Syndrome Word count: 6.5k A/N: And with this chapter, Dead Doves is officially going on hiatus. See you in 1-2 weeks!

“Have you ever been to Mondstadt?”

The carriage rocks methodically as you inch to your destination. You sigh. As you ride further away from the snowy country that’s been your home for the past few months, you can’t help but feel a bit wistful. You’ve grown oddly attached to the winter landscape and gray skies. Still, you wonder what new sights this journey will bring. You remember the days when you used to dream of traveling throughout Teyvat. Those dreams seem like a relic of the past now.

Dottore shakes his head.

“No, I haven't. As you might imagine, my work keeps me quite busy. Even when I do have free time, there are always more pressing matters that need attending to. I have neither the time nor reason for sightseeing.”

"I see."

You press your hand against the side of your face as you look out the window.

“I've heard you can faintly see Celestia from Mondstadt's mountains.”

Dottore scoffs.

“Can you, now? I did not know that. But then again, I don't bother myself with such frivolous knowledge,” Dottore crosses his legs, leaning back in his seat. “Tell me, my dear, do you miss Celestia?”

“Not anymore.”

Dottore chuckles.

“I’m glad you’ve finally come to your senses. It’s utterly dismal that someone of your caliber was a slave to such ignorant gods,” He muses, stroking his chin. “Though one could argue it's merely a different master you serve. But I suppose that's the condition of this world; we all must answer to someone or something.”

"Tch," You turn towards him, narrowing your eyes. “And what is it that you answer to?”

The Doctor’s lips curl into a smile.

“Hehe, You must know by now I answer only to myself. I shape my own destiny. I am my own god.”

You cross your arms.

“I must admit, your ambition is unmatched-- even by divine standards.”

Dottore laughs.

“Oho! Your praises are singing to a choir.” He remarks.

“Humble as ever.”

“Humility is for fools who can’t back up their words.”

You shake your head. You wonder what it's like to be that confident in oneself. You yawn, realizing how sleepy you are. It's certainly been an eventful past few days. That coupled by your bad habit of staying up to reading the books you borrowed has created an exhausting routine. Your mind drifts off. You remember last night. Your wings rustle as you reminisce of your flight, soaring through the cold air, your heart as elated as your body. You think of the Doctor's laugh.

It was a pleasant sound.

Almost pleasant enough to make me forget.

I'd like to make him laugh again to hear it once more.

You close your eyes, leaning against the silk wall of the carriage. The clopping of the horses and soft churn of the carriage lull you to sleep.

Your travels last three days. By the time you arrive at your destination, you are eager to get off the carriage. You now understand Dottore's disdain of such rides. Riding for that duration is almost as bad as being bedridden. It makes you stir crazy.

You’d much prefer to fly.

At Mondstadt's border, you take a short boat ride to Musk Reef. You hadn't expected it to be such a tiny island. The wind whistles as the waves roll in soft tides against the shore. As your feet rests on the warm sand, you stretch your wings out, looking towards the night sky. It's been so long since you've been able to clearly see the stars.

"Ah! Finally!" Dottore exclaims. "Traveling is such a hassle. Could you imagine the time we'd save if we could simply teleport?"

It's then that a group of treasure hoarders encroach your vision. Their weapons are drawn. Though their faces are obscured, there is an aggressive glint in their eyes.

“My, my, what have we here?” Dottore drawls, amused.

"Hey! Fatui!" Their leader shouts. "We were here first. Scram!"

You glance at Dottore.

“Looks like you're not the only one drawn to the Abyss, Doctor.”

The Doctor grins, unfazed by the drawing men. Dottore places his hands cockily on his hips, tilting his body back loftily.

“Gentlemen! There is no need to fight. It would be much more logical to lay down your weapons and scurry away," Dottore sneers. "Unless you’d like to be exterminated like the rats you are.”

The treasure hoarders pause and look at one another, considering Dottore's words. You pray that they'll leave without a fight. You know this will not end without bloodshed. However, their leader soon charges you two and the rest follow. The Doctor snaps his fingers. Two mechanical weapons whirl to life from his messenger bag. They clunk and shudder, aimed at their assailants. One shoots a pyro concentrated beam straight through the closest treasure hoarder’s head. He crumples like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

Dottore shoulders shake slightly as he continues to giggle. You stiffen as you are reminded of events past.

He sounds the same as when I tried to escape.

You take a shaky breath. Seeing the Doctor so obviously unhinged is a stark reminder of your predicament. How your companion is unpredictable. How he could be cold and cunning one second and rabid at your throat the next. How he found pleasure in others’ suffering.

But I still stay by his side.

…I have my reasons.

Dottore throws his head back, his laughter maniacal.

“Hahaha! It's almost as if you don't value your mediocre lives at all!”

The Doctor tilts his head towards you, smirking.

“Let’s dispose of this vermin quickly, shall we?”

“I-”

You knew this was inevitable.

After all, death follows the Doctor.

Just be glad it isn’t yours.

You clench your teeth as you unsheathe your dagger. You remember Dottore’s words.

Your morals will only destroy you. You’ve hurt and will continue to hurt others. That’s the path of a scholar.

You wanted to deny such things. You wanted to deny such a fact. However, you know you can not remain blind forever. You cannot escape this reality. You cannot seek truth yet try to run each time you are faced with an unpleasant fidelity. So you attack.

Kill or be killed. Hunt or be hunted. Just like the passenger pigeons of Khaenri'ah. You are either the predator or the prey in this world.

You jump at the nearest treasure hoarder, slicing his neck cleanly through his jugular. He chokes on his own blood, a sick gurgling noise emitting from his open throat as he falls. His companion reels back, throwing a cryo potion at you. You spread your wings, gracefully sliding out of the way as your fingers grasped one of your throwing knives.

You throw it. The cold metal lodges into the man's inner thigh. He cries out painfully, instinctively pulling out of the blade. Blood pours out of the wounded artery, running rapidly down his leg. You stand over him watching as he keels over, bleeding out. He twitches weakly for a moment before becoming completely still. You pant, your eyes watching the crimson liquid pool at your feet.

So little birdie, what will it be? Will you die like your ancestors or be the hunter?

Their leader tackles you from behind. You're taken by surprise and tumble to the ground. You both roll in the grass, clawing at one another, vying for dominance. You manage to pin him down. You raise your dagger.

No… I will not die out like my ancestors.

If you must kill, then so be it, but you would not be extinguished. You would not be erased from this world so easily. Not by mortals, not by Celestia, not by another Messenger. You would not give this cruel world the satisfaction of your destruction.

Yet I allow one person to destroy me over and over.

But that is different.

You bring the knife down. Once, twice, thrice. His body lays limp. An awful silence spreads across Musk Reef. Not even the wind blows. You straighten up, breathing heavily. Your hands and dagger are stained with blood. Whose? You couldn’t tell.

Murderer.

Dottore puts his hand on your shoulder. You look up at him with a listless expression. You try to say something but the words are caught in your throat. You feel empty…Yet this emptiness weighs even heavier than any previous despair in your chest.

Despite this, Dottore ruffles your hair. He beams at you with delight.

“Look at you! I barely needed to get my hands dirty-- you are absolutely wonderful at the slaughter!" He chuckles. "To think that you were once so idealistic and against such things,my darling. I cannot help but feel a modicum of pride.”

You wipe the blood off your dagger. Your eyes drift to the ground. You want to protest, to apologize to corpses that cannot accept such words, to scream that you didn’t mean this, that you were only following orders.

The smell of blood is awful.

“The path of a scholar is the bloodiest,” You whisper.

Dottore's smile widens.

"That's my little birdie," The Doctor simpers. "Though, the fact remains: these men meant to take advantage of us-- to exploit our situation for their gain. They were asking to die. Now they are nothing more than a gruesome display of power.”

Dottore gestures towards a small cove ahead of you.

“Now come, let’s get what we’ve come for.”

"Yes, Doctor."

You approach the circular structure in the middle of the island. It's huge, towering over both you and Dottore. A four-pointed sigil is engraved on top. You both stand in front of it, reaching your arms out and touching the cold stone. The ground rumbles. When you look back at the monument, you find that the once empty circle has become a portal. A window to the Abyss. An opening to the unknown. You stare at the inky blackness, swirling with energy.

Dottore reaches his hand towards you.

“Shall we?”

You nod, clasping your fingers in his.

With that, you and the Doctor disappear into the darkness. It swallows you whole.

You're instantly teleported someplace else.

You examine your surroundings. What appears to be an abandoned city is in disrepair and eerily empty. It almost reminds you of a tainted version of Celestia. Your skin crawls. You weren't in Teyvat anymore.

The inverted nature of the Abyss makes the spiraling stairs seem to be going up as you descend further. The walls are covered in intricate designs that swirl and blur into one. Despite its mysterious beauty, you can't shake off the looming darkness in the Abyss. There is a crushing, horrifying presence in this empty expanse--as if the Abyss was an entity in of itself.

And you were in the belly of the beast.

You spot an occasional glitter in various crevices as you pass by large pillars and dark corners. You suppose those treasure hoarders were planning to brave the Abyss for the potential treasure down here. But that is not what you are here for. Instead, the Doctor stops in front of a fountain. It spouts a mysterious purple liquid, thick and glittering with what seems to be a thousand stars. Dottore takes a deep breath.

“This is it. Pure, abyssal energy.”

“Indeed.”

The Doctor reaches into his bag, taking out a pair of protective gloves and a few empty vials. You leave him to his work, walking further down the corridor. Perhaps it is morbid curiosity, but you find yourself walking further down the dim corridor, deeper into the Abyss.

You suddenly stop, observing a statue of a young man, hooded and winged.

Why is it upside down?

Mysterious energy swirls around it. You don’t know why, but you are inclined to touch it. Against your better judgment, you slowly stretch your hand out. As soon as your fingers touch the mysterious statue, the stone dissolves into foreign black liquid quickly turning into a black, murky mass that envelops the ground around you.

What…?

You hiss in pain, quickly stepping back. You examine your arm, covered in the liquid. It seeps into your skin, glowing faintly before disappearing. You stumble, trying to escape the black pool. It’s futile; you can feel yourself slipping, sinking into its clutches. Dottore turns, only just noticing the chaos. The Doctor drops the vial he’s holding. It shatters against the floor as he jumps up, clutching his bag as he rushes towards you.

“Y/N!”

You try to call for Dottore, but only silence escapes your mouth. Your fingers graze his for just a moment before you feel yourself falling. You wildly flap your wings but you seem to be unable to fly in the Abyss. Your stomach lurches into your throat as you rapidly descend. Deeper and deeper into the void you fall until you hit a hard surface.

Thunk.

You groan, standing up. You look around. The landscape is empty and vast, stretching far beyond what your eyes can see.

“At first I thought you were my sister. I found it rather odd. After all, she still has 200 years of slumber.”

You whip around.

A young man your height stands behind you. He has long, blonde hair that falls in a neat braid by his side. A white and gold scarf is wrapped around his neck. His sword is drawn, but is not pointed towards you-- yet. He stares at you with glittering, gold eyes. You once again unsheathe your dagger.

“Where is the Doctor?”

The mysterious man raises an eyebrow.

“That man you were with? Probably on the Musk Reef shores…looking for you,” He folds his arms. “I took the liberty of… escorting him out of my domain.”

Your mind is swirling with questions. Where were you? Who was this person? What did he mean by his domain?

At least the Doctor is safe.

“Who are you?”

“I am the Aether. The Prince of the Abyssal Order,” Aether responds. “I know who you are, Heavenly Messenger. The Abyss keeps close tabs on Celestia and its beings.”

“Then you should know that I am no longer affiliated with Celestia.”

Aether raises an eyebrow, before slowly smiling.

“Hmph. How unprecedented.”

Aether gestures towards the Abyss around you.

“Most individuals who venture here are instantly consumed by the darkness. Do you know why you and the Doctor were not swallowed whole by the Void Realm?”

You shake your head.

“It is because the Abyss attracts those with extreme ambition but it latches onto those who fester in chaos.”

You lower your weapon, just a bit. Your mouth forms a surly frown.

“Why are you telling me this?”

In an instant, Aether appears before you, teleporting through the thin air. Before you can react, he grabs your right arm tightly, holding it up. You try to break out of his grip, but the man is much stronger than you.

“You come from the Light Realm, yet the Void has a strange liking to you. You and It have fused. The Abyss now runs in your veins.”

Is that what that black liquid was?

You start to panic. The thought of something so foreign in you makes you dizzy. You rip your arm out of Aether’s hand, gazing at it. It looks the same as before. You clench your arm, your nails digging into your skin.

“It’s best to accept it. You can’t fight what’s already been done. Just like fate,” Aether states, seeing your apparent fear. “Which is why I would like to give you a choice.”

You narrow your eyes.

“A choice?”

“Yes. You could return to the mortal realm with your companion. Or you could stay here. Join the Abyssal Order. Fight against Celestia. You would thrive here, but,” Aether continues. “The choice is yours, fallen messenger.”

You bite your lip.

All this time, I blamed the gods, I blamed everyone…but when I think about it, the only thing that remains constant in my misery is me. Because of this, I can't help but wonder if things are always my fault.

You ball your fists.

But I'm tired of taking blame for decisions I do not choose. So I will choose… what I want.

I choose the path of a scholar.

“I would like to go back.”

Aether’s eyes flicker.

“Interesting. Though, I am not entirely surprised,” He sighs. “I must warn you. Those intertwined with the Abyss are fated for despair. Greatness, yes, but despair nonetheless.”

If I loathe myself already, I will do loathsome things. If I blame myself already, I will give myself things to be blamed for.

Aether tilts his head.

“Are you willing to suffer because of your choice?”

You give him a wry smile.

“I am no stranger to suffering.”

Aether nods. He outstretches his hand. An orb of light encapsulates you.

“Very well. Farewell, stranger. We may meet again,” He pauses before smiling once again. “If you are still alive by the time she wakes up, I hope you meet my sister.”

Whoosh.

A blinding light. When you open your eyes once again, you find yourself back on the beach. Dottore rushes over to you. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him so scared. He grabs you by the shoulders, gripping you tightly.

“There you are! Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

“Stop! You’re crushing me!”

You make a small noise of displeasure as you wiggle out of his hold, straightening up. You shake your head. You won’t tell him what happened. You won’t tell him of Aether. You won’t tell him that the Abyss has cursed you.

Would he abandon you if he knew?

You didn’t want to risk it.

"I'm fine. I just got…lost,” Your eyes rest on his bag. “Did you get the samples?”

“Obviously but-” Dottore turns, glowering. “You need to be more careful. I’m glad you managed to come back though.”

You smile.

"Of course I did."

“My dear, we’ve been over this already. We’re here for scientific purposes, not vacation.”

You pout.

“But Doctor! When will we get another chance to explore the City of Freedom?”

Mondstadt. It is certainly a quaint place, however there is a feeling of carefreeness and adventure that delights you in a way you couldn’t quite describe. You revel in it and let the wind uplift your spirits.

It makes you forget the horrors you experienced the night prior.

Dottore sighs. He flips through the journal, studying it as he rests his elbow on the alchemy table.

“An alchemy table as rudimentary as this will only let me refine these samples so far…” He murmurs. The Doctor fishes through his bag, carefully placing the vials on the table. You peer at the table, tilting your head curiously.

“What are you doing?”

“Abyssal energy in this concentrate is much too unstable. I’m trying to reduce them to a safer form,” Dottore eyes you. “We’re essentially transporting explosives at this point.”

“Can I watch?”

“Absolutely.”

“Will this take long?”

“No.”

“So… afterwards can we walk around the city?”

Dottore pursues his lips, turning towards you. You know that under that mask, he’s glaring at you.

“If I say yes, will you stop being so incessantly annoying?”

“Probably.”

“Then fine. Just… just let me work,” Dottore utters in an exasperated tone.

You nod, satisfied with that answer. The alchemy table glows a faint blue as the Doctor starts. After a few minutes and a couple strings of curses, the vials on the stone surface finally dissipate from a dark purple to a deep violet. Dottore holds one up, examining it. He shakes his head.

“Not quite adequate enough but it’ll have to do.”

“Ah, a Fatui Diplomat. How surprising.”

You both turn to see an emotionless man standing behind you, arms folded. His pale blonde hair is tied in a messy ponytail. He wears a long, white coat over a dark blue shirt. Attached to his collar is a small, geo vision illuminating faintly. Dottore quickly slides the vials into his bag.

“And who are you?” Dottore asks, curtly.

The man smiles softly, bowing.

“My apologies. Where are my manners? My name is Albedo, newly appointed head alchemist and investigator of the Knights of Favonius.”

Dottore crosses his arms. You can tell he does not want to speak to this man. You observe Albedo closely.

There is something off about him.

“Ah, an alchemist. Well, we were just using this table for some basic work-- nothing of interest unless you wanted to help us.”

Albedo’s smile falters a bit before he gives a small laugh, as if he’s almost amused by the Doctor’s audacity.

“No, that is not why I am here. I was called after a couple outriders reported seeing Fatui members near Musk Reef. I didn't believe them at first. I thought that the Knights and the Fatui had agreed that any Fatui entering the region would report their presence to the Grand Master,” His eyes glint mysteriously. “Surely, a Harbinger such as yourself should have known that.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see Dottore tense a bit. He plasters a smile on his face.

“It must have slipped my mind. Such bureaucratic procedures are such a hassle for someone as important as I,” Dottore remarks. “But I assure you we know nothing of last night’s sightings… If there were any that is. After all, we only arrived in your city this morning.”

Albedo raises an eyebrow.

“How odd. Though I never said anything about last night,” The alchemist remarks.

Wow, he caught the Doctor’s lie.

Dottore realizes his slip of tongue. The Doctor frowns, his jaw clenching. You can feel his growing agitation. Albedo's smile returns. He dismissively waves his hand.

“Worry not, Harbinger. I will report yours and your assistant's attendance to the Grand Master in your stead. It is as you said, a man such as yourself must be busy with other affairs. What brings you to Mondstadt, anyways?”

Dottore leans against the alchemy table behind him.

“It is none of your concern, but since you continue to pester us-- My assistant and I are conducting our own investigation into recent Fatui disturbances in the vicinity.”

Albedo nods.

“I see. Well, I've reported Fatui Agents causing trouble near my lab in Dragonspine. For the Fatui to send such a high ranking member to settle such a small matter… No matter,” Albedo stops himself, shaking his head. “Enjoy your stay in Mondstadt.”

Dottore gives a half shrug.

“The Fatui take their duty seriously. Even a small disturbance like this cannot go unaddressed. But we will enjoy our stay, thank you very much.”

Albedo bows once more and leaves. You meet his eyes. They pierce yours; you can’t help but notice the three dots in his teal irises that greatly resemble the pattern on the alchemy table you were just using. You are surprised how intense they are, as if in that moment, he'd studied everything about you. Dottore stares intensely at the blonde-haired man as he walks away. You turn towards the Doctor once the alchemist disappears.

“That could’ve gone a lot better.”

Dottore shakes his head, clearly annoyed. “The Knights of Favonius… They’re so irksome. Though, it’d be wise to keep an eye on him. Let's go now."

The Doctor takes hold of your hand, leading you to the city gate, but you stop dead in your tracks. You cross your arms. He turns around.

“What?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

He cocks his head.

“Not that I know of.”

You huff.

“You said we could walk around the city!”

Dottore thinks for a second, before a toothy grin crawls on his face.

“Did I now? I don’t remember that,” He implores, teasingly.

“Dottore!”

“Fine, fine. But make it quick. I have more important things to do.”

You grin, prancing ahead of Dottore, arms behind your back as you look in awe at this new place. The streets are bustling with merry people. You pass a few market stalls. One sells jewels from Liyue, another sells flowers. Something smells good from an outdoor restaurant. You look at the multiple windmills that dot the cityscape, their giant linen fans swirling round and round. A woman waves to you from the top of one. You wave back to her. If you could, you would've flown to her and examined the city from a bird eye’s view.

What a beautiful place. I wouldn’t mind living here.

Though, that is wishful thinking with the choices I’ve made.

You push away those thoughts. You did not want to be miserable right now.

You point towards a small pub.

“Do you drink, Doctor?”

Dottore grimaces.

“Not that Mondstadt rubbish. Dandelion wine is terrible.”

You continue your tour, reaching the top of the city. A grand church stands there. Several nuns walk around, sweeping the stairs or chatting with citizens. Children run about holding Windwheel Asters, red like the rooftops of Mondstadt’s town buildings. In the middle of the square is a huge statue of a hooded figure with wings. The Anemo Archon, Barbados. You feel your heart drop in realization.

This statue… It is the same as the one I saw in the Abyss.

What was such a thing doing down there, anyway?

Dottore sneers.

“All this effort for a being that doesn't care about mortal worms like them.”

“Still, his people must love him if they have such a large statue.”

“There's nothing worth worshiping about Archons, let alone the Anemo one,” Dottore snorts. “Now can we please get a move on?”

You take one last look at the statue.

Are archons just as disappointing as Celestia?

You walk back to Dottore. “Yes. Where are we off to now?”

Dottore smirks.

“Finally! I thought you'd never ask. I was thinking of that Albedo boy's words and I think I would like to visit his lab. The samples I refined are still unstable and relatively unsafe to transport. If I had more advanced tools, I could quickly fix that.”

“I doubt he’d let you use his lab.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

You glare at him.

“I would think someone like you was above breaking and entering.”

Dottore chuckles.

“Oh please, I’m not above anything. I simply do what’s needed.”

You roll your eyes. Still, you nod.

“Alright.”

With that, you two leave the city. The knights at the gate look at Dottore warily but nod their farewells to you. As you cross the stone bridge, you turn, looking at the peaceful residence one last time.

Dragonspine is visible from the City. You can see the tall, white mountain against the light blue sky from here. White clouds surround it. As you walk along the dirt trail, you stop occasionally to marvel at the different colorful flowers that line the grass. Dottore seems a bit annoyed with how many detours you take, but he allows them nonetheless. At some point, Dottore picks you a Sunsettia, which you eagerly eat. It’s sweet-- much more so than the fruit in Celestia. As you walk, a curious thought pops into your head.

“Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“Did you notice that the alchemist had a vision?”

“So?”

“Do you think you’d ever get one?”

Dottore looks down at you.

“Of course not. I don’t grovel at any Archon’s feet,” Dottore smirks. He chuckles. “Vision holders are just conceited tools of the gods.”

“Wouldn’t you want the power of a vision though?”

“And be indebted to the gods? I’d rather die.”

You ponder his words.

“I see.”

The temperature slowly drops as you near the mountain. By the time you reach the base of Dragonspine, your teeth are slightly chattering. It's bitter cold here, a juxtaposition from the near perfect weather in the city.

“Do you know where Albedo’s lab even is?”

Dottore shakes his head.

“Not for certain, but simple deduction can narrow it down,” The Doctor pulls out a map and a pen, circling two spots. “He mentioned a nearby Fatui camp causing trouble so we can make an educated guess and check locations near these camps.”

You study the piece of paper.

“Hmm… It’d be easier if we split up and rendezvous back here.”

“Excellent thinking. I’ll take the one to the east and you can take the one in the west,” Dottore hands you a second copy of the map after marking your location on it. You take it, giving it one last look, before making your way down the opposite path.

“And dear?”

You turn. “Don’t get lost this time.”

You nod.

“Yes, Doctor.”

With that, Dottore disappears into the snow. You spread your wings, flying the opposite direction. You view the map, carefully following it. It leads you to a small lake. Bits of ice float on top of the water. Next to it, a group of Fatui members sit by a fire. They seem to be cooking something. One of them is doing a silly dance as the others laugh.

Hmm… there’s the Fatui camp. So where is…

You look up and spy a rickety bridge leading up to a small cave. You flap your wings, flying above and landing at its entrance. You slowly enter it. Multiple lab equipment pieces are out, a fire crackles in the corner-- It’s as if the person who lives here only planned to step out for a moment.

This is no doubt Albedo's lab.

“Oh, it’s just you. Where’s your master?”

You jump a little at the voice and swiftly turn around. Albedo stands behind you, arms crossed.

“Not here,” You mutter. You shuffle uncomfortably, your hand twitches at your dagger.

Albedo blinks, frowning.

“Oh? And where might he have gone?”

The alchemist takes another step closer, his expression unreadable. Your hand grasps the hilt of your dagger. Albedo holds up his hands.

“Easy now. I have no intention of hurting you,” Albedo states. His voice is calm, almost hypnotic. “You are certainly an odd individual. Those wings are certainly not gliders. What is someone like yourself doing with a Harbinger?”

You take a step back as he gets closer. You glare at him.

“That’s none of your business.”

He pauses.

“I suppose. However, it’s impossible to not notice how defensive you are of a man who has quite a reputation. Do you know the atrocities he's committed? The people he experiments on, the suffering he’s caused, the lives he ruined?”

Albedo sees your expression. His tone softens a bit.

“From your face, I'm sure you've experienced it yourself. You don't seem cruel. Why do you stay with such a monster? Mondstadt would welcome you with open arms. It would be a much kinder life.”

You’re wrong. You don’t know what I’ve done.

“I’d appreciate it if you stepped away from my dear assistant, alchemist.”

Albedo smiles as he turns to face Dottore.

“There you are. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t fall for my trap,” Albedo gestures to his lab. “I didn't just casually drop pivotal information about my lab to someone such as yourself. I had a feeling you wouldn't be able to resist snooping around here-- especially when you're so far from your own place of study.”

Dottore enters the lab. He maintains a steady eye contact with the alchemist, carefully dissecting his every move.

“I must say, you are more clever than I thought. I find myself intrigued by you. Your breaths remain invisible to the eye despite the freezing temperatures here. It seems safe to hypothesize that you aren't a normal human.”

Albedo's eyes flicker at Dottore's observations. He laughs humorlessly.

“Astute observation, you are correct. Which leads to my equal interest in you.”

He points at the journal in Dottore's hand.

“That journal is the property of my Master. If you're already investigating the Abyss, then you've probably deciphered its content. Even still, I will be taking it.”

“No doubt this is how your 'master' created you, no?”

Albedo clenches his teeth, refusing to answer the Doctor’s question.

“The Art of Khemia is dangerous and frankly, one that should be forbidden. Though, I have trouble imagining that would mean anything to someone like The Doctor.”

Albedo raises his chin, his eyes meeting Dottore's. Dottore laughs.

“You’re quite right, forbidden knowledge is my forte. However, if you think you can-”

“You talk too much,” Albedo whispers. He suddenly lunges at Dottore, unsheathing his sword and attacking the Harbinger.

Dottore jumps out of the way, relinquishing his own weapon.

“Tut, tut. Such brutality hardly seems like an intelligent solution, my fellow researcher. And besides, what makes you think you can defeat me?”

Albedo doesn't answer. His blue eyes are focused only on the journal. Dottore attacks the alchemist with his projectile machinations. Albedo also dodges with ease. He’s a surprisingly talented swordsman.

“Are you really that arrogant, that you won’t even take this fight seriously?” Albedo mutters, swinging his sword. A sharp beam of light shoots at the alchemist, singing his coat as he swerves behind Dottore, about to strike with a geo-infused attack.

Shing!

A dagger whistles past Albedo. He barely has time to move as the blade slices through a sliver of his blonde bangs. Albedo whirls around to see you, holding another knife, ready to throw. He narrows his eyes.

Albedo raises his sword again, but before he can attack , a burst of elemental beam of energy hits him directly in the chest. He flies against one of the bookshelves. A loud crash echoes through the cave. Papers and books scatter around him. Albedo coughs in pain, struggling to get up.

Dottore saunters towards him, bending down and pulling Albedo up by the top of his hair. He meets the alchemist's blazing eyes. Albedo glares at him.

“Are you ready to talk like an adult now or are you going to continue this silly outburst?”

Albedo remains silent. Dottore continues.

“I must say, you performed quite well. You'd make such an interesting test subject, perhaps I should take you home with me.”

It’s then that Albedo lets out a dark chuckle. He looks at the Doctor, a triumphant smile on his pale face.

“A miscalculation on your part…I won't be going anywhere.”

With that, he releases a geo burst directed at the bag at Dottore's waist. The unstable Abyssal samples burst and a powerful explosion ricochets throughout the cave. You are blown back by the force. For a second, everything is black. When you come to, you squint through the dust and debris, coughing.

The room is absolutely destroyed. Albedo groans, standing up and brushing himself off. Miraculously, the journal is unscathed, laying on the ground in front of the alchemist. Your ears are ringing. Dottore lays motionless on the wooden bridge just outside the cave. Your blood freezes in your veins as panic overtakes you seeing the Doctor. Your eyes widen and you struggle to get up as quickly as you can. You stumble, still dizzy from the explosion, desperately trying to get to him. However, your eyes turn towards the journal laying in the opposite direction, then to the alchemist. Albedo meets your eyes.

You could live a much kinder life here.

There's a loud crash and you swerve around. Horror grips you as you see the wooden ledge Dottore's body rests on collapse. The platform and the Doctor fall to the snowy depths below. Your stomach drops with it. Before Albedo can react, you lunge at the journal, grabbing it. You stretch your wings, plunging after Dottore.

You swear the last gaze Albedo gives you is one of pity.

You squint as you fly through the thick snow until you see the lake at the bottom. Stray bits of wood and ice float on its light blue surface. Without thinking, you dive headfirst into the icy water. The freezing temperatures hit you instantly, stealing the air right from your lungs. Your chest burns as your breaths implode within you. You gasp, choking out a few bubbles.

You force your eyes open, scanning the depths. You make out his body rapidly sinking. You never were a strong swimmer. You struggle, reaching out and grasping his hand. Once you do, it takes all your might to pull Dottore to the surface, a feat only manageable due to sheer will and adrenaline.

You pull the Doctor’s body to the snowy surface. He lays completely still. You rip off his mask. His eyes are closed. Despite being soaked to the bone, your mouth goes completely dry. You can hear your heart beat loudly in your ears. You tremble from the cold and fear.

No, no, no, no, no.

You dig in his bag, desperately looking for something-- anything-- to help. It’s then that you see the same serum he'd used on you last time. You pull out a small vial of thick, green liquid and a syringe.

How does he do this?

You grit your teeth, shakily drawing the medicine from the vial. You flick the syringe a few times. You scan the side of his neck, finding a light blue vein. With trembling fingers, you insert the needle into his cold flesh, pushing on the plunger as hard as you can. You check for Dottore's pulse. You can faintly feel something and you sigh with relief.

Suddenly, his eyes snap open. Dottore sits up, coughing and spitting out water.

It's then you realize how much you actually care for this monster of a man.

When did it happen?

For a second, you want to laugh.

No matter how hard I push you away, I can’t help but be pulled towards you. What a cruel twist of fate that I see my purpose in you. That my identity has become wrapped with yours.

Dottore groans. His mask is still off as he looks at you. His face is deathly pale, his blue hair wet against his skin.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Dottore asked. “What happened?”

You sniff, the tears welling in your eyes.

“You’re…” You start, but trail off. You let out a choked sob, instantly wrapping your arms around Dottore, crying.

“You… I thought you died… I was so scared!”

You who destroyed me… I can't help but seek salvation and warmth in you despite knowing you will destroy me over and over. This twisted relationship...

This isn't love.

That's fine.

But it’s all I have left.

Please don't leave me.

Your gesture takes the Doctor by surprise. He tentatively wraps his arms around you. Dottore gives a weak laugh.

“There, there, my little birdie. I’m not going anywhere.”

I was so scared to lose myself. So much so that I didn’t realize that I had already lost myself.

Past chapters here

#fic: dead doves do not mourn #dottore #dottore x fem!reader #genshin fanfic #genshin x reader #fatui harbingers #dead dove #cross posted on ao3 #genshin impact

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yurodiivy · 10 months

Text

My Old Man is a Bad Man

(Joel Miller x FemReader)

Summary: 18+ PWP It's predominantly fucking sorry Chief.

Content Warnings: rough sex/choking/slapping/references to violence/kinda mean joel/unprotected PiV/dirty talk/use of slut whore etc/reader calls joel sir

Notes: long time listener first time poster, first fanfic ever be nice to me or I'll cry ty. I'm old n unsure how formatting works so if I do it wrong feel free to yell at me.

Your old man is a bad man. You see the sideways glances from other people, hear their whispers and the sneer in his voice when he speaks to them. You wash the blood out of his clothes without asking questions and lick the taste of metal off his knuckles. But he’s oh so sweet to you, doting, tender. Leaning down to coo into your ear in public, keeping you tucked into his side staking a claim that begs to be challenged. A cheque he’s already cashed more times than you can count in chipped teeth and broken ribs. You didn’t think it was possible to feel kept given the whole apocalypse thing but it’ll take more than cordyceps and biblical ruin to stop Joel Miller being a gentleman. You can’t remember the last time you opened a door or carried anything heavier than a cup of coffee.

In bed he touches you like you’re made of glass, telling you how pretty you are, how gorgeous, how sexy, how his. Happy to spend hours between your legs lapping gently at your pussy. Leaving an endless trail of kisses on your neck, your shoulders, on the pink skin his scruff leaves on the inside of your thighs. Cradling your face in his big hands tracing his thumb over your lips, forehead pressed against yours and those big brown baby cow eyes staring into your soul while he fills you.

But you know this side of him is just for you and you don’t know what it says about you that you want to see the side of him he gives to everyone else. It’s all you can think about, when he’s asleep, tracing your fingers over the line between his eyebrows permanently creased from the frown that settles there from the moment he crosses the threshold to your house until he comes home to you. How big his hands feel and how rough his palms are against your soft skin when he touches you oh so gently.

How strong he is in that way that only comes from a lifetime of work, and when he holds you at night the cage of his arms stirs something within you, distinctly masculine and so very capable- if only he’d show you what they’re capable of.

You’ve lost track of how long he’s been knelt between your legs, his tongue never leaving your clit as he works two fingers into you preparing you as diligently as always. His other hand strokes slow, patient circles into your thigh, looking up at you with what you want to call contentment but know closer borders reverence.

That’s when it happens, he forgets himself; just for a second but it’s enough. As the knot tightens in your stomach your thighs snap shut around his head. It’s instinctual, his hand big and unforgiving as it forces your thigh back down against the bed but the combination of it and the noise of displeasure low in the back of his throat is enough to make you keen. A whimper that sounds more animal than human tearing from your throat as you cum around his fingers.

“Are you okay sweet girl did I hurt you?” Melted chocolate eyes all caramel and concern when they find yours.

“Do it again” you whisper, “please Joel, want you to use me. Want you to take it”

He opens his mouth to protest, to ask what you mean; but something in your voice makes him pause, makes him say instead “do you know what you’re asking for?” with a tilt of his head and a lilt to his voice that makes heat pool in your belly. He’s not blind, he’s seen the way your thighs clench together when he raises his voice, felt how you tighten around his cock when he gets impatient and takes you against the wall of your house.

“Yes, I trust you”

He doesn’t say anything just looks you over greedy and appraising in a way that makes you feel more like meat than the altar you were two minutes ago. It wasn’t a lie when you said you trust him, but there’s a part of you that knows how easily he could tear you apart. You know who he is, you know what he’s done, but there’s a worse part of you that likes it, that preens under him. The sacrificial lamb displaying its sweetest cuts for the wolf.

He doesn’t take his shirt or his jeans off just unbuckles his belt and shoves his jeans down enough to free his cock. It’s heavy and impossibly thick in his hand, stroking it as he lazily swipes the flushed pink tip through your wetness.

“Please, I need it please just put it inside” the words are tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop them. Until he stops them, and you’re reminded once again of his size as his hand covers your mouth and half your face, squeezing until you cry out.

“Here’s how this is going to work, you’re going to shut up and take it until I ask you to talk. You do as you’re told or you get nothing, understood?” You nod under his hand and he lays a quick slap across your face before his hand slides down around your throat, not enough to hurt but enough to make you shiver under him.

“Repeat it” he snaps.

“I’m going to shut up and take it until you ask me to talk” you breathe.

He pushes your jaw to the side and leans in to press a soft kiss at your hairline below your ear, so gentle compared to his hand around your throat it makes your heart swell. “Safeword is chamomile or you tap twice on my arm, understood?”

“Yes Sir” you whisper and feel more than him growl against your cheek.

He spreads your thighs wide apart, dragging two calloused fingers through your wetness making you twitch; already oversensitive from his earlier attention.

“Too sensitive already? Too bad” he mutters cruelly, pressing the blunt head of his cock against your entrance giving you half without a second to adjust. You let out a strangled cry at the intrusion before he forces those two slick fingers past your lips. “Thought I told you to be quiet huh?” He sneers, laying another quick slap across your cheek. When he slides in to the hilt, hips flush your jaw throbs with the effort not to bite down around his fingers. He laughs darkly when your legs snap shut vice tight around his waist, forcing them back down against the bed with an ease that makes your thighs tremble. “Thought this was what you wanted sweet girl? Wanted me to use you, take what’s mine?” He’s right, and that self-sabotaging part of your brain perks up, bites back against that look that shows he thinks he’s broken you this easily. It’s that part that makes you hold his gaze, reaching up to wrap a hand around his wrist and force his fingers deeper into your throat- refusing to blink as tears pool at the corners of your eyes. Moaning low and deep around his fingers at how impossibly full you are. It snaps something within him, and you coyly add the last shred of his self-control to the list of everything else he’s given you.

The pace is brutal, every harsh thrust bruising against your cervix tightening the coil in your stomach tighter and tighter. His hands are everywhere. In your mouth, in your hair, using his grip on your throat to pull your body down to meet his thrusts. You feel his cock throb inside you at your hoarse gasps every time he loosens his hold on your throat. It makes heat bloom in your stomach, how you can tell there’s a touch of guilt in how much he likes it, likes feeling you breathe and feeling how easy it is for him to stop it. His mouth never leaves your skin; alternating between licking, sucking and biting down harshly, rolling your skin between his teeth. Only stopping to assess his work, groaning appreciatively at the bruises littering your chest and neck.

You’re so close you can feel it, feel how one brush of your fingers against your clit would send you over the edge, whining in protest when his hand grabs yours before you reach it. His thrusts don’t let up as he grasps your jaw, making you look at him, “Careful little slut, I don’t need to remind you what happens when people touch my property without permission.” the thought makes your head spin.

“Please I need to cum, please Sir I’m so close” your words melt together cut off as he pulls out flipping you over like you weigh nothing, dragging your hips up to slide back into your wet heat your mewls of protest at the sudden emptiness muffled by his hand shoving your face into the sheets. Both of your wrists trapped in his hand behind your back the second one tries to slip between your legs. “Greedy whore, what did I say? You do as you’re told or you get nothing. You wanna cum you’re going to do it just like this” he sneers, the honey drawl of his voice gravelly. “Please I can’t I need you to touch me” you whine into the sheets, damp with drool and tears desperation making your voice crack around the words, every slam of his hips pushing you closer but never quite there.

He hauls you up so your back is flush against his chest, skin hot and damp with exertion. One of your hands clings to his forearm as he resumes his hold on your throat and he takes your other in his leading it to rest on your stomach pushing it down so you can feel the bulge of his cock through your skin. “Feel how deep I am baby, you’re so fucking close I can feel it, can feel that pretty cunt choking my cock. Making a mess all over my jeans. Giving you what you wanted aren’t I? Look at you, so fucking ruined, look so beautiful crying for me” And he’s right he’s so fucking deep you feel consumed, caged in his big arms feeling how easy it is for him to hold you up against him while he takes you, his lips pressed against your ear, that deep voice reverberating through you drowning out your ragged moans. “Come on sweetheart let me have it, let me feel you gush around my cock” it’s enough to push you over the edge and he almost drops you with how hard you spasm in his arms, vision burning white at the edges. Cunt molten hot squeezing around his cock, still riding your high as he buries a groan in your hair as he cums.

He doesn’t pull out yet, just collapses pulling you with him, arranging your limbs into a marginally more comfortable position as he presses tender kisses over the marks on your shoulders. “You okay darlin? Need anything, water, you hungry?” You giggle at how quickly he switches back to fussing over you. “Can we do that again?” you ask innocently, playing with his fingers where they lay wrapped around your waist. “Give me a month to catch my breath first, got me fucking like a twenty year old.” You bring his hand to your lips pressing a kiss to his knuckles, “nah, a twenty year old couldn’t make me cum like you do” you whisper. He hums appreciatively against your skin, nuzzling his face into your neck murmuring how much he loves you as you fall asleep.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fic

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queenangst · 4 months

Note

If you want to - 6 from the Richard Siken prompts for Gerard/Elody? :)

[read on ao3]

i was finding myself sleepless and he was running out of lullabies

The last night Elody sees Gerard, they argue.

She doesn’t remember all the words, thinking back on it. The same song and dance, stepping on each other’s toes and barely holding onto each other. She’d looked at him and thought he’d never seemed further away than he had in that moment, across the table.

The anger has been a constant for a while. It sits heavy like a stone in her chest, rolling around and hitting the sides of her ribs.

Elody doesn’t want to fight with her husband. She loves him—she has to keep telling herself that, she loves him—but it’s so hard in the moment to not snap back at him. But love alone isn’t enough. Love doesn’t repair the sieged walls, and love doesn’t repair the cracks forming in her heart. Both require work.

Anger is a weapon.

Not everyone is a fighter. Things are better, when not everyone is a fighter, and that’s why she’d fallen in love in the first place. Gerard has never been a fighter.

She doesn’t need him to wield a sword. Armies need healers and runners and support. Elody can handle the fighting. She needs him to hold her hand, to listen to her, to support her. She needs him in the war room, taking letters and planning.

She needs him next to her.

Where he belongs. Like he’d promised, the day he’d took her hand in his own, human one, and promised to spend the rest of his life next to her.

The fight doesn’t end the way it usually does. It usually ends somewhere in between them. Gerard promises he will think about the war. Elody promises she will think about home. They leave the table and don’t.

“Come on,” Gerard pleads. He tries to soothe her. He tells her he loves her; it is a drop of water trying to douse a rush of flames. “Elody…”

That night, the fight ends ugly. Elody shouts with a commander’s lungs and then storms away.

She feels bad after walking out. Just not bad enough to walk back in and apologize, yet.

Her general catches her in the hall.

“Princess Elody,” he says. She’s grateful for the low torchlight so he doesn’t see how her eyes have betrayed her and filled with tears. “I don’t mean to interrupt—”

“That’s alright. You haven’t interrupted. What’s the matter?”

He hands her a sheaf of papers. “Scout reports. Snowhold marches on us.”

The war began as a few border skirmishes through the City of Chimneys. Testing, she thought, their limits.

Then an entire patrol was killed, save for one soldier who rode straight through the gates of the castle. She’d been spared purposely. It was a warning, she said, from the Tsar of Snowhold.

Greenleigh could surrender, or it would be taken by force.

Her patience grew thinner. Their arguments grew louder. Her nights grew sleepless.

What’s left of her anger dissipates and leaves only dread. “Estimated arrival?”

“...Within days, my lady. Three, at most, if not sooner.”

Stories come in threes, but so do misfortunes.

Elody doesn’t know how to bear it, but she must. She always has to.

Gerard finds her by the pond. There isn’t enough space in her heart for hope at the moment, but she does feel a bit of warmth when she sees him, like winter giving way slightly for spring.

“Elody,” he murmurs.

“I don’t want to hear it right now, Gerard.”

She’s too tired to fight. Her head feels like it’s being pounded against an anvil.

He pauses by the reeds, glancing briefly at the muddy bank, then crosses over to meet her. The mud squelches a little when he steps into it with fine shoes, and Gerard makes a face at it. But he sits next to her anyway.

“You can rest,” he says. “Elody, you—you’ve done everything you can now. Come to bed for a while. We still have time.”

She wants to say yes.

How can she rest, while enemies march on Greenleigh? How can she rest, when the outer villages have fled here for protection?

She shouldn’t even be here, at the pond, but she’d been desperate for even just a moment of reprieve. The waters are calm and still. There are no frogs, only a prince.

“I can’t.”

Elody has begun to dress in full mail, in case.

She doesn’t want to think about war, but she doesn’t want Gerard to not think about war. Instead of thinking about either, she just… leans over. Gerard makes a surprised sound when she tucks her head into the crook of his shoulder. It can’t be comfortable, with her pauldron pressing into him, but after a moment Gerard reaches up and runs his fingers carefully through her hair. Webbing is beginning to form between them, a fact Elody doesn’t know what to do with.

Gerard clears his throat awkwardly, and like he used to when they were young, begins to sing. There’s a slight croak to his voice. “ ...Be still, love, don’t cry, sleep like you’re rocked by the stream…”

She closes her eyes for a moment. The hazy smell of water and sweet lilies lulls her.

"Sleep and remember this river lullaby… and I’ll be with you when you dream."

Elody doesn’t sleep. She listens to Gerard sing, and tries to remember it. This is the first time in a while, she thinks, that she’s felt close to peace with him.

It isn’t going to last. She knows it won’t. Maybe tomorrow they will place their swords to each other’s hearts. Maybe tomorrow he will try to sing her another lullaby, and she won’t hear it at all. Maybe tomorrow he will say I love you, again, and he will look more frog than prince, and Elody will feel more fighter than lover. There are only so many lullabies. There are only so many times the skin can split, before it will begin to scar.

The song drifts off. Elody stands, wordless, and strides away.

Later she will ask herself what went wrong. Later she will ask herself why she didn’t stay.

She can’t find the strength to apologize for the argument earlier. Gerard doesn’t say sorry, either. She turns her back and leaves him by the pond.

Three days is a lie. With dawn comes misfortune. The castle crumbles. The sound of screaming fills the street, and Elody raises her golden mace, her lily-flower shield, and sees nothing of her husband.

They fight bitterly. They lose. When they retreat, Elody looks for him, but Gerard is gone somewhere far from her. This isn’t what I wanted, she wants to scream. This isn’t what I asked for.

She tries to remember the last snatch of lullaby he’d sung for her. The memory is too soft on the banks of war, and it pulls away from her, sinking into the water and slipping away.

#ok so i wrote half of this months ago and then uhhhh picked it up again to finish it!#d20 #d20 fanfic #dimension 20 #d20 neverafter #enjoy!#sorry this took so long lol i'm finally getting back to these

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dearly-beeloved · 1 month

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The Oyster that Birthed Pearl

some Pearl backstory~

taglist: @one-winged-dreams @kylars-princess

It had gone on long enough; the curiosity was too much to bear now.

She was always wearing that necklace, every occasion they attended together, she’d had it on, casual days they saw each other around, it was on (though sometimes her clothing hid it). Even in the Dreamscape, she had it on, complimenting her dress shockingly well.

Aventurine kept studying Pearl, noting the way the pearls moved as her body did, while she watched events of Aideen Park—people dancing with the band of sentient instruments, playing the Dreamy Slots, chatting at the bar under the massive glasses of sparkling beverages.

“All right, I have to know,” he murmured, reaching over and hooking his fingers in the necklace—not pulling when that could break the chain, instead pressing his fingers to her so his manicured nails rested against her throat. “Why do you wear this? You don’t even take it off when you’re naked.” His voice softened a little. “Who put a collar on you?”

What else could it be? When they woke up together, every time, even after that first morning, she’d had the pearl choker around her neck. He was aware of it because it had become almost part of the routine. He woke to the press of her lips at the top of his head, and his eyes opened to see a pearl settled in the dip of her collarbone, like the strand of gold was a halo above his head, still rested on her chest. And she never said anything about it, just played with it every so often. Maybe it was something with sentimental value, but even heirlooms came off sometimes. This never did.

He watched Pearl’s eyelids sink so low she’d practically closed her eyes, and then she looked up at him. “I’ll tell you the story, but I’m going to need a drink first.”

“Sure. Anything specific?”

“No, just something that isn’t too strong.”

And off he went. While he waited, he thought about all the time he’d spent waiting on Penacony—most notably behind the Trailblazer during her room mix-up.

He hoped she was enjoying the room—it was a nice one. He’d told her about all the luck that the floor and number and everything would have brought, but he knew deep down he didn’t need that luck. He had his own.

Maybe Pearl’s necklace was a good luck charm.

Maybe it was to make her look mature. She had already been asked before for identification to prove that she was an adult; only adults were allowed in Golden Hour. But she did have that proof of her age. She had at least some money. Why did she have him getting her drinks?

He sighed, just grateful that she trusted him so implicitly to handle her drinks rather than take the same ‘Sigonians are liars and dangerous’ tack that so many had.

“Two glasses of the white wine,” he said when it was his turn.

He carried them back to where Pearl still stood, but once she had the glass in her hand, she laced the fingers of her free hand with his and led him away to somewhere a little more quiet.

“So we can talk,” she explained.

He just nodded.

“The necklace is one of the few things I have from before I struck out on my own,” she said finally, worrying a pearl as she spoke. “And I’m sure you saw the Bloodhound Family member give me a weird look when they looked at my ID the other day—my name pops up in databases as having been charged as a jewel thief.”

“Are you a jewel thief?” he asked. “Because I have to commend you for playing such a long con, charming me into bed to scam casinos out of money, if that’s what you’ve been doing this whole time.”

“No!” She cried. “Aeons, I would never—when we had— all of that is sincere. It’s real. …but these were the jewels. So a long time ago, but after I’d finished my education, I borrowed some jewelry from a casual friend at the time, because we were going to a party.”

Aventurine was silent, occasionally sipping his wine, but mostly keeping his eyes trained on Pearl, listening.

“We crossed some borders to get to the party, and there was an all-points bulletin about a stolen pearl necklace from some big designer house smuggled through border checkpoints. Well, the party got raided, and I was caught in possession of stolen goods. I was arrested, dragged off, it was a whole spectacle. I spent three days in lockup before people were able to veritably vouch that I had borrowed the necklace not knowing its provenance, and then the day I was released, it came out that these aren’t even real pearls.” She sighed. “They gave me the fake pearls back when they let me go, but the friend who had pawned them off on me had already skipped town in the time I was detained, so I figured I might as well keep them.”

“And you never take them off?”

“I don’t have a case to protect them. They’re safer on my neck than jammed in my purse or left on my bedroom floor. Now the necklaces are mass-produced, so no one who sees these would guess they were the stolen replica, and I’ve tried to avoid associating my current life with those events. But when people see my name…”

“If you were exonerated, why don’t you have your record expunged so no one sees your name connected to the crime anymore?” Aventurine asked, finishing his glass of wine.

“I don’t have the means.”

He gave her a sly smile. “Why don’t you have someone you’re intimate with from the IPC contact the right people to have your record expunged?”

Her mouth fell slightly open. “I’d never… thought about that. I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you.”

“I’m offering, Pearl. Use me as a resource. I’m sure you can make it up to me, if you really feel you have to.” He winked.

She lunged over the table, whispering her name into his ear so he could have her records looked into. “Ooh, that’s a pretty name. The oyster that birthed Pearl.” He played with the chain around her neck again, keeping her from sitting down so he could turn his head, kiss her cheek, and whisper in her ear this time. “What designer did these come from? You should have the genuine ones.”

#fic #five card stud ♠️

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aamalaaa · 2 years

Text

Fluffing Pillows 🔞

| idol Taehyung! x reader

| genre: romance, smutt with no plot without smutt? look idk ok

| warnings: kissing, making out, swearing, wet hair taehyung (!!!!)

| word count: 1k.

| a/n: this was born from another hilarious game of MASH and has not plot, just fantasies lmao

I hope you enjoy!

When you accepted this job as a housekeeper in a beautiful condo situated at the heart of Tokyo, you couldn’t possibly consider it would turn out this way. You’ve been keeping to yourself, trying to be as invisible as you possibly could.

The first time you’d seen the mysterious, gorgeous man for whom you work for while you were cleaning the kitchen one morning, the air was knocked out of your lungs. He looked absolutely adorable with his white shirt, grey sweatpants and tousled dark chocolate hair.

His gaze lingered on you, he seemed shocked. You quietly muttered something along the lines of “good morning”, immediately feeling insecure in the presence of the enchanting man.

Since then, every time you came over and the man was present, he would cast glances your way, most of them lingered a little too long and you always felt self conscious. He’d chat with you, asking about your life, telling you about his plans for the day.

When he’d pass behind you to go grab something from the cupboard while you were in the kitchen, he’d always lay a light touch at the small of your back, letting you know he was there. You’d shudder every-time, the touch sending millions of subtle electric shocks all over your body, heat prickling at the pit of your stomach without exception.

You were very aware that your “friendship”, if you could call it that, was bordering on unprofessional and you tried your best to avoid him whenever you came over. But it seemed like the man was very intent on conversing with you, making your job almost impossible. You couldn’t even recall how many times you wished those long, slender fingers would brush against your collarbones, arms, stomach and then lower and lower…

You snap back to reality, away from the dangerous daydream you’d found yourself being caught in more times than you’d care to admit. You were currently making Taehyung’s bed while he was in the shower. You knew because when you got into his apartment you first heard the sound of water and then, the man’s low baritone voice singing a song you didn’t recognize. You froze on the spot, your imagination going absolutely wild despite your unrelenting efforts to stay sane. Except, how could you ever stay sane when you were frequently in the man’s vicinity?

You sigh and fluff the bed’s pillows. You knew you would have to drop the job soon, getting in any kind of “situationship” with this man could be very detrimental to your sanity. It couldn’t possibly go on like this, one day you’d cross a line you shouldn’t, and you were his employee. You just, couldn’t.

With a grunt you drop the pillow you were fluffing, swivel and storm towards the bedroom door, your mind is a whole mess. All because of Kim Taehyung. Why’d he HAVE to be so goddamn irresistible?

Before you can even realize what’s happening, you bump into something hot and wet. You freeze, your hands are on a VERY firm chest. You slowly gulp and look up, only to meet a pair of dark, obsidian orbs staring at you. You notice his expression going from confused to dark, you shudder and your whole body starts trembling.

“Y/N?” he whispers/asks in a low, barely perceptible voice. You’re still standing half an inch away from the man, hands on his chest. Through your brain fog, you register fingers grazing the small of your back. Your breath hitches in your throat, you feel dizzy.

“W-what a-are you..?” You barely manage to get the words out, stuttering along the way.

You notice from your peripheral vision his right hand coming to rest on your jawline, barely caressing it. But it’s enough to send your senses into overload.

“Shhh” he brings his thumb to the corner of your lips, teasing it. You stare at him, wide eyed. How is this happening? Your brain cannot even begin to comprehend anything that’s going on, too busy staring into a dark gaze that’s lingering on your body, your waist, your breasts, your neck. Your mind turns to mush, you close your eyes and let a out a wobbly sigh, leaning into the man’s touch.

He puts a little pressure on your jawline with his thumb, index resting on the side of your cheek, your very very heated cheek, lifting your head towards his. Your eyes snap open, he’s staring at you, eyes peering into yours, looking for the answer to a question that hasn’t been uttered yet. But you know.. you know.

“Can I..?” he looks at you intently, you shiver and nod, heart going a thousand miles a minute.

You see him leaning towards your mouth, your eyes close once again, the view before you too dizzying to keep them open. Then you feel it, soft pillowy lips tentatively pressing against yours. You can’t help the whimper that escapes you, swallowed whole by Taehyung’s mouth. Your lips start moving in tandem, you feel his hand gripping your waist, your back arching into his strong touch. Your right hand comes up to lightly grip his wet hair while your left one cradles the side of his face.

Your whole body feels alight, extremities tingling, fire consuming you whole. You can’t think, can’t breathe. You feel your stomach twisting, arousal coursing through you, your body responding to something else, something you can’t explain, with no way to stop it. Teeth lightly biting your swollen bottom lip, tongue gliding against your mouth asking for more. You eagerly oblige.

You barely notice how or when your back hits the wall, too enthralled by the man that had been plaguing your wildest fantasies and his hand, slowly slipping under your shirt and up your ribcage, leaving a hot fiery aftertouch wherever his hand trails.

He breaks the kiss off, lips barely an inch away from each other’s, both breathless.

“God, I’ve wanted this for so long…” He breathes out, sending shivers down your spine. You look deep into his half-shut eyes, heartbeat thundering in your chest and at that moment, you decide you’ll deal with the consequences of your actions later, not now. Right now, your brain can’t process shit.

“Yeah?” you reply, mouth curving into a smirk.

“Show me how much”

#taehyung #taehyung x reader #taehyung x y/n #taehyung fic #taehyung drabble #taehyung x you #bts fic #bts x you #bts x reader #bts drabble

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christallise · 2 years

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Ooooh congrats on your milestone sweetie, I'm happy for you, your work is very fresh to read and i love how you word different sensations<3 may I please request a dom faery!Changbin finding a photographer!reader (afab) in the woods with the prompt: “You know, I could always get you off right here, right now.” please? Or you can scratch off the faery concept if you want. Hope Tumblr doesn't eat my ask jdjsjdjd Thank you in advance! ☁️

hi there!! thank you so much for the kind compliment, i sincerely appreciate 💕 i hope this is what you were looking for!! i had to cut this for length cause i could seriously have written a whole fic about it nevermind a drabble hehe!! maybe one day ;;

“You know, I could always get you off right here, right now.”

Deep in the hidden reaches of the High Forest, bordered by messy brambles and mossy fauna that stretches as far as one’s eyes can see; you find yourself lost. After hours of aimless wandering through winding paths that disappear and reappear through leafy shrubs, you finally find an opening in the trees; a grove with an oasis situated in its centre and you thank the Gods that the undergrowth here has waned. Though you are lost, at least the vermillion sunset casts the perfect canvas for your photography; finding your way back becomes a passing thought in the back of your mind. The golden hour provides you with photos anyone would envy and you’re sure that you would make a hefty amount of coin for them.

It’s just as you’re beginning to pack up your things and venture back into the thicket of trees that you hear a sound not unlike an arrow striking a tree. Curiosity gets the better of you and you venture towards the sound, clutching your trusty dagger in your fist. As you approach the source of the noise, you begin to feel a sense of dread and contemplate turning back.

“‘Miss?”

You almost jump out of your skin, spinning on your heels only to be faced with a dark haired man a quite a bit taller than yourself with pointed ears adding at least two inches to his height. He looks at you with curious eyes, his head lopped to the side. When he gets a good look at you, his eyes widen.

“You’re a human?” he says with a bite of his lip, “What’s a little human doing this far into the forest when it’s so unsafe?”

You’re aware of this, which is why you back away slowly from the creature; you’d heard of the fae that roam these woods but never did you consider actually bumping into one. As you back away, he takes a step forward.

“I’ve never met a human before,” he muses, eyeing you with fascination, “So cute and small.”

“Thank you?” You say because that’s all your mind will allow. When he chuckles darkly, you wonder just what you’ve stepped into.

“Changbin,” he says while outstretching his hand, “and you are?”

“Y/n,” you say, taking the handshake.

“And what are you doing so deep into these woods?”

“Taking pictures,” you say, motioning towards the camera slung around your neck, “It’s breathtakingly beautiful here.”

Changbin nods in agreement, his ears bobbing gently. “True, though, I can think of something even more beautiful than this.”

“Oh?”

“A little human lost in the forest,” he says with a smirk, leaning against the bark of a nearby tree, “Human’s really are something else.”

You’re at a loss for words as Changbin neatly crosses his arms over his chest and your attention falls on just how built he is; his arms threaten to tear at the fabric of his shirt. Locals at the inn had talked about how tiny and delicate the fae are, Changbin seems to be a rare breed.

“You need to find your way home, don’t you little one?”

Changbin asks and when you nod, he grins. “Tell you what, I’ll cut you a deal.”

You decide to hear the fae out, despite their trickster nature. Deep down, you know it’s going to be something self-indulgent but you have no way home and if you are honest with yourself, Changbin is very much your type.

“I get you off, right here, right now,” Changbin says nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders, “Then I show you the way home, what do you say?”

Of course. You know you could probably find your own way home but something is so tantalising about Changbin’s offer. You mull over your options; something feels so strange but so exhilarating about fooling around with a stranger in the woods. “Alright, deal.”

That’s how you two end up tangled in each other’s arms, lips smacking and tongues tied together as Changbin’s hands roam every inch of your skin. The fae wastes no time in making quick work of your shirt, yanking it over your head and cupping your tits in his hands. You moan into the kiss, feeling your underwear dampen as his fingers pinch and pull at your nipples.

“You are so loud,” he’s prideful but it only furthers your arousal, something about the way he smiles so wickedly makes the knot in your stomach tie tighter. “You like getting off where you could be caught?”

“N-no one comes through here,” your argument is as feeble as your attempt to stifle your moans as his hand slips beneath the waistband of your underwear, “We won’t get caught.”

Changbin laughs, dipping his finger into your folds, circling your clit with a gentle pressure. “There are other fae around, you know. Any one of them could wander over here and see you all messy just for me.”

He’s right but it only spurs you on; the adrenaline courses through your veins as Changbin’s pace quickens on your bud. You’re so close already, you can feel the familiarity of heat pooling in your stomach and then — he withdraws his hand and you mewl, whimpering like a pup.

“Are all humans this easy?” You don’t have a chance to answer, his fingers push into your mouth with a force that makes you almost gag. “Suck.”

Compliant and keen to please, you do so with resolve. Even with Changbin’s fingers so painfully deep down your throat, you maintain composure. Your tongue twirls around them, coating them in saliva in preparation of what is to come. Changbin watches you with dazzled eyes, absolutely spellbound by how well you’re doing. “That’s it,” he says, watching as your throat takes his fingers to the knuckle, “Fuck you’re incredible.”

Satisfied with the preparation of his fingers, he returns to your core and slips a finger inside you; grinning when you hurriedly clasp your hands over your mouth.

“Don’t want to be loud now, hm?” he asks, adding a second finger to the mix and hooking them so perfectly against your spot and pumping them in rhythm. “Such a shame, you sound so pretty when you moan.”

Now you’re definitely at his mercy, your body slumps against the tree as he works magic on you — he slips two fingers inside you easily, curling so expertly against your spot. You’re writhing, thrashing in want and fighting to keep yourself standing while Changbin scoffs in arrogance behind you. “Look how well you take it,” he says, unable to hide his smugness when you hiss through your teeth, “So easy, aren’t we?” And he’s right — you cannot argue in your current state. Especially not when he adds a third finger to the mix, relentlessly pounding against your spot as you grab hold of him for dear life. He’s laughing now, watching you split at the seams as you cum hard around his fingers, inciting you as you do. “Fuck, you’re clenching so hard aren’t you? Cumming for me like a good girl.”

When you fall from your high, it’s both mental and physical; your body slumps limp against the tree and Changbin simply watches in devious pleasure, beaming with pride.

“Aw, tired out?” he asks with a grin, watching as you wearily stand and attempt to make yourself presentable again. When you feebly nod, it makes him chuckle.

“Next time, I wanna feel that pretty mouth on my cock.”

#ask response #cloud anon ☁️#smut drabble #changbin smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #changbin x reader #changbin x y/n #skz x reader #skz x y/n #changbin req

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digital-corruption · 2 years

Text

Let's get this show on the road...

Also, geography, smeography.

Unrecognisable Part 15

“What? Now!?” my sleep was interrupted by Jake. He was trying to speak in a hushed voice on the phone as to not wake me, but he couldn’t hold back on his distress any longer. “Yeah, I know the situation is shit, but no, you don’t get paid until after we collect. That’s the deal. That’s always been the deal,” he stressed. “Central fucking station? Could you have chosen a more exposed location? If I had wanted convenience, I would’ve told you to fucking deliver it to me directly. No, leave it. I’ll get it, but if anything goes wrong, you’re not getting another fucking cent from me. If you even think about crossing us, I will rip your system apart and leave you to the vultures.” Jake tossed his phone on the table angrily.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes groggily, “Jake? What’s wrong?”

“Sorry, to have woken you, but we need to leave now. That asshole has already made the drop without telling me,” he shook his head, then slammed his hands on the table. “We need to get it before some idiot finds it first.”

“So we get it and come back?” I questioned.

“Given that he’s chosen the worst possible location for a drop, I doubt we’ll be able to get out without notice. I expect we will have to make an immediate run for the border,” he explained as he closed up his laptop. “We leave in 10. Pack everything. We won’t be back.”

Hastily, I climbed out of bed and started to get changed into my clothes when I noticed my new phone on the bedside table. I picked it up on turned it on. Jake had given it my old lock screen. Curiously, I entered my PIN and sure enough the phone unlocked. I smiled, but immediately locked it again and shoved it into my back pocket. Now was not the time to be playing with it.

I finished getting dressed and saw Jake’s hoodie that I slept in on the bed. Rather than wearing my jacket, I decided to wear it instead. As soon as I pulled it over my head, I noticed Jake staring at me.

“Oh, did you mind?” I questioned.

“No, not at all,” he shook his head. “It looks good on you.”

I blushed as he went back to packing up his things. I grabbed my jacket and the extra clothing and shoved them into Jake’s clothes bag. It was quite full, but I managed to get it to fit.

“Hey, eat this,” Jake said as he pulled out the containers from the fridge. “It’s cold, but I don’t know when we’ll be able to eat food again.”

Jake scooped up some of the leftovers with a clean spoon and then practically shoved it into my mouth before I could react. I nodded and he slipped the spoon out of my mouth and began shovelling the food into his mouth. He glanced at me and gestured questioningly to see if I wanted more. I opened my mouth and he fed me the next spoonful. He continued to alternate between the two of us until the container was empty. Then we each finished getting ready.

“All right, are you ready?” Jake asked as he slung the backpack containing his laptop over his shoulders.

I nodded as I lifted the clothes bag and my handbag, “Yup, let’s go.”

“Ok, it’s early, no one will likely see us exiting. I will drop the key into the drop box at the front. I normally try to avoid walking the streets during daylight, but as it is unavoidable, please keep your hood up and your head down. Don’t look at any cameras. If you can see a camera lens, then they can see you. I will walk in front, try to stay 10 meters behind - no more, no less. And walk where I walk. If I jump any barricades, you are to jump the same barricades,” he explained as he pulled his hood up.

“Wait, why 10 meters?” I frowned.

“If we travel too close together, people are more likely to notice us,” he answered.

“You’ve done this before. With someone else I mean,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, a long time ago. A story for another time, maybe,” he glanced away. “We’ll ride the express to Central, collect the documents, then get on the train for the border.”

“What if we get split up?” I questioned.

“That’s why I’m telling you this. If we get split up, track 5 at Central, get on the train, head for the border. I’ll pick up the documents and meet you on it,” he clarified.

“You’ll definitely be on it?” I asked worried.

“Of course I will,” he smiled. “Even if I have to hack the server and force it to do an emergency stop.”

“Jake,” I bit my lip. “I’m scared.”

Jake put his hand on the back of my head to pull me closer and kissed my forehead, “You’ll be fine. I won’t let them catch you.”

“That’s not what I am scared about,” I narrowed my eyes.

He laughed, “I won’t let them catch me either.”

“Jake,” I tugged on his hoodie.

“Yes?” he tilted his head as he pulled his mask up over his nose and mouth.

“I love you,” my voice shook.

Jake paused and leant his forehead down against mine, “I love you, too, MC.”

After a moment, Jake opened the motel room door and we quickly exited. The hallway was quiet as we headed swiftly to the stairs. Surprisingly, even the stairs were empty, but then, it was only 7 am. The sun was already up so the rest of the tenants had retired.

Jake slipped the room key into the drop box in one swift move and then opened the door to the outside. I silently wished Patrick Kempsey of Toronto well and thanked him for paying for our stay.

Jake glanced side to the side before stepping out onto the sidewalk. I soon followed behind. The streets were nearly empty, aside from the occasional early worker heading to their job. Jake led us, twisting and turning on an indirect path to the subway station. Now my sense of direction wasn’t the greatest, but even I could tell his path was weaving back and forth. I glanced back at one point when I realised, we had rejoined a road we only just left. I noticed a set of CCTV cameras and I understood his bizarre path had us avoiding them. I remembered he mentioned had stayed at that motel before, but still I was impressed he had remembered the positions of the cameras well enough to remember how to avoid them. After a while we had reached a subway station entrance and Jake went down the stairs, clinging to the left side. Following 10 paces behind, I stuck to the left side of the stairs. As I went down I noticed the camera and lowered my head to avoid its notice.

Just as I reached the bottom, I saw Jake jumping a turnstile to head into the station. I quickly glanced around and noticed that the guard at the security station was hardly awake. Cautiously, I jumped the turnstile too and went up to the platform just as the next subway arrived. I hopped on right away, but it was noticeably more crowded. I looked around nervously until I spotted Jake at the end of the car. He was leaning against the wall beside the door watching me. Suddenly the subway started moving, which caught me off guard, but I quickly recovered by grabbing the handlebar. I swear I saw him laughing at me.

Inside the subway car, there were a few digital screens rotating through various advertisements, but they suddenly cut to the news.

“Authorities remind all citizens to be on the look out for the dangerous criminal known as ‘Nym-0s’, believed to still be in the area,” the reporter droned on.

The people in the subway, didn’t pay much attention to the news announcement, but I still lowered my head and tried to avoid all eye contact. Out of nowhere, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I pulled it out and had a look thinking it was Jake.

Jessy: Please contact me ASAP!!

I stared at the screen baffled. I wasn’t sure what I should do and Jake was too far away for me to ask. I opened my phone and sent a quick response.

MC: What’s wrong?

Jessy: I am sorry for bothering you so suddenly. It’s just I thought you should know.

MC: Know what?

Jessy: They’re looking to release him, MC!

Jessy: They’re looking to release him on good behaviour!

MC: What?

Jessy: I know, right?

Jessy: Hannah’s still got another two years…

Jessy: But he gets a fucking parole hearing!

MC: How could they do that?

Jessy: Please, I know it’s a big ask, but please, I beg of you, come to his hearing!

Jessy: We’re all going to speak against him. The more the merrier, you know?

Jessy: Please, we can’t let him get out before Hannah. It’s just not fair!

MC: When is it?

Jessy: 2 pm tomorrow.

Jessy: I know. It’s such short notice. We only just found out.

MC: Jessy, I’ll be there.

MC: That monster will not get out early! He will see every second of his sentencing.

I glanced up and realised the subway had already reached Central station. I quickly jumped off and started walking down the platform after Jake, but as Jessy sent me the location for the hearing, I got distracted by my phone again. By the time I looked up again, Jake was out of sight. I panicked and I went through my phone looking for a way to message him, but just like my old phone, there was nothing. I realised I needed to start heading to platform 5, so I headed for the escalators, keeping my head to my phone as much as possible. I opened the map app and looked at our current location in comparison with Duskwood, which was across the border to the east. The train we were going to get on was going to take us southwest. At the top of the escalator I went up to one of the route maps to examine it. If we take the train leaving platform 9, that would take us to the east border. Then we could change trains to head towards Duskwood. But I had no way of telling Jake. If I get on the train at Platform 5 though, we’d lose a lot of hours heading in the wrong direction that we might not make the hearing. To make matters worse, we probably have to head back to Central station, which would be suicidal if they detect us.

Ok so head to the east border instead. Next train was leaving in five minutes. The next train after that wasn't for another three hours. Definitely cannot miss the train. Only problem, I have to find Jake and let him know that the plan had changed in the busiest train station of the city at the cusp of rush hour.

My train of thought was interrupted by the sound of an annoying announcement for lost property. I cursed it for a moment, but then I realised that was my solution.

“Hi, excuse me,” I approached the information counter.

“Yes, how can I help you?” the woman asked cheerfully.

“Can you make an announcement for me? I lost my friend in all this chaos. I just want him to know to meet me at Platform 9. Is that ok?” I asked nervously.

“Mmhmm, sure dear. What was your friend’s name?” the woman questioned.

“Patrick Kempsey,” I answered.

“Sure thing,” she nodded. I stepped back as she got ready to make the announcement. “Your attention please. Would Patrick Kempsey please head to Platform 9? Your friend is waiting for you there.”

“Thank you,” I bowed my head slightly in appreciation. The woman smiled and went back to her work.

Now for the next part, getting on the train. At this point I realised Jake never actually mentioned that part. He just said to get on the train. Normally I'd pay with my phone so curiously I pulled it out again and checked the Pay app. Sure enough there was a card attached to it. And sure enough, that card wasn’t in my name. I rolled my eyes and went up to a ticketing machine and bought a ticket anyway. Time was running out, so as soon as the ticket printed I snatched it and head for the escalator for the platform.

Just as I reached the bottom, the train rolled in. I looked all around, but I couldn’t find Jake anywhere. Passengers had finished exiting and now people were pushing into the cars. The train would only wait for another minute. I had to get on and hope Jake would catch up. I started to regret changing the plan so suddenly, but I just couldn’t rest knowing that a monster was about to be released early.

I took a seat beside the window on the track side of the train hoping I would catch a glimpse of Jake. As the doors closed and the train rolled away, that hope turned to despair.

#duskwood #duskwood fanfiction #duskwood jake x mc #duskwood jake #unrecognisable fanfic

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