Warning: power imbalance, dark content, and all around sexiness.
Summary: your new job includes duties you don’t expect. (actor!Steve Rogers, actress reader)
I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
You poke at your plate of fruit, plucked from the tray at the food services table. It’s a brief break at the interlude of the script. You chew on a chunk of pineapple, taking the whole piece off the toothpick awkward as it refuses to split. As you gnash the mouthful, a figure approaches.
“Hm, you’re the first actress I’ve seen eat at one of these things.” Steve stops in front of you.
“Um,” you hum and swallow. “Well, it’s a long day.”
“Just be mindful of your costars, you know? No garlic, no onion.” He intones.
“Huh, yeah, I guess that makes sense,” you nod. “Think it’s going well.”
“You think,” he drawls.
“Um, well, so far, I like the script.” You shrug.
“Nick’s got a good eye for these things. Very selective,” Steve says. “It’s our third film together. Would’ve been my fourth with Sharon. Too bad she’s dipped out.”
You fidget. The mention of your predecessor is slightly edged. He isn’t saying so but you can’t help but feel he’s telling you you don’t belong. That imposter syndrome creeps up your neck.
“She’s a great actress.”
“She’s pretty.” His lips curve slightly. “She sells but she’s not winning a statue any time soon.”
“Oh, well… one can only dream,” you say.
“Yeah? Do you think you will?” He asks.
You stare at him, stabbing the toothpick into a bleeding strawberry. “I try not to fixate. I work hard and… I’m just starting out. I’ve mostly done independent, you know?”
“I know,” he assures you tersely. “I got my Oscar at 29. Six nominations since. It’s like the lottery except you have to actually be good.”
You nod. “That’s impressive.”
“It’s a good idea in this business to know your stuff.” He tuts. “So, can you guess which movie I won for? You might get lucky.”
You try not to let your face show your confusion. It’s like he’s testing you, but why?
“Can I get a hint? Year?” You ask.
He scoffs. He makes a face and says the year. He watches and waits, lifting his chin slightly.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I think I was like 11 when that came out.” You say. “But I’d love to go back and watch it.” You twist the toothpick in the flesh of the berry. “I saw your last release though. It was good.”
“Good?” He echoes darkly.
“Uh huh,” you force a smile.
His lips draw straight. “You have a seed in your teeth.”
He turns and struts away. You furrow your brow and swipe your tongue over your teeth. You stare at him as he saunters off.
Hopefully, he’s just having an off day.
📽️
You get your own trailer. That's nice. Sometimes the luxuries that can come with this job are overwhelming, even if you don't miss sharing a crowded space with two dozen other actors and stylists.
Xio, the woman who introduced herself as your stylist for the project, sits you down to start on your face. Today will be makeup tests and screen tests. The tedious little things that come before the big scenes are shot.
“Do you prefer cream or powder?” Xio asks.
“Huh, no one's ever asked before.” You respond.
She giggles. “Oh, well, I use a blend. You can't have things to shiny on camera but it helps to know your clients too. Then I know not to go too hard on one or the other.”
“Of course. Makes sense.” You nod.
“Some can be real picky. Not to mention names but they might even be your costar.” She smirks and searches her brushes.
You pick up on the hint easily. There is no shortage of opinions on set. The table read more than cemented that. It's nothing you haven't seen before. It's the nature of the city and the business. Egos always collide.
Xio starts on your face. The click and clack of brushes and lids fill the void between her chatter. She tells you that on the last set she worked, there was a big argument between artists over a hairbrush and who it belonged too.
“Label all my stuff.” She says as she leans in to brush your lashes with a wand. “Learned that early on. Worked with an older artist. Well known. Very Miranda from Devil Wears Prada. She has exhibitions and all. She claimed a particularly rare palette for herself.” She huffs. “It helps if you have a lock on your kit too.”
“Oh, wow, that's awful.” You try not to move too much. “I was on set once and we'll the hanger with my name on it was empty by the time I got down to my bra and panties. I put my clothes back on and went out. They kept it in the final cut but you know, I had two lines.”
“Really? I think Fowler would have an aneurysm if that happened on his project.” She snickers.
“You work with him a lot?”
“Sure do. I don't say a damn word to him and get the work done.” She stands up and considers you with a tilt of her head. “You have gorgeous eyes.”
There's a rattle behind you and the trailer door swings open. You lurch forward in surprise and crane to see the intruder. Steve struts in with sunglasses. Maybe he went to the wrong trailer.
“Oh, hey,” you say.
He doesn't say a word as his lips stay straight and tight. He approaches and swipes off his sunglasses. He steps around next to Xio and stares at you. You turn to look back, confused. He clucks and walks around you and peers at you in the mirror.
“Can you make her nose look smaller?”
“Excuse me?” You blurt out in surprise and a bit of offense.
“Someone's gonna point it out.” He says blithely.
Xio gives you a look then stares at Steve. You can't expect her to defend you. With all the makeup thieves, she has enough problems.
“Do you need help find your trailer?” You interject.
“Do you need help finding your manners?” He retorts. “A thank you would do you well. I'm giving you good advice.”
Your brows furrow.
“Oh, don't do that, sweetheart. The worst thing you can do is make yourself look older than you are.”
You blink. “Well, thank you for your helpful advice but I think maybe you need to get to your trailer and get your own makeup done.”
“Won't take long,” he pops his sunglasses back on. “My looks are built in.”
He slaps your shoulder and spins away. He saunters to the door and swings the door out. He stomps down the stairs as the door snaps behind him. You shake your head at Xio.
“You have a really pretty nose,” she says. “Really, it's very… Victorian.”
Warning: power imbalance, dark content, and all around sexiness.
Summary: your new job includes duties you don’t expect. (actor!Steve Rogers, actress reader)
I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
“It’s so nice to finally meet in person,” you shake Mr. Fowler’s hand. The vaunted director does so casually, signalling over your head to one of his assistants. You heard he has three. Or five. The number is never consistent.
“I enjoyed your audition tape. And your previous work.” He drawls.
“Oh, thanks–” he’s already walking away before you can finish.
You don’t take it personally. It’s not uncommon to be dismissed so bluntly in this industry. There’s always something or someone more important than you. As it is, you’re still in disbelief that you’re actually here. It’s a far jump from your typical indie set. A real mainstream production with big names behind it.
You smile and look around. You’ve done your laps; introduced yourself to the crew and your co-stars. Well, almost all. It’s a much easier task on a smaller production.
You walk along the table and find the seat with your name taped to the back of it. You pull it out and set down your bag next to the chair. You sit and pull the script waiting for you closer. Others are finding their place as Fowler quietly berates his assistant against the wall.
You pretend not to notice. You feel bad for the woman but you know better than to get involved. This could be your big break and you don’t want to blow. Even if it makes you selfish and a bit cowardly.
Fowler turns and claps his hands. “Alright, then, everyone. No time to waste.” He goes to the head of the table. “Done enough of that.”
He sits and another assistant brings him an espresso. He doesn’t acknowledge her as she puts it down. He scoops it up and sits. He signals. His assistant director, Glen, clears his throat then leans over to speak behind his hand. Fowler frowns.
“Where the hell is Rogers?” He snarls and drains his coffee, holding up the cup until it's snatched away by a frantic body.
“Here,” the star of the movie strides in: Steve Rogers. “I had a call.”
He's tall, blonde, and blue-eyed. He's Hollywood golden boy. The main character. Even in a plain henly shirt and jeans, he takes your breath away.
“Sure. It’s more important than this, I’m sure,” Fowler snipes.
“Possibly,” Steve counters and comes around the table. He approaches the empty seat next to you and drags it out. He’s not just the star of the movie, he’s your co-star. You’ve been promised billing right next to him.
“Hi,” you greet softly as a murmur goes around the table. You offer your hand. “I don’t know if you remember me. We met at the Portland awards last year.”
“I know who you are,” he ignores your hands as he grabs his script. “I know who everyone is.”
“Right, uh. Sorry.” You utter. “I’m excited to work together.”
“Sure, me too,” he says.
“We ready?” Fowler growls.
“Always ready, Nick,” Steve retorts as he opens his script.
You do the same as the entire table flips their cover. Nick rolls his eyes and doesn’t move. He signals to Glen. The assistant director begins by reading out the intro of the script, going to the shots and actions in brackets. He pauses as the dialogue begins. The table waits.
Steve begins. Effortlessly. You’re impressed at how easily he slips into his dialogue. You don’t come in until the next scene. Your stomach flutters as you follow along intently as a secondary actor reads out their first line.
“Hm,” Steve raises his hand. “Can we redo that?”
You look around. Everyone else shifts.
“Why?” Fowler sighs as he pinches his nose.
“I don’t like that. It’s not natural. How can I do the next line when it’s not meshing?”
Fowler closes his eyes and signals. They restart. They get halfway down the page and Steve has his hand up once more.
“Just get through it,” Fowler snaps. “We can work out the kinks on set.”
“The point of this is to figure out rewrites,” Steve argues.
“Are you a writer? No. Let’s go.”
“Wow, I can’t guess why Sharon walked off,” Steve scoffs.
“Rogers,” Fowler points across the table. “Keep going.”
You can’t tell whether he means keep reading or keep pushing him. You don’t want to guess. You gobsmacked by the interaction. You’ve witnessed your share of creative differences but there’s a tension between them that makes it hard to breathe.
Steve clucks and goes on. He doesn’t look at his script. He knows it by rote. He stares across at the secondary actor. His brows twitch.
The scene plays out. You can hear the nerves in the actor opposite Steve. Then comes your turn. You get through it alright. Glen takes adamant notes. Fowler stops you.
“Sweetheart,” he drawls. “Loosen up a bit.”
You nod and swallow. “Oh, sure.”
“It’s the big time. We’re not waiting on you.” He warns.
You take a breath and redo your last line.
“Better,” Fowler mutters and signals for you to keep on.
The scent shifts and it’s Steve’s turn. It’s the first meeting. You try not to think too much as he recites his line. You hit yours perfect, particularly proud of your intonation. Your ears are on fire. He is just as smooth, looking at you as he speaks.
You turn to meet his gaze as you have the line pressed into your mind. His eyes flicker and his cheek dimples. He leans over slightly. The repartee is unbroken as the dialogue bounces off seamlessly between you.
“End scene two.” Glen announces.
The table claps. You smile and join in. Your heart isn’t thrumming so hard anymore. It’s still racing but in a way that makes you feel light.
“Bravo,” Nick says dryly. “They did their fucking jobs. Let’s keep it rolling.
You turn to the next page as the assistant director announces the beginning of scene three. Steve reaches over under the table and pats your thigh. You flinch in surprise. He leans over as his arm presses to yours.
“Good job, kid.” He intones. “Try to keep up.”
“Thanks,” you whisper back, brushing your fingertips up your neck as you rest your elbow on the table. You’re not sure how genuine his words are but you won’t let them derail you.
Warning: power imbalance, dark content, obsession, and all around sexiness.
Summary: your boss is a hard man to please. (actor!bucky, assistant reader)
I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
You return with a smoothie dripping condensation down one chilled hand, and a coffee burning in the other. You slow in disappointment as you find Peter’s chair empty but the other smugly filled by your former employer. Bucky leans forward as tilts his head back and forth.
“I smell a light roast,” he sits backs and props his elbow on the arm rest.
You sniff and step into his sight of his reflection. He watches you in the mirror as you set down Peter’s smoothie on the long vanity then turn to put down the steaming cup of coffee. Bucky reaches for it, leaning forward again. He doesn’t grip the cup but your hand.
“Look at me.” He snips.
You wince as the cup bobbles onto the vanity. You tug on his grasp and look him in the face. His blue eyes storm at you as the lines of his face deepen.
“These girls don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. Look.” He gestures with his other hand. “No brightening under my eyes. Didn’t even bother to shave my neck.” He growls. “It wouldn’t be this way if someone wasn’t playing scaredy cat.”
“Let go of me,” you say calmly. His grip tightens before you can wrench away.
“Why are you playing this game?” He lowers his voice.
“You got no problem speaking up for yourself, so why don’t you tell them to redo it?” You challenge and put your other hand on his knuckles, trying to push him off.
“Because it’s not my job.” He snarls. “Girl, that boy is an idiot. I’m sure he’s a lot more work than I ever was. Come on. Come back. I’ll give you a raise.”
“I have a job.”
“Fuck off.” He growls and stands up. “It was one drunken night–”
You whine as his hold on you grows unbearable. Your bones feel ready to snap. You fidget and slap his hand.
“Let go.” You plead.
“Don’t you get it.” He backs you up until you nearly trip on Peter’s empty chair. “I can’t let go. I won’t.”
You grimace and jerk your arm helplessly. “Why?”
He takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out slow. His tongue pokes out and wets his lips. His eyes darken as he leans in, looming over you.
“Because you’re goddamn mine.” He grits.
“No–”
“Ugh, I hate screen tests.” Peter cheeps as he comes around the corner.
All at once, the crushing weight relents. Bucky lets you go and quickly turns to pick up his coffee. You watch the tension cord in his neck and your gaze trails down the bulging muscles in his arm, the memory of his strength still thrumming in your tendons.
“‘Specially with Fowler. Man’s a tight ass.” Bucky says above his coffee.
“Oh sweet! My smoothie.” Peter exults cluelessly. “Choco banana?”
You back up slowly and turn to look between the men, “That’s it.” You confirm. “Uh, Peter, I’m just going to confirm a few things with the hotel. Make sure everything’s in order.”
“Right, uh… makes sense. Oh. When was that interview with Vogue Ital- tal– i–a-no?” He struggles to enunciate with a very Mario-like accent.
“It’s in your itinerary but I’ll make sure you get there.”
“And the stylist? She has an outfit for me?” He asks hopefully as he plays with his straw.
“Sure, Peter. That’s why she’s here.”
“Ah, she’s great, isn’t she?” Bucky steps forward and puts his arm over your shoulders. “Efficient.”
“A life-saver!” Peter agrees. “Uh. where’s your assistant? Or do you have seven like Mr. Fowler?”
Bucky laughs and squeezes you closer. You chafe in his embrace. “She’s a hard act to follow. I had a few replacements but not of them could make it here so… I’m raw dogging this one. Getting my own coffee, booking my own flights…”
“Oh jeez! I could never.” Peter pouts. “Well, if you need anything, I’m sure she can help you too. We’ll mostly be at the same places, right?”
“Presser, tonight.” Bucky points and snaps his fingers. “Don’t know why they book this shit on the first day but it’s why we’re paid the big time.” His hand grazes down your arm. “Why we can pay others to look after us, right?”
“Ha, sure.” Peter slurps his smoothie and pulls out his phone. He chews on the tip. “Um… are you sure she got off her flight, okay?”
The stylist. Again.
“I’m sure she’s sleeping it off.” You reassure him. For the fifth time. “Anyway, I should go. I’m sure Fowler will need you up front soon.”
🎥
“Did she answer you?” Peter asks as you nudge him off the elevator.
“She’ll be waiting for us there. She said she labeled the outfit before you packed.” You point him down the hallway. “Really, we don’t have a lot of time.”
“I know but… my hair–”
“She can do it there.” You insist as you check your phone. “Look, you need to wash off the stuff from set anyway.”
“I know but…” He huffs. “I’m sorry, I’m just so nervous! This is like a real movie.”
“And you’re a real movie star, Peter. You’re good at what you do so just let me do my part and get you where you need to be.”
He drops his shoulders and tips his head back. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just… Everything feels so official now with you around.”
“You miss your aunt?”
“Kinda,” he sniffs.
“Ah, I think that’s your room.” You point ahead. “Got he key?”
“What? Key?” He babbles.
“Peter.”
He chuckles and digs in his pocket. “I’m kidding.” He steps ahead of you and flicks his hair out of his face. “Venice is not nice to my hair.”
“Humid, yeah,” you agree.
As the card elicits a green flash from the lock, another door clicks and startles you. A whistle draws your attention from Peter’s back. He spins around and leans on the door to open it an inch.
“Pete! What are the odds?” Bucky pokes his head out of a nearby suite. He’s shirtless and his hair is damp. You sidle closer to Peter.
“Hey, Buck. Uh Bucky. Sorry.” Peter cringes. “Yeah, uh… I thought you’d have a full villa.”
“Nah, too big for just me.” He shrugs. “Plus, I had to do this all last minute.”
You frown. Before you quit, you’d booked his trip and rooms. It wasn’t here… You try not to show your concern as you look at your phone.
“Peter, we should get ready–”
“Hey,” Bucky snaps his fingers. “We’re headed to the same place. How about we share a ride?”
“Gee, really? That’d be awesome!” Peter chimes.
You bite down and stare at the wall. You know what Bucky is doing. You just want him to stop. Give up. Whatever chip you took out of his ego, you wish he’d just find another way to fill it.
“Sure. I mean, no cars in Venice right? We’ll probably end up on the same tram anyway.” Bucky shrugs. “And it’s easy to get lost in a city like this…”
Bucky glances at you and your eyes catch for just a minute. Your brows twitch and his lips slightly curve. You look at Peter as his eyes round in admiration. Christ.
“Well, it seems you’re already well ahead of him so better get cleaned up, huh, Peter?” You prompt.
“Hmm,” Bucky hums. “She help you shower too? Never did that for me.”
“Wh-at?” Peter’s voice cracks. “N-no!”
“Kidding, kid,” Bucky winks as he lets his door open to expose more of his body, only a towel around his waist. “I know her better than anyone, she runs a strict ship.”
“Erm, yeah, sure,” Peter chuckles. “She’s right though. I can’t be late… again.”
Warning: power imbalance, dark content, obsession, age gap and all around sexiness.
Summary: You’re used to difficult clients but not in the same way as Peter Park. (actor Peter Parker, older reader)
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
“Venice?” You chew your thumb as you stare at the phone, numbers counting down the call time.
“I know it’s a long trip.” Peter’s assistant says from the other side. You retie the belt on your robe. “I could find a stylist in Venice, I guess. I have a few contacts from my previous job…”
“No, I can find my passport.” You stifle a yawn. “I can’t really turn down the contract. Works been tight.”
“Really? I appreciate. And I think Peter really liked you.” She says. “I don’t know if you can tell but he’s a bit all over the place.”
“Oh, like his hair,” you kid. “Give me the date and time. I’ll be there.”
“Sure. Uh, it’s paid for, of course. I’ll forward the ticket.” She says as you hear something chime. “Sorry, I gotta another call and– shit! Um, thanks again. Bye!”
The line clicks. Well, it sounds like she can use all the help she can get. Besides, you hear Italy is nice. If this goes well, you might get something more steady. You wouldn’t mind that at all. Peter’s young, up-and-coming, this could be your in. And after so many years of hustling from set to set.
Your phone vibrates again. You carry it into the kitchen and start on your daily smoothie. It’s a paltry replacement for your previous morning addiction. You miss your caffeine but you don’t need it. Not at your age.
It’s the plane ticket. Frantic but effective. Well, you guess you’ll be missing girls’ night. This time with a real excuse.
You’re an overpacking. An overpreparer. Your clients wonder why you have twenty different brushes and at least a dozen brands of face wipes. You can never be too ready but you’ll sacrifice some clothing to get your whole kit in the overhead.
You take your cherry smoothie to the table and sit. You scroll until your phone buzzes through the table. You don’t recognise the number.
‘Hi! Are you coming to Venice?’
You frown and flip over to the conversation. There’s no previous dialogue. It’s been ages since you got a new phone or number. You flip through your backlog of contacts.
‘Sorry. Who is this?’
‘Peter. Is this–’ the response blips up.
Peter?
‘Yes. I’m packing. I’ll be there.’ You reply.
‘Sorry. Stole your number from my assistant. She’s so busy all the time.’
‘It’s okay. Excited for the trip.’ You send back.
You put the phone down and slurp the somewhat bland sugarless blend. You’re trying to be healthier without diving into the deep end of ‘cleanses’ and ‘fasts’. You don’t need to be a Victoria Secret’s model, just comfortable.
‘What about today? Will you come by today?’
You chuckle.
‘Is something going on?’
‘I need to pack but I don’t know what to wear 🥺’
You almost laugh at the emoji. You look at the time.
‘Might take me a while.’
‘Awesome! See you soon!’ His response doesn’t show an ounce of disappointment.
You stare at the glass before you muster the energy to get up. You put saran wrap over the top and shove it in the fridge. You’ll try not to forget about it. You probably will though.
💗
You pull up to Peter’s building. You hate LA traffic but you’re grateful for the distraction. When you have travel ahead of you, you tend to fixate and agonise over every little thing that could go wrong. What if you get searched? What if you lose something? What if you miss your flight?
You buzz at the front door. Peter doesn’t answer. You try again. Huh.
You pull out your phone to text him. He could be out on the balcony. Before you can find the chat, your name comes from behind you. It’s Peter.
“Hey! Great timing!”
He wears a backwards hat, a muscle shirt, and dark shorts. He’s carrying a tray with two big icy drinks, whipped cream and sprinkles on top.
“They’re having a big promotion down at the shake place! Iced coffee.” He beams over the straws. “Like a Simpsons donut, see?”
You stare at the cups. There’s cream and chocolate layered with the coffee. You hold back a sigh. So much for giving up your vices.
“For me?” You ask.
“Sure! I felt selfish just getting one for me. And you drove all the way down here.” He chimes. “Wait– you haven’t been down here long, have you?”
“No, just got here. All good.”
“Great. I’d feel bad if you were waiting.” He says. “Um, ergh… I’ll let you in.”
He gets closer and you fumble to get out of the way. You brush against him and catch a whiff of his fresh deodorant mingling with his sweat. It’s a warm smell, comforting despite the heat. He scans his fob and the door clicks. You grab the handle before he can.
“Oh no! I got it! You’re a lady. I’m supposed to–”
“Your hands are full,” you say softly. “It’s alright.”
“So are yours.” He says.
“Shoulder strap.” You let go of your bag and it hangs on your shoulder. “Come on.”
He goes ahead of you and looks over his shoulder. “You don’t mind if we take the elevator? I’ve been doing these workouts for the shoot. The stunt coordinator has been kicking my– butt.”
“That’s fine with me.” You assure him with a smile.
He stops and waves you into the elevator first. He gets on and you sense him staring at you. You glance over.
“I don’t have something on my face, do I?”
“No! I’m sorry. I just… I like your hair.” He makes a face then looks away.
“Oh, thank you. It’s kind of… stubborn. Hence the scarf.” You reach up to pinch the knot in the bandana tied to keep your hair under control.
“No, it’s cool. It gives you a real chill vibe.” He says.
“Ha, never thought of it that way.”
The elevator stops. You get off and head for his door. He lets you inside and you look around at the tidy space. His assistant has been working hard you see.
“You have to try it! I waited to try it with you.” He insists as he puts the tray down and grabs the cups out of the cardboard.
“Oh, uh… sure.” You try not to show your dread at the sheer amount of cream. “Thanks again. It was sweet of you to think of me.”
“No, it’s cool.” He holds out a cup.
You take it and eye it. “Wow, that’s a lot…”
“Cheers!” He knocks his cup against yours. He spills cream through the top hole and it drips on his fingers. He prompts sucks on his knuckles as he angles the cup around, dripping even more.
“Alright, hold on.” You look around and quickly find the roll of paper towels in the kitchen. “Let me help.”
You hand him the paper towel and he accepts it with a goofy look. He wipes his hands then picks up his cup again. He looks at you and delicately sips through the straw. You taste the sugary concoction. Oof. You are not twenty anymore.
“Mmm,” you hum.
“Yummy.” He licks his lips. “Oh! Ha.”
He reaches for you and you wince. He runs his thumb over your lip. “That cream gets everywhere.” He looks at his thumb then twitches, turning to wipe it on the crumpled paper towel. “Anyway…” He coughs. “I was hoping you could help me with my press outfits. I have a bunch of interviews. And… Bucky Barnes is gonna be at some. He always looks so cool.”
“Oh, I’ve worked with him before. Briefly.” You say. “At some show. He wouldn’t remember me.”
“Really? You don’t think?”
“Nah, he probably deals with a dozen stylists all the time.” You shrug.
“That’s so weird. My assistant used to work for him too.”
“Oh really? That must be why she’s so good at her job.”
“Right? I really am a mess.” He frowns.
“No, I don’t think so.” You assure him softly. “Here, I’m going to put this down.” You set the cup on a table nearby. “Don’t wanna get it on your clothes. We’ll go pick some stuff for the trip. Do you have an itinerary?”
“Yes, my assistant sent it. Somewhere…” He fishes his phone out of his pocket. He opens his messages, all you see is the contact name. “Dream Girl🥰” before he swipes back. You turn your eyes away. That’s cute. “Alright, I’ll just find it…”
He turns and walks into the back of the couch as he searches his phone. You catch his arm and pull him around it.
“Oops.” He gives a sheepish smile. “I just… got a million things on my mind.”
I swore he was going to suck the whip cream off his thumb without missing a beat. Which would have added a whole nother level to an already awkwardly intimate gesture. But he is such a goofy fumbling duck outta water, that even that would have just seemed like a naive and clumsy faux pas that he was completely unaware of.
But he’s definitely eager to step into a far more familiar stage with her than she’ll prefer. And she’s gonna be stuck in that situation, needing to keep on his good side in order to get the career stability that she’s looking for. And Peter seems to be quite fragile. She’s gonna need to walk on egg shells with him, I’m betting. He’s totally going to misinterpret professionalism for reciprocity or consent to his advances.
Oh this is going to be bad. So many way this can go south!!!
He definitely had the thought but was able to stop himself loll. He's so needy and I'm sure he'll use that disaster puppy aura to gain pity and keep his pretty stylist in order.
Warning: power imbalance, dark content, obsession, and all around sexiness.
Summary: your boss is a hard man to please. (actor!bucky, assistant reader)
I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
You return with a smoothie dripping condensation down one chilled hand, and a coffee burning in the other. You slow in disappointment as you find Peter’s chair empty but the other smugly filled by your former employer. Bucky leans forward as tilts his head back and forth.
“I smell a light roast,” he sits backs and props his elbow on the arm rest.
You sniff and step into his sight of his reflection. He watches you in the mirror as you set down Peter’s smoothie on the long vanity then turn to put down the steaming cup of coffee. Bucky reaches for it, leaning forward again. He doesn’t grip the cup but your hand.
“Look at me.” He snips.
You wince as the cup bobbles onto the vanity. You tug on his grasp and look him in the face. His blue eyes storm at you as the lines of his face deepen.
“These girls don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. Look.” He gestures with his other hand. “No brightening under my eyes. Didn’t even bother to shave my neck.” He growls. “It wouldn’t be this way if someone wasn’t playing scaredy cat.”
“Let go of me,” you say calmly. His grip tightens before you can wrench away.
“Why are you playing this game?” He lowers his voice.
“You got no problem speaking up for yourself, so why don’t you tell them to redo it?” You challenge and put your other hand on his knuckles, trying to push him off.
“Because it’s not my job.” He snarls. “Girl, that boy is an idiot. I’m sure he’s a lot more work than I ever was. Come on. Come back. I’ll give you a raise.”
“I have a job.”
“Fuck off.” He growls and stands up. “It was one drunken night–”
You whine as his hold on you grows unbearable. Your bones feel ready to snap. You fidget and slap his hand.
“Let go.” You plead.
“Don’t you get it.” He backs you up until you nearly trip on Peter’s empty chair. “I can’t let go. I won’t.”
You grimace and jerk your arm helplessly. “Why?”
He takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out slow. His tongue pokes out and wets his lips. His eyes darken as he leans in, looming over you.
“Because you’re goddamn mine.” He grits.
“No–”
“Ugh, I hate screen tests.” Peter cheeps as he comes around the corner.
All at once, the crushing weight relents. Bucky lets you go and quickly turns to pick up his coffee. You watch the tension cord in his neck and your gaze trails down the bulging muscles in his arm, the memory of his strength still thrumming in your tendons.
“‘Specially with Fowler. Man’s a tight ass.” Bucky says above his coffee.
“Oh sweet! My smoothie.” Peter exults cluelessly. “Choco banana?”
You back up slowly and turn to look between the men, “That’s it.” You confirm. “Uh, Peter, I’m just going to confirm a few things with the hotel. Make sure everything’s in order.”
“Right, uh… makes sense. Oh. When was that interview with Vogue Ital- tal– i–a-no?” He struggles to enunciate with a very Mario-like accent.
“It’s in your itinerary but I’ll make sure you get there.”
“And the stylist? She has an outfit for me?” He asks hopefully as he plays with his straw.
“Sure, Peter. That’s why she’s here.”
“Ah, she’s great, isn’t she?” Bucky steps forward and puts his arm over your shoulders. “Efficient.”
“A life-saver!” Peter agrees. “Uh. where’s your assistant? Or do you have seven like Mr. Fowler?”
Bucky laughs and squeezes you closer. You chafe in his embrace. “She’s a hard act to follow. I had a few replacements but not of them could make it here so… I’m raw dogging this one. Getting my own coffee, booking my own flights…”
“Oh jeez! I could never.” Peter pouts. “Well, if you need anything, I’m sure she can help you too. We’ll mostly be at the same places, right?”
“Presser, tonight.” Bucky points and snaps his fingers. “Don’t know why they book this shit on the first day but it’s why we’re paid the big time.” His hand grazes down your arm. “Why we can pay others to look after us, right?”
“Ha, sure.” Peter slurps his smoothie and pulls out his phone. He chews on the tip. “Um… are you sure she got off her flight, okay?”
The stylist. Again.
“I’m sure she’s sleeping it off.” You reassure him. For the fifth time. “Anyway, I should go. I’m sure Fowler will need you up front soon.”
🎥
“Did she answer you?” Peter asks as you nudge him off the elevator.
“She’ll be waiting for us there. She said she labeled the outfit before you packed.” You point him down the hallway. “Really, we don’t have a lot of time.”
“I know but… my hair–”
“She can do it there.” You insist as you check your phone. “Look, you need to wash off the stuff from set anyway.”
“I know but…” He huffs. “I’m sorry, I’m just so nervous! This is like a real movie.”
“And you’re a real movie star, Peter. You’re good at what you do so just let me do my part and get you where you need to be.”
He drops his shoulders and tips his head back. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just… Everything feels so official now with you around.”
“You miss your aunt?”
“Kinda,” he sniffs.
“Ah, I think that’s your room.” You point ahead. “Got he key?”
“What? Key?” He babbles.
“Peter.”
He chuckles and digs in his pocket. “I’m kidding.” He steps ahead of you and flicks his hair out of his face. “Venice is not nice to my hair.”
“Humid, yeah,” you agree.
As the card elicits a green flash from the lock, another door clicks and startles you. A whistle draws your attention from Peter’s back. He spins around and leans on the door to open it an inch.
“Pete! What are the odds?” Bucky pokes his head out of a nearby suite. He’s shirtless and his hair is damp. You sidle closer to Peter.
“Hey, Buck. Uh Bucky. Sorry.” Peter cringes. “Yeah, uh… I thought you’d have a full villa.”
“Nah, too big for just me.” He shrugs. “Plus, I had to do this all last minute.”
You frown. Before you quit, you’d booked his trip and rooms. It wasn’t here… You try not to show your concern as you look at your phone.
“Peter, we should get ready–”
“Hey,” Bucky snaps his fingers. “We’re headed to the same place. How about we share a ride?”
“Gee, really? That’d be awesome!” Peter chimes.
You bite down and stare at the wall. You know what Bucky is doing. You just want him to stop. Give up. Whatever chip you took out of his ego, you wish he’d just find another way to fill it.
“Sure. I mean, no cars in Venice right? We’ll probably end up on the same tram anyway.” Bucky shrugs. “And it’s easy to get lost in a city like this…”
Bucky glances at you and your eyes catch for just a minute. Your brows twitch and his lips slightly curve. You look at Peter as his eyes round in admiration. Christ.
“Well, it seems you’re already well ahead of him so better get cleaned up, huh, Peter?” You prompt.
“Hmm,” Bucky hums. “She help you shower too? Never did that for me.”
“Wh-at?” Peter’s voice cracks. “N-no!”
“Kidding, kid,” Bucky winks as he lets his door open to expose more of his body, only a towel around his waist. “I know her better than anyone, she runs a strict ship.”
“Erm, yeah, sure,” Peter chuckles. “She’s right though. I can’t be late… again.”
Warning: power imbalance, dark content, obsession, and all around sexiness.
Summary: Powerful director Nick takes interest in a new project; you. (director!Nick Fowler, plus!reader)
I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
You're awestruck. Gobsmacked. Flabbergasted. Completely out of your element.
A private jet. A different country. You really can't believe it's real. Not even as you come down the tall steps from the plane door. Or when you're led to a car with Nick; sleek and sporty. He gets in the driver's seat as you settle into the low passenger's, the angle awkward and slightly uncomfortable.
"All buckled in, sweetheart?" He reaches over to squeeze your knee. You flinch in surprise.
"Sure am." You answer.
He lets go and shifts the manual stick. You take off your crochet hat and shake it out before putting it back on. You hesitate with your fingers along the ruffle. It's not very European. Oh well.
"We'll settle in at the hotel. I don't have to be on set until the day after tomorrow. I have edits I could do in my sleep. No interviews right now. Told Colleen to keep me out of that stuff as much as possible." He says.
You nod. Unsure what to add.
He steers onto a plaza and parks. You look around, confused. He turns off the engine.
"No driving in the old city." He says. "We'll catch a town car just past the Piazza."
"Oh, uh."
"My guys got our luggage. No worries. We just gotta worry about each other, sweetheart." He assures.
"Oh yeah of course." You undo your seatbelt. "Sorry I'm just a little bit lost. Or a lot lost.”
He chuckles. “I got you, don't worry.”
He watches you. You shift and tap your fingers on your belt bag. He steps closer, hesitates, then tilts his head sideways.
“This way,” he nudges you gently with his hand behind your upper arm.
He urged you through the secured lot to the Piazza where signs announce your official arrival in Venice. The space is bustling as tourists in wide-brimmed hats and floral shirts squint at their phones, snip at errant children to hush, or look around in the same disorientation you feel. Nick's touch slips down your arm and he grips your wrist, pulling you back just before you get stampeded by a group of older women trilling about wine and pasta.
“Come on, let's get a team.” He slips his hand around yours and pulls you through the crowd.
You come out to the street as Nick pulls down his sunglasses with his other hand. He doesn't let go of you. You're happy for it. You feel like you might get lost if he did.
“Ah, here.” He says and tugs you towards a crowd shuffling onto a wired tram.
You blink at a zapping flash. You glance over at a man with a camera. You glimpse in the direction of his aim, right behind you. He must be taking pictures of the Piazza.
You trip behind Nick and he pauses, turning back to keep you steady as he catches your shoulder. “Y’okay, sweetheart? Just tell me if I need to slow down.”
“I'm fine. Promise.” You insist with a nervous smile. “It's… Venice.” You exhale away your nerves. “It's real.”
He chuckles and puts you ahead of him. He follows you up to the tram door. As you board, he calls behind you.
“Got her. For two please.”
He presses against you as he feeds the fare meter and says something in Italian to the driver. You watched the coins spiral into the slot. You didn't even think to exchange your currency, you just brought your card.
You have no idea what you're doing here. You don't know where you're going. You don't have the right money. And really, what reason do you have to be here? You don't have a job here. Not like Nick.
“Come on, sweetheart, pick a seat.” He nudges your shoulder blade.
You find a seat. He sits beside you, your backs to the window. As you wiggle your foot nervously, you catch a woman staring in your direction. Nick groans as he stretches and lets his arm fall behind you.
“Like it so far?” He asks.
“Sure, I mean… just got here but it's so pretty and exciting. And… could you imagine if LA was car free? That would be…”
“A fantasy,” he scoffs. “You know some of the studios even feel like cities. It's why I can't stand them. You got idiots on those golf carts too, acting like they can't walk the same ground as everyone else.”
“Oh, yeah, I don't…”
“Sweetheart, I been meaning to ask something.” He says. Your anxiety tweaks as he plays with the seam of your sleeve right at the top of your shoulder.
“What?” You bat your eyes at him.
“Do you think… maybe one day you'll let me see where your from?”
“What?” Really?” You cheep.
“Yeah, sure. I love little towns. They're great. I'm looking for the perfect middle of nowhere to shoot my next project.” He explains as he raises his other hand, showing his palm as he drags it through the air. “Quiet, quaint, but full of life.”
“It's really not that… interesting.” You shrug. “But if you want… I don't know if they have anywhere to land your plane.”
He laughs again. “You're funny.”
“Oh… I … know what that means.”
“Huh?”
“People say that. You're funny… when you say something stupid. I don't speak Italian but I'm learning how to speak Hollywood.” You sniff.
“No, no, sweetheart,” he sits up, squeezing your shoulder. “Never. I'd never ever… you're not stupid and nothing you say is stupid. I love it all. Everything. Just the sound of your voice.” His hand settles on your knees. “Really, you make me laugh. You make me… forget who I am. Who people need me to be.”
He rubs your knee, trailing up your leg, then pulls back. He sits against the seat and sighs. He quiet as his tongue slips out between his lips.
“Do you know what what a vaporetti is?” He asks.
“Mmm, no. That wasn't in my Duolingo.” You hum.
“Waterbus. We gotta hop off this thing shortly and we'll get one….” He stops and stares at your perplexed face. “A boat. We gotta cross the canal.”
“The canal?” You utter.
“You're not afraid of water, are you, sweetheart?” He asks.
You shake your head. “I don't think so.”
“Good. But you can hold onto me if you need. Just in case you fall.” He winks.
Oh she lit him up! He’s not about to make a fool out of her. But Nick is having the time of his life. He’s got his girl out of her element and in his. She’s my favorite and he better not hurt her too bad. Those pap shots won’t be kind though, I bet.
Warnings: this fic contains catfishing and second hand embarrassment. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is the next June fic! (It’s late. Sorry)
Jonathan Pine + “What have you been telling them?”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
“Ugh, sorry I’m late,” you clamour across the cafe, your bag hitting a table as you pass. You turn to apologise to the middle-aged woman scowling as she steadies her cup. “Oops, I’m sorry, I–”
You swallow the rest of your excuse as she rolls her eyes. Jeez. It was an accident.
You turn your attention back to your destination. You wave to the table by the window as Shanna hides her laughter behind her hand. Audrey shakes her head and pretends not to notice, and Camille is blissfully unaware as she bites her acrylic and preens over the screen of her phone.
“Sorry again,” you huff and drop into the empty seat. “My bus got caught at Huron, then I missed my transfer.”
“Hmph, Noah dropped us off. He was in the area,” Audrey boasts.
“In the area?”
“Yeah, well, Shanna stopped by so we were already hanging and Camille doesn’t live that far…”
You hide your disappointment. You don’t live that far from Camille; if they could go ten minutes out of the way to get her, you could’ve at least met them at her place. You shrug it off and untangle the strap of your purse from around your neck.
“What did you guys get? Anything good?”
“Mmm, I’m hooked on these protein coffees since Brody got me on them.” Camille says. “I can skip breakfast and lunch.”
You try to betray your concern. That manufactured protein isn’t much of a substitute for two meals. She’s never been one to listen, and since she got with Brody, well, she’s not hearing any sense. Something about men makes girls dumb. Yourself, not excluded, though you’ve never really gotten that deep in… Not really.
“Keon’s coming back tonight,” Shanna says dreamily. “Him and his brothers went down south and he had no signal for a whole day. It was awful.”
You peer over at the menu as you try to make up your mind, the girls offering few suggestions as they fawn over their precious boyfriends. You might be just as stupid if someone was into you. Hell, you’ve already done enough dumb things to make up for that.
A flush of heat runs up the back of your neck. You should’ve deleted the thing before anyone saw. You should never have posted it. But Camille and her chronically online self caught you before your conscience could.
“I’m going to grab a latte.” You say as you stand. The girls barely notice your declaration.
You join the short line and wait your turn. You order the oatmeal cookie latte, intrigued by the flavour despite the higher dose of sugar. You get your drink and return to the table.
The perfectly swirled whip and cinnamon dusting makes your mouth water. As you sip, a blot of cream sticking to your nose, Camille sits up and smirks at you.
“Sooooo….” she begins. “Who’s this hottie I saw on your insta?”
You blanch. You knew it would come up. How could it not? She’d been texting her and you’d been pushing it off as a ‘long story’. Now, you have no excuse.
“Yeah, he’s… kinda cute. Kinda old though.” Shanna giggles.
You frown. You didn’t think he looked that old. At least, you thought he was good-looking enough not to think about it. You roll your foot and wipe your nose with your sleeve.
“It’s just a… distance thing, you know? We met at the gallery. He was there for a show. From out of town.” You piece together the story, hoping it didn’t sound as ridiculous as it did in your head. “I dunno, he gave me his number so…”
“That explains the suit.” Audrey laughs.
“Suit?”
“That’s how you can tell he’s old.” Shanna adds.
You pout.
“Nothing wrong with an old guy. Especially one in suits like that.” Camille grins. “It means he’s rich.”
“Oh, uh, I didn’t think of it.”
“Well, I bet women his own age are too stiff.” Camille adds. “What age are we supposed to dry up, anyway?”
You cringe. You hate when she says things like that. It’s demeaning.
“So… what was his name again. It sounded old too.” Shanna snipes.
You sigh and take another sip of sugary milk and espresso.
“Thomas. But… I call him Tom,” you lie. “He’s nice. He likes art too so…”
“He’s lame like you. Finally found someone at your level,” Shanna snarks.
“Don’t be rude,” Audrey jabs her. “Jeez, Shanna. Tell Keon to take the stick out of your ass when he gets back.”
“I don’t do that.” She sneers. “Whore.”
You sink down, glad for the distraction, but horrified by the conversation.
“Really, that’s not what I heard,” Audrey says.
“Mrs. Sloppy Seconds would know all about me.”
“Colin never even wanted you. He was just trying to get to me.”
“Girls, please. You’re both sluts.” Camille snickers.
You blow out through your lips and tap your fingers on your cup. They have so much going on, you just hope they forget this dumb fairy tale you cooked up. You certainly hope you can.
📱
It’s a mistake. It’s all been one big mistake. More of a series of mistakes.
The first picture turned into another. Then several. Then a whole string of imagined dates, bolstered by the magic of AI. It’s dangerous. Not to mention disingenuous, if not damaging. The dangers of technology are all too real but do little to deter your spiral.
It’s like an addict. You hit a low and just want a little lift, so you do the thing, get that spike in dopamine, then slowly sink back to reality and what you’ve just done. The problem is, you’ve been living in anything but reality.
It started with Camille and Shanna posting about a beach day with their guys. Then Audrey sharing all the gifts Noah got her for her birthday. Then they asked you to come out to the club with all of them and you were left in the corner as they grinded up on each other. The seventh wheel. The loser.
So you lied. They don’t ask questions so it’s easy. Your mom wanted you to visit and you needed the breathing room. But that’s not what you told your friends.
“Thomas wants to meet up again. He travels a lot. You know, he’s a personal buyer for some very wealthy clients.” You read about that in a thriller novel you got from the library. It sounded like a dream job. And totally fake. They didn’t think twice.
Maybe they just don’t care that much, or maybe they don’t think you’re smart enough to lie like that. It would be easy enough to reverse search any of the photos and get the ‘similar images’ that lead right back to the site you found the source from.
You at least chose something abstract. A hotel manager in Egypt; not glorious enough to attract suspicion. His photo on the business page was buried deep behind the front page of the extravagant resort he worked at.
You take the AI image and put it into the editing app. There’s a few things you need to fix to hide the machine’s errors. It’s not a perfect technology. Not yet. And you’re too uptight to cross your fingers that no one notices.
You upload the image onto your Insta. Did the AI try to make you prettier? You put a description on it; ‘Enjoying the sun’. You look out at the summer rain as your mom rambles on about her garden and the squirrels.
You put your phone down and nod along with her gripes. You’re at least happy she hasn’t asked about any ‘boys’, or not yet. Even if she does, you won’t make the same mistake twice. Will you?
Your phone vibrates. Shanna hearted the picture. And Audrey. And someone else. You tap the notification to read the next name. Shit, shit, shit. It can’t be.
You scramble to click through to the Hotel’s Instagram. You’re shaking. It can’t be. It’s a trick. You bet one of them figured it out and created a fake page. They’re messing with you.
You scroll through. No, these posts go back and back and back. They show all the amenities of the hotel, different promotions, suite descriptions. Oh god.
You block the page and back out of the app. You once more drop your phone and grip your head. Your mother doesn’t notice as she rambles at the window.
“It’ll be good for the tomatoes…” She nods at the dreary sky. “Keep the dang squirrels out.”
📱
You quickly hide your phone as you hear the back room door. You sniff and lift your head. You grab the feather duster and pretend to be diligently clearing away the nonexistent debris from the frames. The gallery is empty this time of day but you’ll take an easy day for the pay.
Magnolia sweeps out in her triangular glasses and droopy hair bow. Her spiralled hair is varying shades of blonde, ginger, and red. Her white shirt is unbuttoned and belted over a dress made from patchwork of paisley, polka dots, and houndstooth. She clomps through on thick square toed heels.
“I’ve a meeting with the council. We’ve no shows for the night but no harm in staying open for curious couples coming from across the street.” She says. “You must make some tags for the auction tomorrow.”
“Yes, Magnolia,” you say. The tags are done already. “Have a good night.”
“With council? Doubt it. They only want to cut funding.” She tuts and swings open the door. “One day I might cut them.”
She strolls off, going one way only to double back as she realises her mistake. She is both fearsome and a bit oblivious to the world around her. You admire her boldness, bordering on bravery if she had any ounce of self-awareness.
You put down the duster and go back to pacing. You look down at your phone and grow bored of merging different items to meet impossible orders. These games are just a ploy to make you watch ads for scams.
You wade through the drone of the plucky music, set no higher than the lowest setting. It’s hardly better than silence. The sky tints outside and you notice the couples filing into the restaurant across the street and the larger groups of women and men head further down the strip.
You stop at the rear wall and stare at the cluster of geometric shapes called ‘Mother Mary’. It’s an acquired taste. Cliche. You’ve seen several pieces like it claiming religious epiphany in randomly placed items. You love art but sometimes you don’t get it.
The door opens and closes. At first, you want to think you imagined it. You’re so close to the end. You just want to go home and get off your feet.
You turn to face the very real visitor. You nearly exclaim at your recognition. It’s the man. The man whose identity you’ve stolen. No, you only borrowed it. And you changed his name. He’s Jonathan not Thomas.
Be cool. It might not even be him. It might be your guilt clouding your vision. You could have fallen asleep on your feet even. Maybe it’s a tedium-fueled hallucination.
“Uh, hello, sir. How are you tonight?” You ask, hiding your hands behind your back, clutching tight.
“Very well, and you?” He asks, his voice dulcet but firm.
“Fine, fine. Um. Are you looking to browse or buy?” You prompt.
“Perhaps a bit of both.” He answers as his lips curve slightly.
“Oh, of course. I can walk you around or you’re free to look on your own.” You say.
“I think I’ll take the latter. I’ve a particular thing in mind but I can’t quite put it to words as yet.” He says, his accent lilting soothingly.
“Alright, I’ll be here if you need anything.” You assure him.
You go behind the tall counter at the corner of the show room. You distract yourself with the hand-written notations on last week’s sales. There’s nothing to do with it but you would rather pretend than face reality. Apparently, that’s just who you are.
Besides, it’s not him. Is it? How could he be here? He lives in Egypt.
You close your eyes as you focus on keeping yourself from shaking. You feel a panic attack brewing. It’s not real, it’s not real. Just stop. Do your exercises. Name a fruit for each letter of the alphabet; Apricot, Banana, Clementine…
“Pardon,” the man’s tone breaks your trance and you look up at him, wide-eyed.
“Yes, sir, sorry. I was… adding something up in my head.” You lie, voice wobbling. “Is there something you need?”
“Well, I know galleries tend to have back stock. Perhaps some pieces on hold until next season.” He begins. “I was hoping for something… I’ll show you.”
He reaches to the front pocket of his jacket. He wears a fine dark blue suit. The same type as that picture. No, stop. Anyone can wear a suit.
“Perhaps you have something which would give a similar… emotion.” He turns his phone to you.
You cough and drop your shoulders. It’s over. It’s him. He’s figured you out but how? You chose someone all the way across the world!
“I…” you utter then snap your mouth shut and shrug. You search for words. “I’m… sorry.”
“What have you been telling them? Hm? All these people in the comments? ‘So cute’. ‘You look adorable’. Ahem, as they say, ‘you go, girl.’”
He puts the phone down and sets his hands next to it. He stares at the doctored image of the both of you. You cringe and cover your face. You heave. “I’m so sorry. I’m… I’m embarrassed. I shouldn’t have—”
“Embarrassed?” He echoes. “To be seen with me?”
You look up, hands caged over the bottom half of your face. You shake your head. “N-no, of course not. I l-l-lied. I made it all up and I… I used you.” You babble. “I was only trying– I was stupid.”
He hums and flicks his finger over his phone. Another of your pictures. You groan.
“Well, I can’t say I’m very upset, darling. Curious, more.” He drawls. “You see, the only affront I feel is that you hadn’t the grace to introduce yourself.”
You stare at him. “What?”
“Well, surely, despite the alias you gave me, you know my name.”
You nod.
“And I know yours now.” He intones. “Though I’d have preferred to have it from your own lips.”
“I… I…” You lower your hands, clasping them over your chest. “I was trying to impress my friends, that’s all it was and…”
“And… so… you would never… consider me?” He wonders.
“What?”
He looks down and traces his finger around the phone before he presses against the screen and slowly drags the image to a new one. This one isn’t yours. You’ve never seen it before. It’s you. You’re in lingerie with a sultry look on your face, in one of the beds you saw on the hotel’s Insta page.
“You… you did that?” You gasp.
“I do think the real thing would put that false dream to shame,” he purrs as he looks up at you. “And I think you might like Egypt.”
“You… I… you don’t even know me.” You bluster.
“Nor you I. But…” He leans in and winks. “We can change that, can’t we, darling?”
Also, while it's creepy as hell that he was able to figure out who she was and track her down across the world, I'm really enjoying their interaction. I shouldn't be - huge red flag for stalking right there, but he comes across as so damn charming and understanding. He's like, "Damn, I think you match my freak. Here's my delulu AI rendition of you."
Somehow, I think he's going to get her to Egypt whether she accepts the invite or not.
Fight fire with fire or stoke it higher I guess. He said oh I can figure out GPT too, watch. But he went straight to 'sexify this'. Lollll. Honestly, compared to friends, I think he's a better option. I bet Egyptian coffee is yummy.
Warnings: this fic contains blood and violence. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is the next June fic! (It’s late. Sorry)
Clark Kent + “You shouldn't have let me in.” (Medieval AU)
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
The writing desk is littered in letters, those still curled up and sealed, others bent and read over time and time again. You ponder over the report of a dispute of marriage between two planter families. Your husband will have to be consulted in the matter, perhaps the bishop too.
As you pore over another letter requesting a forgiveness of debt, you hear a disturbance without the modest holding of your marital home. Your husband’s groom comes through the front door, his steps much lighter than those of the squat count. He rushes to knock upon the study door.
You bid him to enter.
“My lady,” Basil bends his neck. “The lord is receiving a visitor.”
You lay down the scroll and let it roll upon itself. “A visitor? Unannounced?”
“Yes, my lady. Most unexpected but the lord bids you make certain dinner is enough for all.” Basil rocks on his heels anxiously.
“Yes, yes, we would be sure to uphold hospitality,” you assure him as you come out from behind the desk. “Certainly, I am not upset, though Constance may be. Assure my lord husband it will be done.”
“Yes, my lady.” He shrinks into his shoulders and leaves.
You smile to yourself. You’re never cruel to those in your employ. There’s no reason in it. Your mother would roar at her maid and it only ever got her resent. When she died, none of the servants were very sombre.
You go to the kitchen and find Constance. “We’ll have a guest for dinner.”
“A guest?” She grumbles as she turns the spit in the firestove, a healthy hen roasting over the flames.
“Yes. It seems my husband has found company.”
“Lord Randall if much too amiable for the scantness of his larder.” She wipes her fingers on her apron.
“Mm, I know it.” You mull, not confessing the poor news from the sowers in the southern fields. You will be short of grain for the winter.
You leave the cook to her grumbling. She will use more potatoes than she meant to that night, though you would take a lesser ration for the occasion. You find Mirabel, your sole maid, and have her ready the table in expectation.
You climb up to your chambers to fuss at your plain gown and cap. Randall talks of attending court next season but you hardly have the wardrobe for it, even if you’ve the title. Third daughters are rarely left a fair lot but you wonder if a convent would’ve done you better.
You hear voices without and go to the window. You hide behind the thick curtain and watch your husband approach with a much larger man. Randall is not tall or handsome. His cheeks are ruddy and pocked, and his stature is squat.
The stranger is tall and burly. His collar is high and a jewel catches the sunlight. His attire is much brighter than your husband's. Your simple embroidery around the cuffs and collar does little to stand out against the tanned leather.
You descend to greet your husband and his companion. Basil opens the doors and announces them.
“The Lord Randall returns, with the Duke of Krypfort, Lord Clark Kent.” He declares in a wobbly voice. The formality is laughable. The countly holding is more a farmhouse than a castle.
“Lord Kent,” your husband gestures as you step off the last step. “My sweet wife,” he introduces you proudly. “She has no doubt been a flurry readying our dinner.”
“Lord Kent,” you curtsy. You know of him. Your husband’s overlord. Merely a name in your head until that very moment. His chin is cleft finely, his nose is strong, and his blue eyes are bolder than the sky. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“And very much surprised.” Lord Randall adds with a chortle.
“Ah, yes, I was unable to send word ahead.” Lord Kent explains as he nears you. He offers his hand. You glance at your husband then lift your own. The duke takes it and bends to kiss your knuckles. “Such a lovely wife. And your brood?”
“None, as yet.” Randall chafes in his boots. “But it is a young marriage.”
“And you are still a young man with a very young wife.” Kent’s mouth slants as his eyes linger on you. “You see, the king sends me upon business. The council has voted upon an audit of the counties. Thus I must submit my own holdings.”
“I recall last time it was the earl’s who came out, my lord.” Randall intones.
“They did.” Kent affirms as your husband leads him to the modest dining hall. You follow. “But my earls do bolster and shorten their numbers when it suits them. I figured to do the counting mine self. It is a fine opportunity to make myself familiar to my people as it were.” He pauses and turns, looking back at you. “Lady, let us not forget our manners. Please, sit.”
You bat your lashes. “Oh, no fuss. I should help Constance with dinner–”
“Let the cook and her servants attend to their own work,” he insists.” As he pulls back a chair. “Please sit. As I said, I long to know my vassals.”
You look to your husband again. He arches a brow. You abide and near, sitting as the lord pushes the chair under you. You thank him meekly. He claims the seat next to you as Randall hesitates before rounding the table to sit across from you.
“And how long have you been married, Lord Randall?” Kent eyes you as you try not to notice.
“Ah, I believe, just short two years or thus.” Your husband answers. “I’ve been much away at business.”
“Business? What business would be more important than a lovely wife.” The duke chides. “My own… she gave me a son before her tragic passing.” He pauses and exhales. “He’s a healthy boy. Growing fast but I should’ve liked to give him siblings.”
“Condelences, my lord. We received news and we were sad to hear it. I saw Lady Lois prior. In Noth as she was on her way to the Easter mass.”
“Oh, yes, wasn’t she shining. The most lovely hair.” He sighs again. He turns to look at you. “Cherish your wife and she will give you fine issue.”
Yes, my lord. Certainly, I only long to do so.” Randall assures.
You try not to blush at the underlying suggestions. Your husband does attempt to do his duty. You try not to think of his fumbling of how many times he’s spilled on your thigh before doing more than that. You hold an elegant smile.
“My lord,” your voice is squeaky. “Was it a long road here?”
“Ah, she is kind. Caring.” He praises. “I’ve been ahorse for some time. I’ve come down from Rochewyn all the way along the Bend.” He draws his route with his thick finger.
“That is a very long way. I came along the Bend for my wedding day. My family hails from Cynster.”
“Longer way than mine.” He remarks. “Let’s hope it was for a good marriage.”
Your husband shifts in his chair. Basil and Mirabel appear with trays of bread and butter. They lay them down as the duke observes them quietly. He doesn’t say anything as they go and he slices into a loaf.
“Is that the extent of your staff, Lord Randall?” He asks at last.
“At this time. When the season reaps, we will budget for more. My wife does keep a fine and tight household.”
“She must to subsist on a maid and a groom.”
“And a cook,” your husband adds.
Lord Kent bites into the hard bread. You butter a chunk for yourself but find your appetite waning. He swallows as you feel his gaze upon you once more.
“Her complexion welcomes colour. She would look fine in a shade of rose.” He drawls. “Perhaps a more fashionable silhouette as well.” Lord Kent rebukes.
“Well, as I’ve said, we hadn’t time to ready for you lord.”
“A noblewoman should always be kept in finery. And a wife should always be ready, yes?” Lord Kent insists boldly. “And she is a beautiful wife, Randall. Submissive, gentle.”
Your husband clears his throat. “She is a good wife, yes, Duke.”
“She deserves a good husband.”
You squirm as the words hang in the silence until it bubbles and boils. Mirabel and Basil return with plates of hen and potatoes, along with sliced beets and barley. You hesitate as the duke eagerly digs in and your husband moves his food around, chewing on his agitation.
“If you are to build your holding, Lord Randall, you will need to first build a family.” Kent pauses to lick his lips, smacking them together. He angles to lean on his elbow and looms over you. “Tell me, Lady, when last did your husband lay with you?”
“My lord,” Randall scoffs, appalled.
The duke raises his palm to your husband without looking. “Tell me, lady? When last did he pay his duty to you?”
“This is–” Your husband begins.
“It is upon my task. I must know whether I can expect any fruit to be borne of this hold.” Kent insists brusquely, staring you down as you wilt and look at your plate. “When?”
“My lord, I… I’m unsure–”
“Within the last fortnight?” He prompts.
You twitch. “My lord. I… it is indecent to say–”
“Yes?”
“I… believe so.” You peek up at Randal as his face scalds scarlet.
“Mm, well, I suppose he might have planted something in such a fertile field,” he touches your sleeve and you flinch.
“My lord,” Randall drones flatly.
“But did he pleasure you?”
You gulp. Your husband sits up as tall as he can and rests his hand over the blunt butter knife.
“My lord…” you whisper.
“Has he ever?” The duke pinches your sleeve and leans in. “Have you cried out his name as your entire being shook?”
You blanch as your lip trembles. You can’t speak. Your whole body is alight.
“With respect, my lord, I do not appreciate your impropriety–”
“With respect, Count,” Kent points at your husband without a glimpse in his direction. “You’ve no right to bid me of my manners on the ground I have rights to. On the grounds you pay me oversight to. So shut your fat mouth.”
Randall’s nostrils flare and he growls. He slaps his hand down and grips the butter knife. “You’ve offended me in my own home–” He charges around the table.
The duke stands calmly as your husband’s chair clatters. He faces Randall as he barrels around the end of the table. Kent’s hand works lithely around his belt and he steps forward without hesitation.
He bats the butter knife from Randall’s hand and your husband lurches and sputters, a sickly groan grinding up his throat. He leans on the duke as he wheezes and Kent’s elbow bends deep and his shoulder jerks. He shoves your husband away and the shorter man tips onto his back, trembling as he slaps at the leaking wound in his stomach.
You gasp as your scream sticks in your throat. Your eyes water as your head spins. This cannot be. It cannot!
“You shouldn't have let me in.” Lord Kent says as he bends to wipe his blade on your husband’s jerkin. “Not with such a precious lady within.”
Lord Kent was on a wife hunting tour! He hoped to find a fine lady to bear him some more babies after his first wife. And the reader was too sweet to resist. I’m sure it was to end this way regardless of how the Count acted. The duke settled on a wife and why should his subjects have better than him? He needs the reader. This wasn’t even explicit but Kent’s nature had me squeezing my thighs together. He’s so attractive and he suits the older time periods so well. Ugh, the Count wasn’t a bad guy so I’m a little sad, but I might get over that pretty quickly.
Going across the countryside, seeing what's his... and he just happens to find a nice sweet thing with a weak husband. Easy enough to pluck a new flower hehe. And oh he was so bold, talking about making her scream and shake...
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as power imbalance, and noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You try to do a nice thing for an agent's birthday but a nice gesture turns into a big mistake.
Characters: Boss Nick Fowler, plus!reader
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
You balance the box carefully as you approach the elevator. You angle around awkwardly to get your badge free from behind your armload and shift around until it dangles in front of the scanner. The doors open and you step in. You turn and move your arm underneath and tap the button.
When your floor comes, you get off and find your way to your cubicle. You set down the box, pushing aside your coaster and keyboard, only to knock your mouse onto the floor. You bend to pick it up and look around the office. The agents on night shift are heading out as others file in here and there.
Unlike the operatives, your schedule is steady. Standard seven to three. It’s early, sure, but at least you get the day over with. And your job is a lot easier and safer. You’re a security assistant. You mostly handle issuing badges and reviewing clearances. You're one of a whole team of assistants in just the Counterintelligence unit alone.
You sit and get booted up for the day. Alongside confirming and updating clearances, you have to go over other access details and coordinate with tech to make sure everything is running smoothly. And if it isn’t, you will hear about it.
It’s just another day and it isn’t. With as much access as you have to information, you can’t help but take note. There’s a birthday today. Last week, it was Golda’s and you made her a gluten free cheesecake. She loved it.
Today, it’s Agent Fowler’s. He is usually off-site for his work and the agents don’t necessarily socialise often with the admin; not unless they’re a particular sort. A tall and gorgeous sort. You don’t know much about him so you did some guessing.
You figured the vanilla bean sponge with the pistachio frosting was a general enough flavour, but not too plain. Though you might have gotten carried away with the decoration. The cake is only 6 inches around. A modest feat but enough to share with someone else. The green buttercream is intricately speckled with hand-crafted icing frogs and lily pads. Cute but not childish.
“Jensen,” the familiar voice draws your eyes away from your screen. “Where the fuck is it?”
You bite your cheek. Agent Fowler can be testy. You’ve only had a few direct encounters and he would mostly just tell you what to do.
Jensen, a tech, fumbles around and quickly hands over a metal disc. It’s snatched out of his hand as Fowler stomps away without a thanks. You look at the cake box and shakily rub your neck. Well, maybe it will be a good perk up.
You wait an hour and let the office settle. Some people are still arriving as you check the calendar. No meetings. This is your in. You get up and take the box with you. You hover around Fowler’s office door, turning to look over at the bullpen. People stare dully at screens, ready to melt into their desks from the tedium of it all.
You face the door again and knock gently. No answer. You try again, harder.
“What do you want?” Fowler snaps from inside.
You teeter on your feet. If you run away, it will just annoy him more. You let yourself in.
“Uh, hi, Mr– Agent Fowler. I just wanted… to say… happy birthday?” You eke out as he glares at his phone screen.
“What?” He hisses without looking up.
You gulp and cross the office. You’re stupid. You put down the box on his desk.
“It’s just… I make something for everyone in the office. Um, I brought in the eclairs for the Director in March–” You open the box to show him the cake.
“The fuck are you bugging me for? I got shit to do.” He slams his phone down on its screen and stands.
You flinch and recoil. He sneers down at the cake. He shakes his head and flips the lid back up. He raises his fist and crushes the box with a heavy slam. You gasp and take another step back.
“Don’t come back here unless it’s about work.” He pushes the box off his desk. “Not that I need anything from a desk rat.”
You blink and snap your mouth shut. You cough and flee for the door. You stop and look over your shoulder as he kicks the box and cake and icing escapes the folded cardboard.
“Sorry, sir–”
“Tell the fucking cleaner to get in here and clean up your mess.” He snarls.
You rush out and stop yourself before you stumble into a cubicle wall. You steady your steps and set off to find Tina, the cleaner. You would do it yourself but you’re actually terrified to even try.
You never got a response like that before. Agent Walker was a bit grumpy but he wasn’t angry, while most of the other agents were pleasantly surprised. You just thought it was a nice thing to lighten up the office malaise.
Well, maybe this is a good lesson. This is work, not a party.
🍰
You cup your chin in your hand as you scroll through the application. Your eyes skim between your two screens as you double check the specifications and documentation alongside the form. Hm.
You tap your finger on your cheek and blow out a soft raspberry. Your cubicle wall suddenly shakes and you sit up. Your elbow hits your cup and you barely save it from spilling. You catch the mug of tea and face your unexpected visitor.
You can’t help but stare up at Agent Fowler in shock and a bit of fear. It’s been three days since you brought him the cake. You roll back slightly as you turn your chair to face him. You sniff.
“Uh, hello, sir–”
“Pack your shit.” He drops an empty box on your keyboard.
“What?” You murmur. He can’t fire you over a cake.
“Move your shit.” He puts his hands on his hips. “New trainee. Needs a desk.” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder. “Pretty sure you’re the one who signed off on his badge. You pay attention, sweetie?”
You hold back a frown. “Oh, uh, there’s desks–”
“I know where there are desks. He needs this one.” He stands straight and crosses his arms. “I can’t be walking halfway across hell’s acre to get to him. Chop chop.”
You nod and set down your mug. “Of course, sir. Sorry, I just…”
“Hurry up. I won’t have him waiting on your ass.” He grabs the little brass hedgehog from beside your monitor and drops it in the bin. “Maybe you wouldn’t take so long with so much clutter.”
You don’t respond as he struts off. You’re not sure if it’s because you dared remember his birthday or this is him picking a random target, but you won’t antagonise him either way. You put your things into the box as quickly as you can. You clear your instant coffee packets and teas out of your drawer, some pens, and a few other bits and bobs.
“Leave the keyboard and mouse.” Fowler approaches again.
“But… these are mine–”
“Kid needs em. Go. Ask tech to get you replacements.” He barks.
You glance around. Those watching quickly pretend they aren’t. You’ve made a powerful enemy, all because you thought you were being nice.
You hold the box under one arm and grab your cold tea. You head off to the back corner with the old desks and creaky chairs. It’ll take you forever to get an expense report through for a new set of monitors. Guess you’ll be working on your laptop.
You put the box down and your laptop too. You sit with the cold earl grey and sigh. Who knew a hobby could become such an issue.
🍰
The next week, you notice that your pen organiser is gone. It’s on the trainee’s desk. Your stolen desk. You say nothing.
Tuesday, your chair isn’t the same as the one before. The cushion is so thin you can feel the metal frame and one wheel won’t roll. You look around for a better one but no luck.
Wednesday, you get an email from Fowler. Unpersonalised. He needs clearance for transport. You’re not stupid enough to deny him. You do your review without really thinking. Granted. Hopefully the Director doesn’t check these things before they finalise them.
Thursday.
Almost through the week. You’re exhausted. You rub your eyes through the morning, yawning as you hunch at your laptop. Without a monitor or stand, you have to get down to level and the chair your on doesn't go that low.
At lunch, you sneak out to the cafe. You usually eat in the breakroom with Sandra and Hannah. Sandra is a new grandmother with pictures of everything the baby does, and Hannah is on her second pregnancy and fawning over every single shot. You smile through, happy to have someone to sit with.
You come back with an iced strawberry matcha. You don’t have it often but you need the boost. You sit down at your desk and sign back in. You still have half an hour in your break but you’ll just work through it.
As you hunker down and review existing credentials, there’s a thump on your cubicle. You look up as Fowler glares down at you. What now?
“Got a visitor coming in. Need a pass.”
You pull your hand away from your cup. “Oh, um, Terri issues visitor credentials.”
“I’m not asking Terri.” He snips.
You nod and take a breath. “I can email and get the pass template.”
“I didn’t fucking ask you the details. Bring it to my office in ten.”
He pushes off the cubicle so your whole desk shakes. Great. This was your favourite job until you screwed it all up. No one bothered you, they all just did their work, and a swift hello or have a good day was just enough in passing.
You email Terri and realise you got no information from Agent Fowler. Your stomach goes to war with itself as you try to figure out what to do. You get up and make your way past the new cubicles to Fowler’s door.
You knock. This time it takes three attempts for him to bark at you to get inside.
“Sir, I… have the pass but I need the information for the visitor–”
“Get the fuck out of my office,” he spits as he once more thumbs at his phone.
“I can’t issue a blank pass–”
“Do what I fucking tell you, cake girl.” He snaps. “Or I’ll send your name to the director. Got me?”
You back out without argument. You can issue the pass blank and get caught on the off-chance, or he can go to the director yourself and get you fired without a doubt.
🍰
Friday. The week is almost over. You just need to make it through the day and then you can go rot at home… until tomorrow. Damn you for making plans you have to live up to.
You go through the usual routine. Things feel calmer. You’re not sure why. You fall into the pattern of your daily work, undisturbed until a familiar snarl crawls through the office.
“How hard is it to– how the fuck are you still in business? You do one thing!” Fowler shouts.
You peek up and stand slightly to get a look at him over the other cubicles. You only see the top of his head as his door swings open and shut with the taper of his footfalls. You sit back down and stay low. Someone’s not having a good day.
It takes a moment for you to refocus on your own work. You rub the crick in your neck from hunching over the laptop. Maybe you can cut out early. Your stomach is suddenly very upset.
As you open your tracking sheet for applications, a message pops up from Slack. Oh no. It’s him. He’s never ever messaged you on the chat.
You hesitate and click.
‘My office.’
You stare. What? He can’t mean it? For what? You can’t leave him on read; that’s just another tick on the list.
You lock your computer and get up. You cross the bullpen stiffly and before you can knock on Fowler’s door, it opens. He points you inside without a word.
You enter and he snaps the door shut. He turns and paces. You watch him, hugging yourself as you prepare for a storm.
He stops suddenly and faces you. He leans against his desk and crosses his arms. His deep blue eyes swim with fury.
“You made that cake?” He asks.
You nod, confused.
He watches you. He sucks in his cheek and chews it. He tilts his head back and takes a deep breath. He lets it out.
“I need another one. Tomorrow. Birthday cake.”
“Um, okay. Uh, I know a few places–”
“They’re fucking booked. So make me a damn cake.”
Your mouth opens slightly. You want to ask why? Or even if he’s going to pay because it’s really not that cheap or easy.
“For a woman. That enough?” He grits.
You know better than to ask anything; not even about a flavour.
“Sure. I’ll make it work.” You say.
“Oh, you better, or there won’t be much work for you to do.” He pushes off the desk and drops his hands. “Get out.”
Warnings: this fic contains suggestions of noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 15th’s fic! (It’s late. Sorry)
Loki + “You can lie to yourself but you can't lie to me.” (RegencyAU)
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
You peruse the crowd dispersing from the opera house. You weave through the clamour of gentlemen calling and waiting for their carriages. It is the busiest and most fruitful time of day.
As you pass through the sea of brocade and silk cravats, you distract with your basket of biscuits. The men’s eyes would betray their purses far before they realised they were stale and it would be too late for them to see recompense. Your other hand is about your true work, that which brings you much of your profit.
For all their layers of clothing, the theatre patrons are none the wiser of your creeping reach. Of the coin lifted or pins displaced. And why shouldn’t you profit from their flagrant roosting of the riches they were only so fortunate to be borne into. They know now what it is to want; to need. To have to find any means to keep from the gutter.
A man pauses and reaches under his fine green jacket, an emerald vest exposed beneath. He slides free a pocket watch and reads the face. You pocket a brooch from another man bartering with a street cart driver and slither along.
The man is preoccupied. His head cranes on his long neck as he searches the street impatiently. He tucks the pocket watch away and you catch a glimpse of the snake engraved on its cover. What a fine piece it is…
You offer a man closeby a biscuit. He declines but hands you a coin anyway. Some are rich enough to be generous, a gesture to comfort their greedy souls. The man with the watch flicks back a stray strand of shiny black hair, his profile pensive as his fingers twiddle at his side.
You must find the proper opportunity. You know the temptation of a biscuit will not do. He is the type to shew you away. You can foresee those long fingers waving you off. You can also see the emeralds set into the ring around his pinky. He can spare the unfortunate loss.
You peer around. You shadow another man as he nears. He goes to pass by the black-haired man and you manage to become tangled up in him, dramatically tumbling towards the man in green as your basket spills over.
You hit him like a plank. He does not bend or waver. You screech out theatrically, as one of the actors inside, and steady yourself with shaky hands. Your finger hooks the chain beneath his jacket. With a stealthily practiced pinch, you loose it.
The man grips your shoulders and pushes you away. You wind up the chain quickly and hide the watch beneath your cuff. You step back and look down at your half-empty basket and the mess of biscuits on the ground.
“Eh, good sir, look where you walk,” he calls after the other gentleman who flees the disaster.
You mope and touch your forehead, the watch sliding down your sleeve to the elbow. “Oh my!”
“And you, should be more aware as it were. I’m certain it’s not your first walking the street.” He sniffs and peers past you with a huff.
What an uncouth man. If you ever felt bad for any of your targets, it would not be him. For him to imply such a thing. A thief yes but never… that.
“A good day to you too, sir,” you snip tritely.
The biscuits crumble under your feet as you trod away. Best not to draw more attention. A fleet escape is always best. And there is a rather perilous purse on a belt beckoning to you.
It is wise to be away before the crowd thins too much and you become too obvious. You slip down the alleyway, intent to offer the last of the biscuits to the urchins near the dock. Then you’ll return to your shared apartment and tally your proceeds.
You whistle as you come close to the far end of the alley and a shadow steps into your path. You falter and squint at the figure. A flash of green strikes in your mind.
“It isn’t lady like to whistle,” the black-haired man sneers. “Though I doubt you are aware of what is and isn’t ladylike.”
“Pardon me, sir. You’ve already dumped half my wares–”
“You were rather convincing,” he points at you. Your eyes flit to the gem on his pinky. He scoffs. “And ever crow-eyed.”
“Sir, I’ve not any hint of your meaning–”
“Do you think yourself so clever?” His lip curls as he steps closer and you retreat at a pace.
You stare at him dumbly. “Why do you trouble me, sir? I am but a common woman–”
“You are but a common thief!” He barks. “I should bring down the police upon you and let them beat what is mine out of you.”
“Sir, how dare you? That is a vile accusation–”
“Empty your pockets–”
“Sir!”
“Remove your cloak and let me see. I would be certain to find all the lumps of your larceny–”
“You are coarse. To accuse a lady–”
“Lady,” he advances again and you evade his reach. “The word would sour on your tongue.”
“Sir, you are mistaken. I pray, go fetch the coppers. I’ll be happy to let them investigate–”
His fingers curl and straighten. “I seek my own justice. I am a man of honour.”
“You are as they all are,” you chirp. “You harass the honest folk as you could never do one of your pretty pampered countesses–”
He moves so fast, you nearly scream. You swing your basket at him and spill the rest of the biscuits. He bats it away so the handle slips from your grasp and his other hand closes around your throat. You cough and grip his wrist as he marches you back into the alley.
“You can lie to yourself but you can't lie to me.” He growls as he turns you and pushes you against the wall. “I know what you are. I know what you’ve taken. Return to me my watch.”
“Watch? What need would I–” Your voice fizzles as he squeezes harder.
“I will find it myself,” he grits and pushes your thin cape back.
His hand gropes and grabs at your dress, squeezing your skirts, crawling up your stomach, then stretching across the swell of your bosom. He pauses as you squirm. His cheek twitches as you tug helplessly at his arm.
His touch trembles and he fondles your chest. He tilts his head and squeezes harder. He lets go of your neck and pushes you hard against the wall. His other hand goes to your chest. He pushes your bosom together and grins.
You gulp in air and rasp. “You rodent!” You slap his hands. “I am no whore.” You shake your sleeve and the watch slips down. You grasp it and hold it up, pushing on his right arm as he continues to defile you. “Take the damned watch and be off me.”
He snickers and teethes his lip. He hums and his tongue pokes out, running along his top lip. He lets go of you and takes the watch. He steps back and clasps the chain on his vest once more and slides the watch into his pocket.
He lingers and looks down his body. He frames the front of his trousers with his large hands. He laughs as you see the shape of him through the fabric as it grows taut.
“I’ve retained what is mine, but you still owe penance.” He clucks. “So I’ll take what is under those skirts… or turn you into the police.”
Prompt: June 17th - Say Something - A Great Big World & Christina Aguilera / “It was over my head”
Character: Bucky Barnes
I know it’s short but please let me know your thoughts and reblog. Also, would love to discuss any ideas these little snippets inspire!
Love you! 💞
“Nice skirt,” the deep timbre makes you flinch as you flick a glob of chip dip. You drop the spoon in the bowl and scramble to wipe it up. Before you can, Bucky does it himself with one of the striped napkins.
“Erm, thanks, uh… you’re so… nice to say so.”
“Course. I always notice pretty things.” He grins.
You nod nervously. You scoop a modest amount onto your plate with the chips. You thought eating would help calm you. It doesn’t. Why did you let Sam convince you into coming?
“Um, I’ll just get out of your way.” You smile at your plate and walk away.
You go to the wall, hoping to melt into it. You have this deep longing to be social but you don’t know how. You’re not a snob or a bitch or anything people assume, just a mess.
You swipe a chip through the dip. It’s good, messy. You keep the plate high to keep it from dripping as your eyes meet another pair.
Bucky watches you over a beer bottle. Your lashes flick and he winks. You turn to pace. God. Why can’t you be normal?
You get to the door and hear your name. “Hey, leaving already?”
You look at Bucky and shake your head. “No, just… wandering.”
“Oh, good, thought maybe I scared you off.” He tilts his head, extending his arm to lean on the wall, blocking the doorway. “I was hoping you’d stick around.”
“Me?” You bend the paper plate slightly.
“Sure. You know. I didn’t get a good look at the skirt.”
“What?”
He chuckles and leans in. “How obvious do I need to be? I’m into you.”
“Oh. Oh!” You stare at his chest. “It was over my head.”
Warnings: this fic contains violence, age gap, noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 13th’s fic! (It's late. Sorry)
Ransom Drysdale + “Do you really want to find out how much worse this can get?”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Another dirty dish. You made a very clear choice in your life not to be a mother, yet here you are, cleaning up after another. You sigh and put the bowl in the sink, noting the streaks of green; the guac you made for yourself.
You shrug off the agitation. Maybe a review of house rules is in order. You made it very clear when your tenant moved in; he has his things, you have yours, and they stay separate. You don’t see what excuse he has to leave a mess or indulge in your food when he has an entire guest house to himself.
That division is what reassured you when Linda phoned in the favour. It will just be for a while, she said. You should’ve expected when you couldn’t get her to define ‘while’ that this would be a cut and dry as you hoped. Linda is rarely the one to leave out details.
You scrub the bowl and dry it and set it away. You start on your own meal for the day. You’re disappointed to find there’s more than just a helping taken out of your guac; it’s pretty much gone. Worse, it was left unsealed so what remnants remain are brown.
You set the container aside. Alright then, something else. Chicken alfredo isn’t too difficult. Amazing, the cream is on the counter and warm. Guess that’s out too.
You tap your fingers in irritation. You are not his mother, just doing a favour for his mother. You won’t be the one to teach him basic manners, only lay down your own boundaries. Simple things; don’t eat what isn’t yours and put things back where they belong.
You don’t have the energy for the conversation right now. Knowing the spoiled Thrombey, it will be more of a confrontation. You’re not so good at those.
🏠
You yawn against the back of your hand as you set down your work bag. What a long day. You leave your shoes beside the leather brief case and let your jacket hang open. You rub your eyes as you walk blindly from the entry way to the hall.
Your stomach is growling and a dull pounding is slowly building in your head. Water, maybe some crackers to tide you over for the night. You drop your hands as you enter the kitchen.
You barely keep from shouting as you find Ransom pouring himself a glass of your chardonnay. More shameless than his blatant theft, is his attire, or lack of. He’s in a pair of paisley boxers and not much else. You’re even more unprepared for that than him and the brewing tension of his imposition.
“Um, hey,” you say flatly as you stop and watch him top off the glass.
He puts the bottle down beside the cork and looks at you from the corner of his eyes. His cheek dimples as he lifts the glass and slurps. He faces you as you try not to look at his broad chest with the thick hair all across it.
“You look like you could use a glass,” he grins.
You swallow dryly. You could but you need a degree of strength. You sniff and circle around the island, keeping a wide breadth from him. He turns to watch you pull down a tall glass from the cupboard and slides closer.
You sidle over to the fridge and press the glass to the lever beneath the water filter. You watch the depths fill. He looms and gulps again.
“Bottle didn’t have a note on it,” he scoffs. “So I figured…”
You knew it was a bad idea. Passive aggressive at best. You made a new batch of guac and put a little label on it; do not eat. You back up and sip the cold water, a chill spreading through you.
You’re too old to be dealing with entitled brats like him. That thought makes you feel bad but when you were his age, you avoided your peers for the same characteristics. You strayed from the path of marriage and motherhood to find your own peace and now you’ve foolishly welcomed chaos into your home. All because Linda Thrombey wanted her due.
“Look, I didn’t have a chance to mention it, is all.”
“Uh huh,” he snorts. “Sure.”
You clear your throat. “We can be mature about this. I guess we should go over the agreement. You have your space, your stuff, and I have mine.”
“Sure,” he agrees tritely.
You look at the glass in his hands. “So, if you do need to borrow something, you can just ask first–”
“I remember when I got here, you said make myself at home,” he counters, pausing to drain the last of the wine. He sets the glass down so roughly, you swear you hear a crack. “But you really haven’t made me feel at home, have you?”
You take another drink and hide behind the glass, the condensation staining your palms. “I’m sorry, I thought… you’d prefer your space.”
“My space, you mean the shed?” He scoffs.
You furrow your brows.
“This is a big house for just you. It’s pretty fucking selfish to have me out there then treat me like an outdoor dog when I dare come inside.” He snarls as he stands at his full height, shoulders squaring. He’s a lot bigger than you realised before. Even with nearly nothing on.
“I’m sorry if it’s come off that way–”
“I wondered why you were still single, you know? Think I get it now.” He spits.
“Hey, you don’t have to be mean. We can talk this out. All I’m asking is that you… just ask. If you want something, just let me know.” You barter. “And I’ll make sure to communicate back. No more notes.”
He snorts and tilts his head. He grips his hips as he stares at you. He pokes his tongue into his cheek and shifts his weight on his long legs. He gives a subtle nod.
“All I gotta do is ask?” He says.
You nod nervously.
“So, if I ask nicely to bend you over and loosen up that tight ass, what would you say to that?” He taunts.
You blanch and blink, instinctively taking a step back. “That’s… not funny.”
“I’m not being funny. I don’t make fucking jokes.” He snarls.
Your eyes flit from him to the door; past the island and past him. You grip the glass tighter and look him in the face.
“The answer would be no and I’d prefer it if you went back to the guest house. Now.” You say rigidly.
He chuckles. The rocky rumble sends a shiver through you then suddenly, quiets. His face drops, his eyes darkening as the angles of his jaw grow sharp. He steps toward you and you retreat. He slaps the glass from your hands and the glass shatters against the side of the island.
You gasp and stumble backward. He steps over the puddle of shards and water as he pursues you, eyes dilated, jaw set. You turn around the side of the island, dragging your hand on the wall.
“Ransom, I didn’t– what–”
He lunges at you and you stagger. You throw out your arms as you dodge away from him. He’s too fast. Too strong. He catches you by your throat and swings you into the side of the island. You cry out at the marble edge cracks into the middle of your back. You whine and wriggle in his grasp.
“You think you’re fucking than me? That you’re doing me some kind of fucking favour? This is a punishment for me. Living with some crotchety old lady with a snatch that hasn’t been stretched in decades. With her tightass fucking rules and ass.” He sneers down at you, getting close as his breath scalds with the scent of wine.
“Ransom,” you clasp onto his thick wrist and writhe. You can feel the tendons and veins as you tremble at his strength. “Please, you’ve been drinking–”
“Shut you’re fucking mouth!” He snaps. “Every fucking word you say just makes me want to break you more.”
“Please,” you whisper.
“Stop fucking talking and pull your skirt up.” He growls.
Your eyes sting and your lip trembles. You stare at him, paralysed. He huffs and reaches down, gripping the seam of your skirt as he yanks. You jerk in his grasp and bat his hand blindly. He squeezes your neck tighter and shakes you.
“Stop fucking fighting,” he barks in your face. “Do you really want to find out how much worse this can get?”
You whimper as your hand shakes around his wrist. You gape up at him dumbly. He bends down and presses his forehead and nose to yours.
“Keep this up, and I’ll break your fucking neck.” He scoffs as he rips your skirt up higher. “Hell, it be a lot fucking easier to fuck you then, wouldn’t it?”
Warnings: this fic contains violence, age gap, noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 13th’s fic! (It's late. Sorry)
Ransom Drysdale + “Do you really want to find out how much worse this can get?”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Another dirty dish. You made a very clear choice in your life not to be a mother, yet here you are, cleaning up after another. You sigh and put the bowl in the sink, noting the streaks of green; the guac you made for yourself.
You shrug off the agitation. Maybe a review of house rules is in order. You made it very clear when your tenant moved in; he has his things, you have yours, and they stay separate. You don’t see what excuse he has to leave a mess or indulge in your food when he has an entire guest house to himself.
That division is what reassured you when Linda phoned in the favour. It will just be for a while, she said. You should’ve expected when you couldn’t get her to define ‘while’ that this would be a cut and dry as you hoped. Linda is rarely the one to leave out details.
You scrub the bowl and dry it and set it away. You start on your own meal for the day. You’re disappointed to find there’s more than just a helping taken out of your guac; it’s pretty much gone. Worse, it was left unsealed so what remnants remain are brown.
You set the container aside. Alright then, something else. Chicken alfredo isn’t too difficult. Amazing, the cream is on the counter and warm. Guess that’s out too.
You tap your fingers in irritation. You are not his mother, just doing a favour for his mother. You won’t be the one to teach him basic manners, only lay down your own boundaries. Simple things; don’t eat what isn’t yours and put things back where they belong.
You don’t have the energy for the conversation right now. Knowing the spoiled Thrombey, it will be more of a confrontation. You’re not so good at those.
🏠
You yawn against the back of your hand as you set down your work bag. What a long day. You leave your shoes beside the leather brief case and let your jacket hang open. You rub your eyes as you walk blindly from the entry way to the hall.
Your stomach is growling and a dull pounding is slowly building in your head. Water, maybe some crackers to tide you over for the night. You drop your hands as you enter the kitchen.
You barely keep from shouting as you find Ransom pouring himself a glass of your chardonnay. More shameless than his blatant theft, is his attire, or lack of. He’s in a pair of paisley boxers and not much else. You’re even more unprepared for that than him and the brewing tension of his imposition.
“Um, hey,” you say flatly as you stop and watch him top off the glass.
He puts the bottle down beside the cork and looks at you from the corner of his eyes. His cheek dimples as he lifts the glass and slurps. He faces you as you try not to look at his broad chest with the thick hair all across it.
“You look like you could use a glass,” he grins.
You swallow dryly. You could but you need a degree of strength. You sniff and circle around the island, keeping a wide breadth from him. He turns to watch you pull down a tall glass from the cupboard and slides closer.
You sidle over to the fridge and press the glass to the lever beneath the water filter. You watch the depths fill. He looms and gulps again.
“Bottle didn’t have a note on it,” he scoffs. “So I figured…”
You knew it was a bad idea. Passive aggressive at best. You made a new batch of guac and put a little label on it; do not eat. You back up and sip the cold water, a chill spreading through you.
You’re too old to be dealing with entitled brats like him. That thought makes you feel bad but when you were his age, you avoided your peers for the same characteristics. You strayed from the path of marriage and motherhood to find your own peace and now you’ve foolishly welcomed chaos into your home. All because Linda Thrombey wanted her due.
“Look, I didn’t have a chance to mention it, is all.”
“Uh huh,” he snorts. “Sure.”
You clear your throat. “We can be mature about this. I guess we should go over the agreement. You have your space, your stuff, and I have mine.”
“Sure,” he agrees tritely.
You look at the glass in his hands. “So, if you do need to borrow something, you can just ask first–”
“I remember when I got here, you said make myself at home,” he counters, pausing to drain the last of the wine. He sets the glass down so roughly, you swear you hear a crack. “But you really haven’t made me feel at home, have you?”
You take another drink and hide behind the glass, the condensation staining your palms. “I’m sorry, I thought… you’d prefer your space.”
“My space, you mean the shed?” He scoffs.
You furrow your brows.
“This is a big house for just you. It’s pretty fucking selfish to have me out there then treat me like an outdoor dog when I dare come inside.” He snarls as he stands at his full height, shoulders squaring. He’s a lot bigger than you realised before. Even with nearly nothing on.
“I’m sorry if it’s come off that way–”
“I wondered why you were still single, you know? Think I get it now.” He spits.
“Hey, you don’t have to be mean. We can talk this out. All I’m asking is that you… just ask. If you want something, just let me know.” You barter. “And I’ll make sure to communicate back. No more notes.”
He snorts and tilts his head. He grips his hips as he stares at you. He pokes his tongue into his cheek and shifts his weight on his long legs. He gives a subtle nod.
“All I gotta do is ask?” He says.
You nod nervously.
“So, if I ask nicely to bend you over and loosen up that tight ass, what would you say to that?” He taunts.
You blanch and blink, instinctively taking a step back. “That’s… not funny.”
“I’m not being funny. I don’t make fucking jokes.” He snarls.
Your eyes flit from him to the door; past the island and past him. You grip the glass tighter and look him in the face.
“The answer would be no and I’d prefer it if you went back to the guest house. Now.” You say rigidly.
He chuckles. The rocky rumble sends a shiver through you then suddenly, quiets. His face drops, his eyes darkening as the angles of his jaw grow sharp. He steps toward you and you retreat. He slaps the glass from your hands and the glass shatters against the side of the island.
You gasp and stumble backward. He steps over the puddle of shards and water as he pursues you, eyes dilated, jaw set. You turn around the side of the island, dragging your hand on the wall.
“Ransom, I didn’t– what–”
He lunges at you and you stagger. You throw out your arms as you dodge away from him. He’s too fast. Too strong. He catches you by your throat and swings you into the side of the island. You cry out at the marble edge cracks into the middle of your back. You whine and wriggle in his grasp.
“You think you’re fucking than me? That you’re doing me some kind of fucking favour? This is a punishment for me. Living with some crotchety old lady with a snatch that hasn’t been stretched in decades. With her tightass fucking rules and ass.” He sneers down at you, getting close as his breath scalds with the scent of wine.
“Ransom,” you clasp onto his thick wrist and writhe. You can feel the tendons and veins as you tremble at his strength. “Please, you’ve been drinking–”
“Shut you’re fucking mouth!” He snaps. “Every fucking word you say just makes me want to break you more.”
“Please,” you whisper.
“Stop fucking talking and pull your skirt up.” He growls.
Your eyes sting and your lip trembles. You stare at him, paralysed. He huffs and reaches down, gripping the seam of your skirt as he yanks. You jerk in his grasp and bat his hand blindly. He squeezes your neck tighter and shakes you.
“Stop fucking fighting,” he barks in your face. “Do you really want to find out how much worse this can get?”
You whimper as your hand shakes around his wrist. You gape up at him dumbly. He bends down and presses his forehead and nose to yours.
“Keep this up, and I’ll break your fucking neck.” He scoffs as he rips your skirt up higher. “Hell, it be a lot fucking easier to fuck you then, wouldn’t it?”
Warnings: this fic contains violence, age gap, noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 14th’s fic! (It's late. Sorry)
Lloyd Hansen + “I just need you close to me.” (Medieval AU)
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Restlessness stirs your skirts. You pace around your chambers, from canopy to fireplace to window. You stop at the last and peer out onto the blooms trimmed in perfect geometric patterns. You sway back and forth as a swell of unease chases at your heels.
You spin and hurry to the door. You poke your head out and find your usual guard, as vigilant as ever. Sir Lloyd looks at you from the corner of his eye, his nose cut in a stoic profile over his tufted mustache. His light armour clinks with his movement as his hand tightens on his pommel.
“Princess,” he intones flatly.
“Ah, you’re here.” You reply.
“As ever.” He states as a fact.
“Mm,” you hum. Ever since your father put you at the guard’s charge, you’ve felt a twinge of guilt. He isn’t the sort to find glory in watching over a naive princess. “And I am as ever grateful for your protection.”
His cheek dimples and brow arches. His eyes drift back to the opposite wall. You cannot blame him his resent.
“You require your lady maid, princess?” He asks.
“No. Unless, do you think?” You step out fully and touch the net over your hair. “Would a duke prefer my hair loose, sir?”
Sir Lloyd keeps his eyes on the stone. “I’ve sworn all the attention I might pay to lady’s tresses to your father. I fear I’m not much versed in braids and curls.” He looks at you again, once more without turning his head. “The net becomes you, however.”
“Ah, sir, you are silly.” You clap your hands. “No, I didn’t need Mercia. I only… I hoped to sneak away to the gardens. I thought some roses might be nice to receive the Duke.”
His eyes narrow and his armour rises and falls with his chest. “Princess.”
“You wouldn’t have to come. I’ll be quick.”
“You know that I must, princess.” His thumb rubs the metal ornament at the top of his pommel.
You pout and nod. He is correct. You are to go nowhere without company, least of all, his. You pity him the task of acting as your shadow. You suppose your days seem as folly to a knight and royal guard.
“I suppose then you might call Mercia and I would send her.” You resign.
He sighs again and tilts his head. “We will go, princess.”
Your smile beams and you bounce on your toes. “I must bring a basket. I will be quick, sir.”
You turn and leave the door open. You snatch up the woven basket with the twisted handle and shuffle back to the corridor. As you emerge, Sir Lloyd reaches to pull shut the door. You swing the basket in triumph.
“At your delight, princess.” He gestures with his gloved hand.
You stand taller and set off down the corridor. He walks just a step back. You can hear his armour and the hard soles of his boots.
“What colour do you think, sir?”
“A flower is a flower,” he harrumphs.
“No, not just a flower.” You trill. “Red is for love and charity. A kind colour. White would be innocence, and I suppose, heavenly. The purple would be too royal, would it not? Too pretentious? Or pink for grace and romance…”
He’s silent as he skirts around you. He goes down the first step of the staircase and offers his hand. You brace his wrist as you descend and he assures your balance. He makes a slow descent.
“And what should they mean if your father denies the betrothal, princess?”
“They will be something pretty to cheer me.” You shrug. “Father said he didn’t mind the Duke.”
“Your father has never met a person he did not mind. He will find fault in a child at play.” He scoffs. “With respect, princess.”
“No, you wouldn’t be untrue. My father is…elusively temperamental.” You drone as you come to the flat stone. “Perhaps then the flowers would be for me. A measure to calm my nerves as I wait anon.”
“You…” he begins but stops himself, as if thinking better of his thought. He continues. “You are anxious for your suitor, princess?”
You look at him over your shoulder. Servants rush to open the doors as you approach. “I am. It is kind of you to ask though… there are many troubles bigger than mine own.”
“Whatever troubles the princess is my duty to ward off.” He assures. “That is as your father bid.”
“And to you, I apologise. I’m certain you’d rather be ahorse or at least, have reason to draw your sword, sir.”
“I shouldn’t long for it for it would mean you are in danger.” He says as he follows you out into the sunshine.
You make your way to the gardens and delve into the hedges of intertwined thorns and petals. You see a blushing pink bloom and hurry forward to touch it. You feel along the stem and squeak as you pull your hand back.
Sir Lloyd approaches and opens his gloved hand. “Princess.”
You show him your pricked finger. The blood beads at the tip. He pinches, firm but gentle, and tuts.
“Do not touch. A duke would be appalled to see such fine fingers tortured.” He bids. “Point and I will cut whatever you like.”
“Oh, sir, thank you.”
You pull your hand from his and fix the basket over your other arm. “That pink one that bit me, sir.”
He gives you a look and you giggle. He slides a long dagger from his belt. You watch the metal and your eyes widen. You never paid much heed to the weapons he carried. They would never be used against you, thus you never worried.
He delicately slips his hand around the stem, careful not to disturb the petals, and he cuts through the thorns. He lays the rose in the basket as you hold it out.
“Pink, romance, you said, princess.”
“Or grace. Or heavenly perfection.” You muse. “But I only like the shade, sir. Don’t you?”
He turns to cut some more pink blooms. “I’ve not much of an eye for these things,” he holds up another rose, this one with white at the base of the petals and pink along the edges. He looks at you over it. “Though I can see beauty when it is in front of me.”
🌹
Compline rang out from the cathedral bells ages ago. It is late and you are just as restless as you’ve been much of the day. You are adrift somewhere between dusk and dawn. Alone.
The duke did not arrive. Not as they said he would. Has he turned back with doubt? Or has something worse befallen him? No, those things are only wives tales.
You sit against the headboard, still in your lilac gown, with the net still in your hair, and the chain around your neck bearing your mother’s bequeathed gem. Your slippers even remain on your feet as you wring your hands and wait. As the night wears on, so do you. Your head bobbles and dips.
A knock at the door gives you a start. The door opens and Mercia enters. The lantern flickers at your bedside. She gasps.
“Princess, you’ve not slept!” She decries.
You hush her. “Is there word of the duke?”
“Oh, Princess, you mustn’t worry so. You must be ready for when he does come. You will be dreary with fatigue–”
“Have you heard anything?” You plead with her.
“No, Princess. Nothing. I’ve only come as morning approaches.” She explains.
“Go then. I have no need of any but the duke.”
“Princess, perhaps some rose tea or–”
“Please, leave.”
She obeys. Your mind races with worry. Was it you? Or your father? He can be demanding and rather particular. Perhaps he saw the duke and turned him away…
Another knock comes before you can slump. You call for the visitor to enter. It is only Sir Lloyd. He does not enter often. Only with your father.
“Princess.” He greets. “The maid says you are unwell.”
“The maid lies.”
“You’ve not slept, princess.”
“So I’ve not,” you cross your arms. “And the duke has not come.”
Sir Lloyd stares at you. You shy away and look at your skirts. You huff.
“You should rest. It is my duty to see you safe and well. You will not be without sleep.”
“Sir. You needn’t worry so. Only keep the wretches out. That is your duty.”
He is quiet. He backs up and pulls the door with him. “So it is,” he utters before it closes entirely.
🌹
Your father enters without pretense. He is a king, he needs no welcome or permission. You sit at the window, in the same lilac gown as these last two days, with the same gnawing dread in your gut. Sir Lloyd stands at the door, hand on his pommel and shoulders straight.
“Daughter,” the king says in his cold tone. “We’ve news of your suitor. He will not be your husband.”
You gasp and stand. You nearly tip from exhaustion. “But why not? Where has he gone?”
“Slain. Dead in the dirt. Some bandits.” He says without compassion.
You put your hands to your cheek in horror. Sir Lloyd’s brow twitches slightly but otherwise, he is unbothered. Your father growls.
“Rather inconvenient. I tire of meeting these upstarts. All they do is recite their useless titles and praise a maiden they’ve never laid eyes on. I do not require love, I require money, lands. And now his shrew of a sister will hoard it for herself.” He throws his hands up. “Rats.”
He turns and stomps to the door. Sir Lloyd clears his throat. “And the bandits? Are they not a threat to other travellers? If they would assault a noble, what might keep them from the very same upon the royal person? The summer progress is not far away, your highness.”
Your father snorts. “Always my cleverest knight, Hansen.” He smacks his knuckles on the guard’s arm. “Go on then. Deal with the rabble. Make an example as you do.”
“Happily,” Sir Lloyd bows his head. “I will have Nikolai take my place here until I return.”
“If he isn’t sober, let me suggest Geralt.” Your father retorts before he strides out.
You stand, stunned. You back up and sit on the window seat. You hang your head.
“Dead?” You whisper.
“Princess,” Sir Lloyd says. “I will avenge your suitor. In your honour.”
“Death and more death,” you turn onto your side and crumple up. “I thought… I hoped…”
You close your eyes and hug yourself. You hear the guard come close, sense him even. Almost as if his fingers hover right above your cheek. He exhales.
“I will have Mercia bring you some lemon water and milk. You must calm. Sleep, princess. I will not be long in my justice.”
🌹
You languish in bed, defeated by fate. How many times must this charade be played out. The first lord your father chose was too short and squat. The second made a bad jape and nearly got the axe. The third complimented and earl your father despised. The fourth and the fifth annoyed him for no particular reason. Now the sixth has perished to some forest-infesting scoundrels.
Mercia brings you meals you do not touch and says words you do not hear. You are a princess. You are meant to marry a fine man; to love him; to be cherished. You long as any does to be wanted. For once in your life…
It is night. The window lets in a night breeze to soothe the stagnant air. There are voices in the hall. You perk up at the familiarity of the latter tone. Footsteps trod away.
A gentle tap comes at the door. You do not move. Slowly, the hinges groan.
“Princess,” Sir Lloyd’s shadow stands at the wall.
“Good knight, you’ve returned.” You say without rising.
“So I have. Victorious. The beast that slew the young duke have been dealt with.”
You sit up as your fatigue slakes away. “You…”
“By my hand. In your name.” He assures.
“I… but the duke is dead, still.”
He exhales loudly. He closes the door, from the inside. You turn your legs over the side of the bed and fumble to strike flint to light the lantern. He nears and takes it from you, doing it himself. He smells like iron.
“Sir?”
“I’ve ridden all night to be sure I could be here. That I could protect you from heels such as those I’ve seen off to their fates.” He sneers as he backs up.
You look up at him. There is a dent in his shoulder armour and a reddened patch on his cheekbone. You rise and lift the lantern. You follow him as he strides to the window.
“Sir, you’ve been injured?”
“I’ve had worse.” He stares out at the night.
You bring the lantern closer to see him better and he turns away. There’s something amiss. He has changed. He moves in a prowl as he considers the room. He pauses to touch the wilting flowers in the pot on the table. The ones he cut for you. He bends to smell them.
He stands and snickers. “The very purse I filled are now on my own belt.”
You stare at him and set the lantern down on the other side of the pot. “What do you mean, sir?”
“It is ironic to think, men as me, are paid to wield death upon others and it is called honour. Others are paid for the same and deemed criminals.” He scoffs. “I suppose it is all in who is felled and who is paying.”
You frown. Your chest flutters and your mind swims. You don’t understand.
“Sir, your words confound me.”
He bends forward and flattens his palms on the table. He hangs his head and lingers like that as you listen to his breath. He inhales deeply and stands at full height. You never noticed before how fearsome and gargantuan he is. There is blood upon his armour still, it catches the flame’s flicker.
“Your father bid me protect you and it is what I’ve done.” He says.
“Sir?”
He walks around the table and you turn to him. He stands before you. He looks down at his hands and brings them up next to your arms. He shudders.
“The duke was better dying on the road. It would not be right to slay him on his wedding night.” He drawls as he closes his hands around your arms and drags them up. You shiver.
“What…. You don’t mean? You…”
“I did my duty. I protected you. I kept you from some spoiled duke who would not care for you as I do.”
“Sir? You cannot– you jape. You play with my wits.”
“Darling princess, I am sworn to do all and anything for you. To my spirit.” He brings his hands up to the sides of your neck. “My only desire is to have you safe.” He leans down and presses his lips to your forehead. You quiver as your eyes crest with hot tears. “I just need you close to me… and he would’ve taken you away.”
Warning: power imbalance, dark content, obsession, and all around sexiness.
Summary: Powerful director Nick takes interest in a new project; you. (director!Nick Fowler, plus!reader)
I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
Nick waves you ahead of him. Your stomach flips as you climb the stairs up to the open jet door. An attendant waits inside, though she doesn’t wear a uniform like the airlines you see on TV. Just a sleek black dress and heels, her hair pulled back into a tidy chignon.
“To the right, sweetheart,” Nick calls from behind you.
You nod and follow his direction. The attendant leads you into the body of the plane. There aren’t rows like a commercial flight; there’s a cushy looking leather sofa with seat belts tucked into the corners, two seats with reclining backs and foot rests, and a whole dining set with cushioned benches.
“Sit wherever you like.” The attendant says. “I’m Cassidy and I’ll be your in-flight attendant.” She smiles. “You and Mr. Fowler.”
You introduce yourself with a squeak.
She looks past you. “Sir, is there anything I can get you?”
“Once we’re in air, she’ll want a drink. Something bubbly.” He says sternly.
“Yes, Mr. Fowler. And you’re usual?” She offers.
“I’ll have the same as her.” He shoulders by her, his eyes on you. “Sweetheart, what are you feeling? You can lay down, have a nap. Or maybe a window seat? You can watch take off.”
You rock back and forth and play with the brim of your crochet hat. “I… sure. That’s cool. I bet taking off is scary.”
He grins. “I’ll be here.” He winks and stares at you.
You clear your throat and look around. You move cautiously to the chair by the window and sit. You clutch your belt bag around your waist and lean forward to peek out the window. Your neck is alight with self-awareness.
You glance over as Nick lowers himself into the seat beside you. He’s watching you. Still.
“Sorry, I’m nervous. I drove to LA, you know? I probably said that already.” You smile sheepishly.
“Any turbulence, just hold onto me,” he assures you. “I don’t mind.”
“Um, that’s nice.” You nod and look out the window again.
“Simon’s a good pilot. Don’t worry too much.” He says.
“I’m not worried. Just… excited, I guess.”
You sit back and wait. Nick rests his arm on the rest between you. His fingers flutter.
“You sure you’re okay?” He asks.
You can hear movement in the plane as they close the doors. Voices call back and forth as they check the windows. You fidget.
“Really, it’s just… Just the other day I was running trays across a lot and now I’m… going to Venice.”
“Hollywood moves fast,” he clucks. “But not when you need it too.”
“Right, er…” You giggle, more nervous than amused.
“Hello, Mr. Fowler,” the attendant greets, adding your name as well, “we’re almost ready for take off. We need belts on.”
He flicks her away with his fingers and searches for his seat belt. You do the same. He clasps his and sighs. You take a bit longer, mindful of his observation.
“Here,” he reaches over to help you adjust the belt and the buckle finally slips in. His fingers graze your stomach, knuckles pressing into you right before he pulls away. “Nice and safe.” He brushes across the back of your hand.
“Thanks,” you eke out and turn back, lean over to the window.
You peer through as the plane clangs and juts and the engines begin to hum. The wheels start to roll and you blindly latch onto the armrest, only to grab onto Nick’s arm instead. You show your teeth and laugh at yourself, apologising before you pull away.
You stare through the window as the runway blurs under the plane and feel the tilt beneath you. The motion disorients you as you watch the world sink beneath you. You stare down at the grids of the city, the green, the tarmac, the water.
You feel a tickle on your arm, up and down from elbow to shoulder. You gasp and smile as the clouds surround you and you sit back. You look at Nick as he strokes your arm. You clamp your lips tight.
“Wow,” you say.
His fingers linger for a moment then he drops his hand away. His brow ticks. He sits back and nods. “Pretty amazing, huh?”
“Yes!” You answer. “I think so, at least. I bet for you it’s not.”
“I still enjoy it.” He says. “Even more with someone to share it with.”
“And thank you. I never… could’ve dreamed.”
The plane levels out. He takes off his seatbelt and you copy him. You wriggle in the chair and pull your purse around. You dig inside.
“What’re you up to?” He wonders.
“Oh… you don’t mind if I read?”
He shrugs and looks away. He raises his hand and Cassidy appears. She has two glasses in hand with pink wine and berries inside. She sets them on the low table in front of the chair.
“Mr. Fowler.” She dips her head.
“Thank you,” you say. Nick leans his chin in his hand. He stays like that for a minute before he drops his arm and sits up. He reaches for the glasses. “Here. Have a taste.”
He offers you a glass. You leave your book in your purse and push it to the other side of your lap. You accept the wine and look at the bubbles running up the crystal. You sniff it. It smells sweet.
You take a sip. Your cheeks pinch. You can taste the berries but the wine is still stringent enough to make you choke. You giggle and mop your lips with the back of your hand.
“Sorry,” you murmur.
“You don’t like it?” He keeps his away from his mouth.
“No, I do. I’m just not used to it. I don’t drink, you know?” You say. “Not very much.”
“You really are new to LA,” he chuckles and clinks his glass on yours.
“Yeah… I’m a total noob.”
“A noob?” He muses.
“Um, yeah…” you look at the wine as your cheeks burn. “Oh!” Your eyes flick up. “You’ll have to be my translator. I tried some duolingo but I can’t roll my r’s. I just kinda sound like I’m drowning.”
His brows arch and his cheeks dimple. He takes a deep sip of wine then pulls the glass away. He licks his lips.
“No problem at all. You’ll wanna keep close to me anyway.” He once more pets your arm. “You know, Venice is a tourist trap and lotta people know that. Easy to lift a wallet off a distracted traveller… or worse.”
“Oh?” Your eyes round.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I got security. Yours now, too.” He sits back and shifts around. “You mind?” He taps the armrest between you. You shake your head and he flips it up. He settles in, closer to you. “Make sure you don’t go anywhere without me or one of my guys, alright?” He leans his head back and looks at you. “You’re precious cargo.”
Prompt: June 11th - Little Bitty Pretty One - Thurston Harris / “Tell you a story”
Character: Lloyd Hansen
I know it’s short but please let me know your thoughts and reblog. Also, would love to discuss any ideas these little snippets inspire!
Love you! 💞
"Come on, talk to me." The man leans on the bar as you stare straight ahead, counting the colourful bottles of liquor.
You squirm and look around. There's others watching you. The ones he came with. The same ones he was laughing with as he peeked over at you sitting alone.
"Tell you a story, how about that? Gotta break the ice," his fingers move with his words, coming close to your hand. You pull your hands into your lap. "I knew a girl like you when I was younger. Pretty but shy. Always wanted to talk to her but she was just so scared."
You bite the tip of your tongue and swallow. Where's Rita? She said she'd be here.
"It's just too bad because I wonder where she ended up. Probably with a bunch of cats and still a virgin." He scoffs.
You frown and look at the door. You knew this was a mistake. You offered to meet her at her place but she had to go see Will first. Always him.
"Who needs a cat when you got a man who knows how to treat the kitty, right?"
You gasp and look at him. You shake your head. "Why are you bugging me?"
"Got you." He cackles and smooths his mustache with his thick fingers, his tongue poking out lewdly. He offers his hand and winks. "Name's Lloyd and I saw my name on that ass."
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