#<< just tagging him bc hes all over the canvas

[cherrirui-official]

"You know... You didn't have to take that with you."

"But I promised him I'd take him out to see the ocean one day."

[rose-tinted-kalopsia]

≡;-꒰ 𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I  𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒆

╰┈➤ ❝ rafayel x afab!reader | smut nsfw 18+ mdni

tags : pwp (without plot), softdom!rafayel, but also kiiind of switch!rafayel, kissing and making out, teasing, guided masturbation, inappropriate use of a paintbrush, clit play, nipple play, slight overstimulation, slight edging if you squint, thigh riding, praise, cursing, dirty talk, use of pet names "my muse" "princess" "baby", lmk if i missed any tags !! ((unedited))

wc : 3.2k

taglist : @zaynesaurora @darlingdummycassandra (+ @seaofgoldensand mwah) | sign up here!

an : guys bc ,,,,,, i swear you never truly realize how daunting it can be to act as an impromptu live model for someone.. until you try it...

You underestimate the intimacy of eye-contact.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

There was nothing but silence in the air, only occasionally interrupted by a tap of his shoe on the floor, or a squeaking of the chair when he moved. There was the tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall, and the faint, hushed sound of delicste brushstrokes on the canvas...

These were the only things you could focus on, if not at the way that he looked at you.

Rafayel's stare was intense.

Anytime he would shift his gaze from the canvas and back to you; anytime you'd catch the way his eyes would take in the shape of your figure...

You wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt; this was just part of the process. He was only being professional, after all—of course an artist needed to look at his model!

...But it was less about what he felt; this was something that you, yourself couldn't take.

"Eyes up here, princess," came his voice, the familiar sing-songy tone to it triggering a bout of butterflies.

You were torn, somewhat.

You wished you could wipe that knowing smile right off of his face, but simultaneously felt that you could cave underneath even just that stupid, stupid gaze of his.

...And you knew that you had brought this upon yourself.

Whatever bickering had started with his whine about a "lack of inspiration" and a roll of your eyes in response, had settled with you offering to be his model.

You even recalled how surprised he was, the concern that etched on his features—

"Hm? But it could take a while, you know. Might be uncomfortable for you to sit for so long."

You figured it couldn't hurt. You were willing to get through it if it meant finally bringing your partner out of his rut, and in turn, his willingness to paint you—when he had sworn that portraits were never even his thing—felt like a little treat.

However, as much as you believed you'd have the upper hand in this situation, you severely underestimated it.

Now, you sat atop a cushioned chair, assuming a position you were comfortable with holding for a time unspecified. You donned normal, unnassuming clothing, just your everyday top and jeans. And in front of you sat a painter and his canvas, his hands moving tastefully over the piece he crafted, a certain twinkle in his eye that already had you reeling.

Rafayel was painting you, and by all means did nothing about this set up look the least bit intimate to either of you—

But you felt like it was.

It was a private moment, just the two if you in this room, gazes meeting with an intensity that made you want to squeeze something.

You didn't know if you had to owe it to how attractive he was, but staying like this, with nothing else to focus your attention on, you could only notice how pretty he was. Soft, layered hair so perfectly styled into place, his signature low-cut shirt framing his figure so nicely...

And his eyes.

God, his eyes.

Rafayel had the most captivating eyes you'd ever seen—A mix of a deep magenta and cerise, of mulberry and wine... So unrelenting in their allure that though the intensity had your heart beating wildly in your chest, you could never, for the life of you, ever tear your gaze away.

It was visceral.

It sent a tingle down your spine.

You could curse all the memories that would flood to your head just because of it, those images and sensations of your nights together. The way he'd look at you, with lust, and love, such passion imbued with every roll of his hips against yours... This wasn't the time to be thinking of such things, you knew that. They brought an obvious hue of pink to your cheeks that you knew he'd notice, but you almost couldn't help it—

Was a siren's allure truly so confining?

You had nowhere to run.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you could almost think this was...

Intentional.

"Little muse, you're blushing."

If you thought it couldn't get any worse, you were clearly wrong.

Rafayel's brushstrokes had paused, and the mirth that danced in his eyes set off all the warning bells that your brain could manage.

"...Shut up, you're imagining things," you mumbled, willing youself to turn your head away from him.

"Ah ah ah~ I'm not done yet, don't move, princess."

And to think that when you'd started, he'd been concerned for you.

Despite yourself, you fidgeted in your seat.

You couldn't take any more of this.

You'd been at it for close to an hour by now, the silence, the staring, the butterflies—

A slight shift in your position made you painfully aware of the wetness that had pooled between your thighs, and you wanted to crawl into a cave.

"Hey. You tired?"

Rafayel was searching your expression, reading you.

It wasn't helping.

"N-no," you managed to nearly choke out, your obvious fluster making your cheeks feel warmer.

And in all this time that you've known him, been with him—you knew that he could put two and two together.

A smirk spread over his features.

You were in for it.

"I'll allow some movement," he hummed, setting his brush down momentarily, "but it looks like you want something a little more... specific..."

"Rafayel, if you don't shut up—"

He grinned.

"Why? We can take a break, yeah? I'm just giving you free space to do as you want."

You watched his eyes rake over your figure, lingering over the way your legs were pressed more tightly together than you'd started with.

"Don't tell me you need me to guide you, princess..."

You wished you could slap that smile off his face.

Rafayel folded his arms, leaning back a little. The shine in his eyes didn't budge even a millimeter; his gaze remained steely on you.

"You know, if I didn't know any better, my muse, I'd say you've gotten a little needy."

You didn't know why you bothered to stay put in your seat, when the paintbrush was not even in his hands anymore.

And he noticed.

"Yeah? I'm right, aren't I?" he chuckled. "So why don't you release some of your stress before we continue? Since you're not getting up, you might as well do something for my motivation..."

The way he gestured towards the canvas, wearing that infuriating little smirk of his, had the heat rushing to your face.

"As if you could take watching me touch myself," you shot back, mirroring his pose and crossing your arms.

You cheered in silent victory at the momentary lapse in his expression, though it settled back into his smile within seconds.

"Mmn... Then we'll have to do something about that later, if it comes to it," he shrugged. "But this is about you, princess."

For a while there was no response from either of you, just staring silently at each other, daring one to make a move—

Until his gaze made you squirm, and he let out a snort.

"Oh, princess..." he started, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I'm not going to touch you when I still intend to get back to finishing this piece. So if you want to use our little break to do something about this... You'll have to do it yourself. Come on, now. Undress for me, yeah?"

He was infuriating.

A menace.

This was karma for all the times you've rendered him speechless, and he was enjoying it.

You clicked your tongue, the challenge in your eyes winning over the embarrassment that stirred in the pit of your stomach.

"Fine! Don't blame me if you'll never finish that painting..."

Frustrated though you might have been, and perhaps, ever determined to pay back his teasing, the look in his eyes remained bewitching.

It was foul play.

Your fingers trembled as you deftly pushed your panties to the side, your jeans kicked down to your ankles, your legs spread. Rafayel had seen you—used you—many times before... But there was something unnervingly intimate about doing this for him, when he was a number of laces away from you, watching, observing.

It was as if you were... a show.

"You're dripping," he commented, voice quiet and low, unable to keep himself from leaning forward as if to get a better look at you.

His words sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. You could only shoot him a glare, your blush betraying otherwise the effect that his heated gaze on you had.

"Go ahead, princess... I bet you're aching to be touched."

You almost didn't want to admit it, the way his voice played in your ear so sweetly that your heart could simply burst out of your chest. He made you weak, and you could barely think straight, and he could... see it all.

You chewed on your lip, shakily dipping a finger just barely into your heat, sliding up between your folds with a trail of obvious slick left in its wake.

"Shit..." you cursed under your breath.

You were almost scared to look back up at him, knowing you'd see those god-foresaken eyes again, so heated as they took in your every movement, your every action—

"That's it, princess," Rafayel murmured. "Play with yourself. Rub your clit for me, yeah?"

Your eyes closed as you found yourself doing exactly as you were told.

Soft pants fell from your lips, your middle finger drawing upwards to circle your sensitive nub. Just slow, gentle rubs, easing you into a rhythm of pleasure... You dared to open your eyes, catching the way his gaze remained fixated on your movements, his own eyes darkening, his lips parted slightly.

"You're so wet, baby..." His voice was hoarse now, clearly just as affected by the situation as you were. "Can you put a finger in? Please?"

Your features schooled into a small smile; victorious, in a way, despite your own obvious display of need. "But, why, Rafa?" you teased. "I don't wanna rush..."

The groan that he let out was delicious, and your eyes narrowed in satisfaction.

"C'mon, princess... I wanna see. Do it for me? Just one finger, yeah?"

"You're so easy to get all worked up, Rafa~" you found yourself cooing at him, taking note of his flushed cheeks, the heat in his eyes mirroring your own.You were the one touching yourself, and yet, he was the one begging. It was amusing, in a sense—how just the simplest things reduced him to this sort of mess.

"Just a little taste of your own medicine," you quipped.

But you did as he said, anyway.

The first push of a finger into your cunt had you moaning. The glide was easy, smooth, your walls accepting of your own intrusion, almost aching for even more.

"Fuck... that's it, baby, in and out, just like that."

It was almost amusing to hear him speak that way, so enraptured by the way you pleasured yourself, lost in the thought of you coming undone right in front of him. You didn't need his words of guidance; you knew exactly which spots had you keening, how to gradually bring yourself over the edge. Yet, he would still offer up words of such praise to you anyway, guiding you, telling you what to do, how to please yourself.

And there was something, just something, about the rawness in his voice that got to you.

Your eyes met as you began to buck your hips into your hand, sliding against the cushion, willing to give yourself more stimulation. Your breath fell out in puffs of quick pants, your heart rate accelerating, the pierce in his gaze so daunting and intimidating, yet so... arousing.

"R-Rafayel..."

Your eyes went hazy, unable to bring yourself to turn away from the hypnotic quality of his gaze.

"Keep going, princess, I'm here."

Your fingers moved faster, curling into your heat, emphasizing the obscene sounds of wetness that filled the studio. Your thumb moveed over to brush your clit, your other hand gripping the seat impossibly tighter, and then—

"R-Rafa!" You threw your head back, hips stuttering. "I-I'm close!"

In your peripheral vision you could see him lick his lips, his voice coming out hoarse, full of want. "Yeah? You are, huh? Come on, princess, just a little more. Work those fingers for me."

His words proved enough.

"Shit—fuck—!" A string of curses left your lips. You felt it as the pleasure rolled through your body, eliciting a gasp, causing you to nearly double over.

"There we go. Such a pretty little muse. That expression on your face is beautiful."

His words soothed you from your high, a gentle coo of praise as you took your fingers from out of your wetness. When you looked up at him, he was smiling, hand outstretched as if to beckon you. "C'mere, princess. You did so well for me, let me taste those pretty fingers of yours."

You almost clapped back at him, as if the urge to bicker—to one-up him—rose up just by instinct. Yet, there were those eyes again. That particular look that was magnetizing. It was more than a beckon. It felt like an allure. You were almost certain you'd moved on your own, slow steps into his arms, gently allowing yourself to be pulled onto his lap, the glisten from your earlier orgasm immediately coating the fabric of his pants.

He did as he promised, guiding your fingers into his mouth, looking straight at you with eyes full of lust. His tongue swirled over the pads of your fingers, and you twisted them for him. Watching him suck on your digits, slowly moving them in and out, promising him the taste he so desperately wanted... before you pulled them away with a wet pop.

"Give me one more," he whispered immediately, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "One more, before I finish this painting. Think you can do that?"

You'd nearly forgotten about the painting. It was behind you, your back turned towards it, your eyes only focused on the man before you. You didn't look back—didn't need to, not now. Not when his offer was so... tempting.

"'Kay," you mumbled. Your response was just as instant, your hips moving to glide over his thigh.

But he smirked.

A hand went to your back to support you, hold you in place, and your eyes widened when a clean, unused paintbrush found its way into his other hand.

"R- Rafayel...?"

"Just want to have a little bit of fun," he said breezily, gently trailing the brush from your jawline, all the way down over your collarbone. The sensation made you shiver. "Go on, princess. Don't mind me..."

Don't mind me.

He had the audacity to say that as he let you move all over his thigh, the bristles of his brush leaving a trail of goosebumps with every little stroke on your skin. Just light, feathery, teasing flicks, enough to add to your stimulation... It felt nice, and you'd never admit it to his face, but you could fold.

"You'd be so lovely to paint, look at you," he murmured. And he enjoyed the way your body jolted at his words, the chuckle enough of a testament. "Yeah? You like that idea, don't you, princess? Next time, maybe, I can have even more fun with you..."

The paintbrush began to venture lower, flicking against your nipples.

Your eyes went wide.

"W-wait—!" You gasped, gripping his shoulders, feeling him repeat the motions. Again, and again—the brush circled around your pert, sensitive nub, his gaze turning thoughtful, his little tool giving you more sensations than you knew were even possible.

"Hm? What's wrong?"

It acted like a soft caress, one so foreign to you that it made your head spin.

And he didn't dare stop there.

He must have gotten incredibly worked up, you thought, as he stilled your hips and leaned you back. You could guess where things were going; the way his hand supported your back from toppling into the canvas was firm and determined, your position already having your dripping cunt a little bit more on display for him.

"Look at me, princess," he whispered.

And you felt it—the paintbrush gliding lower and lower, gentle strokes over the skin of your abdomen, pausing just above your clit.

Your breath hitched.

Anticipation hung in the air, your eyes barely managing to stay locked onto his as your face seemed to fume with embarrassment.

"Rafayel," you huffed. "Seriously, you...!"

He circled the brush, a smirk tugging on his features. Feathery bristles brushed against you clit, and you let out a cry. There was a pattern, almost: he'd move the brush gently down the side of your folds, fluttering back up to your nub, pressing against it with a certain kind pressure he knew you always loved... Teasing, always teasing, never lingering for too long in a single spot.

It had you moaning almost immediately.

"What was that, my muse?" he grinned.

You'd never wanted to slap that expression off of his face any more than you did now, yet he had you helpless. You felt like putty in his hands, melting with every movement of his little brush, your thighs tensing over his. You didn't even need to move, anymore; the sensitivity from your previous orgasm had your senses heightening scarily quick, the coil steadily beginning to tighten in your stomach.

It felt as if he'd barely been doing anything.

Just that goddamned brush teasing you in all the right places, flicking against your clit, as he watched you clench around nothing.

"Please!" you swallowed your pride down deep enough to beg, the look in your eyes harboring a frustrated glare of want. "Stop teasing, Rafa, I need...!"

"Yeah? Need what, hm?"

Oh, he was having fun.

"N-need to cum! Need... Need something, Rafa, c'mon—!"

The brush set back aside, and he kissed you.

All tongue, even teeth, just messy, and deep, a pure display of the lust that had taken both of you hostage. His hands were in your hair, your body pressed so close against him, hips beginning to move again over his thigh. A few more soft, hushed, groans, and wet noises of passion, and you were gone.

You felt it snap, pulling back from the kiss only to fall forward onto his shoulder, muffling your moans into his shirt. It was insane, you thought, how he could rip out such a visceral reaction from you, a pleasure so overwhelming as you squeeze your legs over his thigh.

Easing you down, he rubbed soothing circles into your back, hushed words of praise tumbling from his lips.

Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment.

"My perfect little muse, so pretty, so beautiful," he sighed, hugging you close. "I can't wait to paint all your greedy desires onto my canvas."

⁺₊ / an: phew!! overdue and i feel like this isn't my best best work, but it doesss represent the chokehold this fish has on me 🙄 a girl's just gotta satisfy her rafayel cravings i guess!!

© rose-tinted-kalopsia. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

First off I LOVE your writing, I’m so happy you’re taking requests again so, may I please request something with Ghost? Like the reader is part of the 141 and Ghost has a soft spot for her and is very protective of her and both having feelings for each other but not saying anything bc both think the other one deserves better or just something like that🥹😮‍💨💖🙏🏻 feel free to keep practicing smut for this one!👀✨

You’re awesome 🥰💞

Blood Was Its Avatar

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Getting close to you was never his plan, but when he can't stop his self-protective instincts from pushing you away, will he be able to repair your strange friendship? Or will his body have to speak for him? (18+)

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, wounds, stitches, death, smut, p in v, throat f-ing, degradation, dom/sub dynamics, implied pain kink, hair pulling, hate sex? but not really?, semi-clothed sex, vulgar language, fluff at the end, etc. just pure filth.

A/N: This is sub-par because I was up until 4 in the morning today and didn't have the energy to edit in-depth lmfao, but enjoy Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

All of Ghost’s problems started and ended with you. He was impressed with that fact, actually. 

They call you ‘Masque’ on account of the mission from years back, ‘07 Ghost recalls easily. When you’d been pinned down and surrounded, the dead bodies of your unit all around your feet. You’d chosen to act while the others had been yelling orders over the radio—rooting around the pooling blood on the ground and slathering your face with it; your body. 

You pretended to be dead. 

Quick thinking, Ghost had told you with a glint in his eye when you’d gotten back, those whites of your eyes ten times more noticeable. Like the moon hanging around a crimson-drowned sky. 

You’d cursed him out and said of course it was, quoting some poem from Edgar Allen Poe as a joke.

“Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood.” The Masque of the Red Death. Your claim to survival apparently, as you had just read it a day before.

Ghost said you were bloody fucking crazy and found his eyes darkly watching the way you smirked at him. How the dried blood on your lips would splinter at your loud chuckle as you both entered the C17.

As he knew—all of his problems started and ended with you. Today was no different.

“Damn! Lookin’ good today Ghost, are those new gloves I spy?” You were always so…bubbly. 

“Masque,” the masked-man greats blandly, not even sparing you a look as you enter the meeting room. The screen on the far wall was hooked up to Price’s computer—broadcasting its news out into the dim lighting with images of mayhem and a loop of a video containing the bombing of an embassy building in the Netherlands. 

Profile pictures stain the screen of wanted subjects; captured or killed in the crossfire made no difference here, anyone could see it. 

You drop down into the seat beside his own with a huff, body shed of your usual black gear, and wearing casual fatigues instead—your tags jump on your chest and Ghost sees them glint in the light.

Your face shifts into a smile, prodding with a bump of your elbow. The Lieutenant turns and glares dryly while you carry on, “I asked if you got new gloves; they’re nice.” 

“Needed ‘em.” Ghost drawls, seeing no way out of this as he glances around at the multitude of other free seats. No one else was here yet, and Price had needed to step out for a moment to grab another report from his office one floor up. 

A small grunt echoes from his throat before his eyes dart back to yours. Shifting in his seat, his lax posture tenses before loosening. 

Raising a brow at Ghost, you stifle a laugh.

“That’s it?” He blinks at you slowly, those bright blues trapping you as they shine out from his skeletal visage; his great body hidden under layers of Kevlar and thick canvas cloth. Like some weird and deadly present. You tease him, “No attempt at a conversation, Ghosty? That hurts.”

You sarcastically put a hand to your chest. 

“Then suffer.” Ghost states like he’s reading the newspaper, stretching out one of his wrists by rolling it until it cracks the joints. Where was everyone else? “I’m not fuckin’ talking about bloody gloves, Masque.”

“It’s called a conversation starter!” Under the mask, he raises a dull eyebrow. You glower at him, but the smirk on your lips shows how much you enjoy this.  

“For who? Could have jus’ stayed quiet, then.” Scoffing, you roll your eyes and indulge him—pointedly going silent. Almost immediately an awkward nothingness covers the room with its metaphorical blanket and Ghost’s muscles slowly go stiff as he crosses his arms slowly over his chest. You bite your lip and stamp down a snort. 

A minute spreads like molasses. Two. Three. Five.

“Alright,” Ghost growls, breaking as you pick at your cuticles, humming horribly off-tune to a point where the Lieutenant’s ears were ringing and annoyance faired. “Fucking hell stop it, just say something already to shut up that noise. Sounds like my damn brakes squealin’.” 

You stop and laugh loudly, elbowing him again as he jerks away with a low grunt. Blue flashes, and his heart pounds.

“Jeez, Lieutenant, is my humming that bad for you?” The air rolls with tension.

“More effective than torture.” Ghost utters, his Manchester drawl violent and thick as it coats your ears. You take no offense—you’d been doing it on purpose, anyways; always the one to exploit cracks in the concrete. You'd found out a lot through your studies of the man beside you. Mostly, all of the small tics and unique qualities that made Ghost such a strange character. 

On the battlefield, the large man was resilient and patient. He could wait in one spot for days if he had to, sitting for a perfect shot. Nothing could break the line of purpose and authority he had over the units he was placed in or his fighting spirit. Gunbattles, torture, you name it he’d survived it. 

But he disliked anything below scalding hot tea, detested his objects and packs being messed with…and clenched his hidden jaw at small, repetitive, noises.

Low, horrible, humming, tapping fingers, tongues clicking over and over. You had no idea why, but the sight of making this experienced and handsome man glare at you with annoyance made your face heat up. 

You chuckle in the meeting room, eyes crinkling up at him before you reach for one of the pens and notepads on the table. Clicking the bottom, you shrug and start to scribble nothing into the side margins as blue ink bleeds like foreign blood. 

“What’s Price got for us today, then?” Your voice echoes, “We shipping out with the others or going Black again?” 

The Captain usually paired the two of you up for Black Ops for a reason—Ghost the strategic mastermind to your reckless bloodlust. Push and pull. 

Missions were rarely a failure. 

Ghost sighs, finally getting the sensation of control back into him. “Black,” he begins, “least for us. Old Man’s sending Garrick and Johnny out in hopes of drawin’ a few bastards out first. Netherlands. We slip in the back—off the books, ‘course.” 

He watches you from the side of his eye, gaze following your pen as you sketch out a small stick figure with a skull for a face. Ghost stifles a huff as he scratches at the side of his face.

“Well, of course,” you slyly tease, glancing at him before looking back to your pad. “Are we getting any soldiers?” 

“None. Just us.” 

“Ooo,” Ghost watches your lips curl and feels his body slowly still. “Sounds like fun.”

“It sounds like I’m going to have to babysit again,” you laugh again and dark blue seems to spark with some strange emotion. Ghost clears his throat and takes down a breath.

“Oh, please,” you chuckle, “I’ve saved your hide a few times before, Ghosty, be nice to me.”

“Nice isn’t in the job description, Masque.” 

“Well, it isn’t for you, grumpy. I think Johnny and Gaz are lovely.” Your nose tilts up teasingly as Ghost grumbles like a cat. “But that’s alright, I like you anyways.” Winking, you go back to your pointless scribbling as footsteps echo from the hallway. 

Ghost stares, his hands on the armrests slowly clenching into fists as he studies your expression. His eyes slid over scars and blemishes he’d already looked at a million times over, seeing in his mind’s eye the stains of blood and that every present smile—the burn of your presence beside him like a brand in his stomach. You never seemed to let him get too far away from you on Ops, but it wasn’t some form of obsession. It was worry; he’d seen it. 

You didn’t like it when you couldn’t see his back ahead of yours. Ghost guessed it had to do with your lost unit. He never pressed it. 

In fact, he’d noticed himself not eager to see you off himself. Had spent many a night in the onsite gym after missions because of it, where he’d given you the cold shoulder after. He didn’t like that feeling. That hesitation. 

Ghost knew only to trust people as much as he had to…so why did he like when you said nice things to him? His jaw clenches, shoulders rolling to dispel tension as he rips his eyes away from your body as if you were fire incarnate. Your head perks up at the sound of talking voices getting closer to the meeting room. 

Soap and Gaz enter a few moments later and Price shuffles in behind them. You smile warmly and greet them, shifting the notepad closer to yourself nonchalantly. 

Ghost grunts and stays stationary, straightening up when he realizes he's slightly leaned toward you during your conversation. His new gloves pull taunt over his knuckles and he suddenly wants to rip them off. 

—

You begin to wonder when you’ll be free from blood coating your fingers but know deep down you never will be. At least, not if this was how you’d be getting covered in it.

Sitting inside the hotel bedroom, you slowly extract a blood-coated bullet from Ghost's large thigh, grimacing when he grunts from over you. You’re in between his legs, kneeling, as the metal finally breaks free from the skin barrier—the entry wound is small but nonetheless dangerous. His pants were cut from thigh to knee, a long spit that showed pale, scarred skin. 

Keeping a tight grip on the forceps, you hum under your breath in satisfaction. 

“No bullet fragments—lucky you.” 

Ghost forces out, “Yeah, feelin’ proper lucky.” You chuckle, moving back and dropping the bullet to a food plate you’d put on the floor. Shuffling, you take up the rag placed over your upper arm and bring it back up. Patting the gushing wound, you frown and think back on the events that got you here as the Lieutenant shifts and bites his tongue. 

The intensity in his blue eyes burns into you, lungs deeply inhaling with a silent breath. Your fingers tingle, but you diligently press the fabric to the wound and try to ignore the heat from Ghost’s flesh or how his legs flinch with every trail of your nails. His muscles are pure iron around you, and you’re suddenly very aware of the position you’re in. 

Swallowing stiffly, you sigh and notice him slightly shiver when your breath caresses his upper leg. You stop immediately, lips going tight.

It had been fifteen minutes earlier when Soap and Gaz had set up in a far more open and less secluded hotel three blocks away—directly across from the base location for your gaggle of targets. As planned, you and Ghost would be off the books and go in when they were too distracted by the Sergeants’ in plain sight. 

Fire was supposed to be the cover story. Go in, take care of business, and set the place alight after the area was clear of civilians. But no one was counting on the targets being surrounded by three more friends. 

Of course, guns lead to bullets and bullets to flesh. You can still hear the ringing in your head when Ghost had jerked you to the slide and shoved you behind the far wall—skull snapping back to look in horror as his leg exploded with gore. 

Fucking bastard had been distracted by you and hadn’t had time to dodge. That wasn’t Ghost, but then again, Ghosty wasn’t quite the same, was he? Least, not to you.

“You’re a fool, you know that?” You huff, something swirling in your chest as your gloves peel the layer of cut pants farther down to see better. “You should have looked after yourself.”

“And what?” Ghost grumbles, letting you do what you wanted to him.  “Let you get fuckin’ shot, Masque—you have a bloody death wish?” His last word comes off with a growl as you press tighter into his thigh. 

His hand instantaneously snaps out to grasp the back of your hair tightly with an instinctual low groan. Naturally, a small whine exits your lips in retaliation.

You both freeze and the room jumps up to a hundred degrees; your lower body flips as your skin burns a million degrees. Fingers still, you feel your breath hitch when his calloused fingers scrape your scalp, your hair in his expansive palm. It was a pure reaction you knew, and when you’d asked him to let you help out with this problem you had thought this might happen—he’s a soldier after all, just like you.

But he hadn’t denied you. If anything, since six missions back, you were the only person who he wanted to work on him. He’d never said why. 

You look up at him from the side, eyes wide with shock and embarrassment. Ghost’s heart skips beats before he clears his throat, snapping his hand back immediately and slamming it to the mattress. A second of strained silence settles where you both try to forget what the fuck just happened.

“Keep bloody going then,” He says, deep and grating to a point where you shove down a shiver. Your head feels light off of his scent, and you have to ask yourself why you’re feeling so feverish all of a sudden. 

You bite your lip and nod, hand moving away to grab at the sanitized needle and thread with your forceps—dropping the rag back onto your forearm to let it hang. For once in your life you’re left mute by his actions. 

Mute to the fact that you’d liked them. 

Your face burns like a hidden fire; epidermis alight with the strength to rival the flames the two of you had started fifteen minutes ago. Lungs stutter and hands inside the gloves go clammy. It’s only after you were halfway done with the stitches that you mutter words.

“Shouldn’t have taken that bullet, Ghost.” He had been stone still the entire time, hands clenched beside him and his thighs like rocks. Feet firmly planted. It was like he was barely breathing, too. 

Ghost blankly stares, staying quiet as you continue. 

“You were distracted. That never happens.” His form was almost entirely shadowing you; great spanning shoulders from above tight like a looming statue. You dig the needle deeper with a push of the forceps, threading through yielding skin with quick punctures. He doesn’t even flinch. 

Ever since ‘07, there was an obvious aversion to partners stemming from you. You distanced yourself from forming close bonds with those who you hadn’t already known. In many ways, Ghost and the others of One-Four-One were the closest you could get to people now.

Ghost, you admit, was far closer than all the others combined. 

But this sentiment was known—both the aversion and the care you held. The Lieutenant wasn’t good with words, but he knew how to read you better than anyone; the way you carried yourself. He knew you didn’t like it when he got hurt in front of you. 

Ghost had to ask why he even bothered to shove you out of the way, regardless. You would have been fine. So why had his eyes gone wide and his iris flared with a dead glow when he’d seen the gun swivel in your direction? The man grunts at a deep dig from your sutures but you continue to mutter to yourself as he glares at the far wall, venom-like. 

His sin was that he had grown to care about you. His burden and his curse. 

This couldn’t continue. 

Ghost looks down at you with a sheen of distanced nonchalant-ness and when you lent back with a sigh of your lips, his body moved. You blink in surprise as you feel his muscles bunch and before you know it you’re being grabbed harshly by the arms and lightly shoved to the side. 

“Ghost!” You snap, eyes narrowing dangerously as he stands to his feet—blood training down his thigh and kneecap before disappearing back under the stained cargos. “What the fuck?! I’m not done with it.” 

Attempting to stomp closer, he swivels his head to you as his spine goes formal. Your feet stall from under you and your veins pump faster, forceps and slick gloves freezing mid-air. 

You blink. He’d only ever looked at you like that when you’d first met. 

Blue is a silent sheen of ice and cold death; black sockets behind his mask are more like voids holding chilled sapphires. 

Why was he looking at you like he didn’t know you? Once more you say, confused and suddenly small, “Ghost?” 

“Enough.” His voice was monotone and barky, the tone final. Your fingers tense at the sound. What…what was this? “You need to get your head back on, Masque. I can’t watch over you like a bloody Private every time you get stiff-legged, copy?” 

Your jaw slackens. Inside, your heart smashes itself into your ribs in a violent pang. There’s a moment of complete and utter silence in which Ghost remains standing with concrete tied to his feet. He sees the flash of confused hurt in your eyes, the way your muscles jump for a moment.

A suffocating wave of regret strikes him, but he felt like he had to do this—keep up boundaries. Even if his throat was closing in an attempt to make him shut up. 

Ghost’s accent makes him sound harsh and unforgiving. “Price’ll need us back in fifteen. Get your shit together.” 

He bends down and snatches bandages with a quick hand, beelining to the bathroom and closing the door with a firm hand. Blankly, you stare at the barrier as the wall rattles; face burning—unable to speak beyond a small sound in the back of your mouth. 

The two of you stay separated for the remainder of the time, not speaking, and not moving from your respective areas. 

When Ghost finally leaves ten minutes after he’d pushed back the self-loathing and guilt, freshly bandaged, he finds your stuff already gone. He glances around the area slowly, taking in the wails of the fire trucks from blocks away and the neighboring rooms of the hotel as residents speak in mutters from behind walls. The air is cold and lifeless. 

He grabs his things in total silence, swallowing down saliva paired with long breaths. Ghost’s eyes remain tight. Body wound and coated in rigidity that could rival a rhino’s armored plates.

Mind whirling, but still ever mute, he leaves the hotel and heads to the coordinates Price had given the two of you alone. The absence of your warm body beside his was more jarring than anything he’d expected to experience.

Ghost didn’t want to admit how many times his eyes trailed to the empty concrete at his left.

—

When you lose something in someone, you tend to lose it hard. Thus still, that was the case here. Ghost and you always jabbed at each other—it was in your nature to do so—but this was different. The Lieutenant could be cold, but…never to the extent to shove you away from helping him with his wounds. 

Both of you always did that with the other, if that be physically or just being in the same room, while getting fixed up. 

If Ghost didn’t want you around for whatever rage-inducing reason, you weren't going to grovel or beg. The sudden switch-up still stabbed you in the heart though. 

On the second week, it got easier. 

You passed by Ghost without a single comment, shifting into the meeting room once more. He grunts as you shimmy through the door right before him, his feet halting before he runs into you. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Masque, you lost your bloody eyes or something?” You don’t answer, blankly walking to the end of the table and taking the single chair with steady steps; sitting down and dragging a notepad to your general area. 

Blinking, you look up at the projection and skim the small details they give over. 

Ghost stares from the doorway, clenching his jaw. After a moment, he slips inside and slowly strides to the table. 

The days had been difficult for him, struggling to re-situate himself to his isolation after you’d been with him for years. Sure he had Johnny, Gaz, and Price, but you were…

Ghost places a veiny hand on the back of a chair about four down from yours, knuckles white as he’d shed his gloves not five minutes ago. His eyes stay stuck to the tabletop, hips shifting. He hadn’t thought it would be this hard to push you out. Not only physically but mentally. 

He found himself thinking of your face at night. Like a phantom, it would snap into his consciousness when the lights went out and the shadows got long. Your smile and your skin. How your fingers would gently press into his flesh when you were threading a needle through him—shivers of pleasure and pain intertwined by the scrape of your nails. 

Ghost’s hand tightens on the chair, and you spare him a tense glance as he seemingly fights within his mind. 

The Lieutenant wonders at your willpower and your drive. He spent the weeks hating that he had gotten what he wanted, and then he hated himself more because of that fact. It was good to keep you away from him. Not only for himself but for you. 

You both were becoming too….attached. Ghost would have none of it. It had bled over into him using his own body to protect yours that was just…was just…

“...Those new tags, then?” You look away from the screen and shift your gaze to him as his voice bounces. 

Around your neck, the new reflective metal of your new dog tags glint. Your heart skips when he speaks to you, but he still doesn’t look your way.

“That an apology?” Deadpanning, your unimpressed gaze glares into his face as his hand strangles the chair. 

The room returns to strained silence. You huff.

“Pretty shitty one there, asshat.” Ghost’s shoulders roll under his gear, a great sigh quickly exiting him. Everyone had noticed the tension over time—it was becoming a detriment to the team.

The Lieutenant’s blue eyes darken, and in his body, a great heat was beginning to burn. Just looking at you provoked lucid and vulgar thoughts, and as the dim light from the projector makes shadows on your face, Ghost traces them with a chained desire. Being away from you was a physical pain to him, but he also knew that being around you was worse. 

All of Ghost’s problems may have started and ended with you, but they also grew in his own head. They’d been there in the back corners ever since he’d given you your nickname; found out he liked the way your face was wet with spilled blood and sweat. Your body. Your hands on the hard flesh of his upper thigh…trailing up... 

Ghost’s pants get tight as he stares without saying anything. Watching you scribble on your notepad. Glaring. 

“Why can’t I get you out of my fucking head?” Your ears twitch at the low growl as if coming from a beast; seconds later, your brain catches up to process the words. Your pen stops its pointless scrawling just as your breath does. Ghost spits out, seeing your form straighten in the chair, “Every bloody thought, you’re right there!” 

His boots stomp to the floor, and before you know it a hand is trapping the back of your head, fingers carding through hair to angle your chin up. Your breath gasps out as your wide eyes lock on Ghost’s, his hold tight but not uncomfortable; as if he knows the perfect amount of pressure to make your blood surge and your pupils expand.

You stare into volatile blue with silver flecks, a skeletal mask stained from dirt and blood. Ghost’s thumb digs into your scalp. 

“Answer me, Masque,” he grunts, accent so thick you momentarily struggle to string the words together in your stupor. 

Ghost’s nose is close to yours; breathing in each other’s air as the temperature rises. Your throat bobs with a swallow. Below you, you feel your legs clench together as the Lieutenant's fingers lightly pull on your roots when you don’t respond—small sparks of electricity run down your spine that make it straighten instinctually. A soft purr flies from your lips; face on fire as your lashes flutter. Your hands clench at the dull pulse in your lower body.

The Brit’s dead eyes stare down at you, glinting; studying you deeply with growing satisfaction in his heart and tension in his boxers. 

You both glare half-lidded, panting, and flesh heated. 

“Is this your apology?” He tightens his hand and you bite your lip, small whine meeting his ears as he represses a groan at the sound. Your voice was breathy but smug. 

“You fucking wanted this, you naughty little beast,” Ghost growls, moving even closer to tower over you. “You’re playin’ me.” You mold into him as you still sit in your chair, your chin set onto his upper abdomen as the midsection of your breasts presses into his crotch; brushing against his hardened bulge firmly. 

You shiver at the feeling, your core leaking out slippery fluids to stain through your pants one second at a time. Every twitch of his fingers leaves you wanting to arch into him. Feel him.

Ghost feels your hands go to wrap his open thighs, nails digging into the back of his pants as his mouth opens under the mask to force out air. 

“You liked me in between your legs, didn’t you?” Your tiny, teasing, voice serenades him as he quickly begins to lose control of his composure. 

“Shut it,” Ghost grunts, mind yelling at him to move away, “Shut your damn mouth.” 

Those pupils were so wide his eyes were almost entirely black, feral chest moving quickly. 

“I already know why you snapped at me…” One of your hands travels back to the Lieutenant’s front, skin tingling at the scratch of a belt and the rough fabric of his cargos. You leave it over his crotch and add a tight amount of pressure; mouth lightly opening at the weight and size of him as Ghost grunts deeply, thighs jerking forward. 

Blinking at his glassy eyes you breathe out into thick air and the veiled threat of something more. His hand in your hair is so tight that you feel your pulse under the tendrils—you enjoy every second of this cat-and-mouse game. 

After all, no one knew who the mouse was yet.

You rub your hand up and down and watch Ghost’s clothed dick, feeling his muscles straining to keep himself in control. He lets you continue as he watches with a clenched jaw, his pants getting gradually wet with precum; hips twitching. 

“...You can’t get enough of me touching you, can you?” Your statement ignites something immediately, and you’re being grabbed by your shoulders and forced to your feet. 

Staring wildly, you cringe at the soaking patch under your clothes but let Ghost place your backside on the table. He presses into your hips to keep you there—legs opened and feet planted to the floor below on their tip-toes.

The man breathes like a lion, nose in front of yours. You slightly smirk at the far-off haze in his eyes, lust and pleasure blending and bleeding into the almost bruising hold he uses to press you down.

He watches you for a minute or two—taking in your scent and the rabid instinct that infects the both of you now that everything was on the table. 

You knew you were right; he knew you were right. Licking your lips you look down and stare at his blatant hard-on hungrily. Your brow raises slowly.

“You going to let me take care of that, Ghosty?” He’s up and locking the door after he slims it shut.

“This is it,” Ghost grunts, “one time, Masque. That’s fucking it, you hear?” 

“Awe,” You cue, swishing your legs as he stomps back over, hand grasping his belt and whipping it off with a flex of his forearm. Your core tightens, hips trying to press back into the table. “That's so cute. You think once is enough.” 

A hand captures your jaw, “I said,” he breathes, the other hand going to shift up the bottom of his mask up to his nose. You gasp at the sight of blond stubble and milky scars. A strong jaw wound like a spring. Ghost’s musk invades your nose and you feel your palms so clammy. “...Shut it.”

Hard lips slam into yours.

Like some game between the two of you, your mouths fight one another with aggressive grunts stuck in your throats, sharp inhales of air between partings. Ghost’s lips mold and conform to yours, clinging around the supple flesh—there’s a deep-rooted intensity, a hunger, and a desire mixed with sweet stubbornness. The tang of metal and old canvas opens to you just as your mouth does when his teeth bite down at your skin.

Quickly sucking down breaths, you feel his tongue push past layers and slip into your awaiting clutch; Ghost groans lowly and explores as his hands bare down into your hips, one making its way to grip at your hair again. Your own dig into his waist as he leans over you. 

He latches onto your hair and peels you back from him, tongue sliding out of your mouth as he moves to nip at your chin—angling your head whichever way he wants to. Your skin burns as the man bites down at your neck, hot saliva stuck to your lips as your chest pants fast with a low whine at the mixture of pain and bliss. 

Below you, your legs are wide to allow Ghost to stand between you, his firmness leaving your hips canting at every hickey he leaves behind and how he shivers into you as you move against him. It was addicting to him—your taste and how your flesh yields to him as he clamps down on it ruthlessly and rapidly. In no time he’d traveled the length of the area behind your ear and down the swell of your shoulder; shirt pushed back by his nose.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, eyes glassy as you blankly stare into the far wall over the Lieutenant’s shoulder; your panties are soaked through and the evidence can be felt. A long whine exits your chest when Ghost licks at the deep marks he left behind, blown eyes coming back to stare at you head-on as if in a trance.

His lips are red and swollen, mouth open with silent, fast, breaths. His large chest moves quickly over yours. He orders you in a hoarse voice; strained, “Get on your knees.” 

Licking your lips your widened gaze stays locked on his, the hand in your hair tight and keeping you away from slamming your mouth back to his. The air is electric, both of your bodies yielding to one another's even if you don’t realize it. 

As much as you wanted to scoff and roll your eyes at the comment, to make him apologize to you for what he’s done, you realize that your body has already complied with the request. Slipping off the table, Ghost watches like a hawk and backs up two steps—feet splayed as you move for him. Your knees slowly lower you down to the floor, connecting with the carpet as you sag, fists clenched and shaking. 

There’s a small, heart-pounding, pause. “...Good girl.”

Your jaw drops at the smirk on Ghost’s face and those flashing dead eyes of his, blood thumping with a newly ingrained need. You swallow and feel your throat bob; legs shifting to push back the inner-body itch that grows by the second. 

“Now you can listen to me, yeah? Such a slut for it.” Ghost’s hands slowly trail to his pant���s zipper, sliding the piece down the teeth with barely audible metal on metal. Your fingers twitch at every small pop; how the zipper itself had to move forward with the strain of his sizable erection. You can’t even look away from it—how his pants are stiff against tense thighs and the sleeves of his shirt are rucked up to show the black ink of tattoos.

Ghost had tattoos. 

When the teeth had run out and the man’s hands grappled for the waistband of both his cargo and his boxers, you’d found out you’d been staring the entire time, pupils so wide they matched Ghost’s and the black stain of his face-paint. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Masque,” he grunts, knuckles white and going still, “bet your pretty little cunt is soaked and I ‘aven’t even shown you my bloody dick yet, eh? Well, the thing’ll ‘ave to wait, I’m puttin’ that mouth to good use first. Teaching it who to listen to.”

You startle back, blinking away the burning heat on your cheeks that leaves you uncharacteristically stuttering at the vulgar degradation. But Ghost doesn’t notice, doing what he can to move the various straps along his thighs and his upper hips to be able to free himself quickly—eager and dripping to be down your throat. 

The throat and mouth he’d fantasized about for ages. 

Stiffing down a whiny moan, you finally see the veiny girth of Ghost’s cock as it comes free over the top of the tight white cotton of his boxers; a happy trail extending up his visible abdomen when his wrist snatches it out. 

“Put to good use?” You breathe out, “Christ, you’re going to make me fucking mute, Ghosty.” 

“Well, Sweetheart,” he breathes a sigh of relief as he plays with the leaking tip with his thumb. Your hands itch to brush against your achy clit, the pressure in your chest almost enough to make you sob at the sheer nothingness. Sweat glistens over your forehead. Eyes glare at you as you watch thighs tense and loosen. “That’ll be fine by me. Don’t need you speaking when I’m paintin’ your damn cunt with my cum, do I?” 

Jesus, you both were in the fucking meeting room. Going to fuck in the meeting room. 

You lick your lips and stare as Ghost stalks close again, gripping your chin and opening your jaw with his thumb and first finger. His dick was right in front of you, and you can smell sex and sweat like an animalistic aphrodisiac as it coats your brain with lust as you moan out. 

Your arms tense with a want to reach and touch it, watch as Ghost falls apart below the twist of your wrist. It was so addictive you feel yourself clench at the visual, your body shivering violently. 

“Oi, fucking focus.” Your tongue sneaks out and licks Ghost’s finger and he feels his grip tighten on you with a puff of hot air. “Little brat.” 

He stares into your mouth and breathes deeply as a smirk peels the edges of your lip. Blue swirls with anticipation. 

“Keep it open, then.” Ghost’s hand drops from you and you easily keep your mouth open as his hand goes back to his cock, grasping it firmly as the other finds the top of your head. You shiver and shift your thighs under you, your body striking like a drum to oxycontin and adrenaline. “That’s a girl…” The Lieutenant growls, and the tip of his dick slips into your saliva-dripping mouth with hidden fever. “Fuck.” 

Your eyes flutter at the taste, letting him maneuver your face closer to the base as your hands snap to his thighs—nails digging in and eliciting a sharp inhale as you press into the two-week-old wound under his pants. Ghost curses under his breath but watches in flooding pleasure at the image of his cock disappearing farther and farther into you. Inch by inch you tell yourself to breathe through your nose; feeling the make of his veins and the mushroomed tip traveling farther and farther back. 

Moaning in the base of your neck, Ghost instinctually jerks his hips at the sound, feral grunts trapped in his chest. Your eyes go wide with the prickle of tears, not from pain but from the surprise as you gag. His hold on your hair tightens and you mewl as he continues to lose himself to the feeling of your wet heat. 

He was so big it was like your throat was ripping new sinews just for him, and you reveled in every moment of the feeling of his predatory gaze.

“So bloody tight for me—can’t wait to be in that cunt of yours…can’t be better than this. Have to test it.” He talks more when he’s horney. 

Slightly gagging again at the sheer size, his palming hand presses you deeper and you take him as well as you’re able, still space between your nose and his pelvis as your knees dig harder into the ground. Ghost groans gutturally, head slightly lulling back and panting like a dog, looking down at your red eyes and far-off gaze. Your hands kneed his upper thighs and he smirks slowly. 

Without another word and with sweat staining him under his uniform, bits and bobs from his gear start to clink together and dance as his hips set a rough pace; you find your head being puppeteered back and forth with his thrusts as your scalp flames from his hold. Tears burn immediately.

“Yeah, that’s it—such a good little slut for me, Masque. Gettin’ it down, fuck,” Ghost pants, as you hollow your cheeks, back arching into you and leaving your nostrils flaring to take down air for your spasming lungs. The sight above you was sinful. 

Your Lieutenant in full gear, pants and skin-tight boxers stretching and shoved down just under the clutch of his crotch. With every back-and-forth motion, the zipper grazes the underside of your engorged throat as every vein can be undoubtedly seared into your esophagus like a brand. 

Ghost’s eyes flutter and flinch, but never once does his hazy gaze leave your mouth as he continues to jerk your head back and forth. Saliva drips drown your chin and the nearly painful burn in your navel lets you know how true this was a relief not only for Ghost but for you as well. You wanted to touch yourself, but you can’t stop touching the Brit—not for a second. Shit, you think you could fall apart just by looking at this; you were sure Ghost was thinking the same thing. 

“Look at that, makin’ such a fucking mess of you.” His abdomen tightens and rolls with every jerk and rut, and your eyes roll back with a deep whine in the back of your throat when he hits the back of your throat. Sweat splatters down your temple as the air is steeped with animalistic desperation. Ghost whines thickly in answer and seems to speed up as your hands claw at his thighs. “You like that, pet? Huh? Being my little cock-sleeve.” 

Your nails dig deeper into his flesh and he shivers wildly; eyes flash at the sight of himself disappearing into you and exiting just after as the slap of wet skin reverberates. The tension in his chest increases and he starts to desperately kneed at your hair. 

“If I’d known you’d take it down like this, I’d-I’d have made you hate me sooner, yeah?” Tension fizzles up his jaw and you know he’s close by how he bites down into his lip and tilts his head back. 

Instinctual tears travel down your sweat-slick face, the thought of being used like this vulgar and as dirty as the sounds that echo in your throat and strike down your spine. 

“Fucking hell,” Ghost gasps, and his pace stutters as he twists your locks. Your teeth graze along his flesh as you dig your thumb into his wound to steady yourself. Whining loudly, the action seems to get to the man using your mouth for his pleasure, as not three rough thrusts later the warm feeling of his cum splatters the back of your throat in thick, hot, spurts. 

Choking for a moment, the widening of your eyes meets Ghost’s fluttering lashes from above. His free hand goes behind you to slam onto the tabletop; back curved over you as he shakes and sputters as he rides out his high. 

Cum drips out of the seams of your stretched lips, and with a deep breath through your nose, your hand lowers from Ghost’s thighs as you carefully pull your face back from his pelvis. The sensation of his cock leaving your mouth and bringing saliva and his fluids with it was animalistic at best, they spill to the floor and off of your chin like a small river. 

Licking your lips, you swallow what you can and try to catch your breath as your chest rages. Blinking rapidly, your eye twitches as you bring a hand up to your sore and ragged throat, Ghost’s heaving body stiff and hunched as he stares at the table blankly. Sweat dribbles down the side of his nose, sneaking out from under the top side of his mask. 

There’s a long minute of nothingness as you both try to breathe and understand the gravity of what you’ve both done. And then you both lock eyes and stare. 

The air stills over as Ghost’s large pupils stare at the mess on your face—seeing it drip down your throat as you tilt your chin up to him. His chest purrs like a cat and you don’t even think he realizes that he does it. 

Two seconds later you’re being manhandled up to the top of the table, backside hitting it as a hand goes to your belt. Lips connect with yours and groan at the taste, the clinking of metal hitting your ears as you submit to his prodding tongue as it licks along your inner flesh. 

Your fingers snap to trail around Ghost’s neck, moaning into him as he slips his hands into your pants, pulling back and ordering, “Up.” Eager and filled with lust, you raise your legs and he rips them down to your knees, dragging you closer to the edge. 

“Good girl.” He smirks, black-smeared eyes creased. If you could speak you’d tell him to shut up and fuck you already. 

Your slick skin meets the air and you gasp, Ghost’s hands waste no time trailing up the flesh of your hips, pitching to make you jump. Glaring, you try to drag him back into you but he’s built like stone, clicking his tongue. When his fingers collect the fluids that drip out of you, you whimper at the stimulation—two calloused fingers getting entranced by that as they stop at your clit. You stare desperately into amused blue eyes as he pressed deep, your thighs tensing as they jerk. 

“Any more of this and you’ll stain the table, won’t you, Sweetheart? I get you this worked up, yeah? Bloody hell.” You pant, and lines form on your forehead at the indecent circling of his fingers; not being gentle as he sees your mouth open and your lungs gasp. Sharp spikes form in your thighs, and they move in tandem with Ghost. “Look at that…” 

Deep chuckles mock you, but you both know this has to be fast—and with how worked up you were, it would be. 

“Alright, then, brat,” Ghost takes his hand away and you whimper before he grunts and grips you by the shoulders. Your lust turns to confusion. “Suppose you did well. Let’s make this quick, eh? Got work to do.” 

Flipped around, you squeak as your clothed chest meets the table, ass presented as your feet scramble to connect with the floor. Surprised, you whip your head to the side to stare back at a highly smug Ghost as one of his hands goes to grab onto your supple flesh, massaging it before it sneaks to your hip. 

“Easy with it, I’ll take care of you, Masque.” In little to no time he’s lining himself up with your dripping pussy, so wet it’s easy except for the fact that he’s huge enough to make you mute by a blowjob. Your back arches into the table with a long moan as the length slowly spears you open, instinctually widening your legs as best as you’re able. 

Closing your eyes, you press one of your hands to your mouth to stifle your noises, thighs spasming as Ghost curses under his breath; gear clinking into each other.

“So bloody tight.” With a swift thrust and a knock of your pelvis to the edge of the table, your eyes burn with the feeling of holding Ghost in your most intimate area and the knowledge that he would completely wreck it for anyone else. Your lungs fight for air, but a long mewl exits your fingers as the man shakes over you with restraint. “Christ.”

Tight wasn’t the way to describe it—you were like a fucking noose. Your sensitive walls know every vein and bulge, the scrape and dig, far more intimately than your throat ever could. Like a carved stamp, they’re reforming to Ghost’s dick every second. 

Tapping the side of your forehead to the table, the man can’t help himself anymore and starts to thrust into you; feral squelching and fluids staining the top of his pants. Your face burns, the rocking of the table hypnotic as your toes fight to stay on the ground. The sensation of being so full truthfully made your mind go blank, fingers twitching as Ghost continued to palm at your hip—his other hand going to press into your spine, keeping you stapled to the table. 

His gear slammed and rubbed into your ass, bruising it no doubt, but you found you didn’t care at all. Pleasure rocked down with every ruthless intrusion. 

“Can feel ya ‘round my cock,” you keen at the words, tears dribbling down the side of your face as you try to hold back sobs of pleasure. Ghost increases his pace, rabid slapping echoing off the walls as he feels his sole focus on your mind-shattering bliss. “Can’t have ‘em hear how loud you are, now, can we? Can’t let ‘em know I’m shagging you in their meeting room like a little fucktoy, eh?” 

He angles his hips higher, pushing your farther up the table as his hands only drag you back. Every moment leaves your core tightening even more; molten heat pooling as the edge gets closer. 

Footsteps echo down the hall outside, but both of you are too focused on the other and the ache that only increases like a pair of cuffs. Your mouth lets loose insistent gasps and moans while Ghost breathily groans at every other interval of his ravaging cock as it brushes your cervix. 

You whine loudly, spine arching and legs desperately trying to close. Ghost chuckles and your reaction spurs him on—hitting that same spot over and over again as you sob. 

“Right there, yeah? That it, Masque?” You nod rapidly, and the Lieutenant's grip tightens with a loud grunt, “Fuck, that’s it, bloody slut.” 

The coil in your gut gets tighter, shining with desperate shakes of your body and the numb way you try to meet Ghost’s thrusts before you entirely lose the plot of reality. 

“You’re close,” he breathes, feeling your pussy trying to keep him in, slick trailing down the insides of your thighs and transferring to the Brit’s clothes. His boxers were soaked. “C’mon, then. Don���t disappoint me, Masque. Lemme see you cum on my cock before I fill you up like the good girl you are, yeah?”

Your body spasms, thighs tensing and toes curling at the floor; fingers scratching down the table as you press over your mouth harder in a last-ditch effort to remain in control of yourself. The coil snaps and suddenly you’re digging your forehead into the wood below you, orgasm ripping through you like a knife as cum paints Ghost’s dick as he continues his relentless chase of his second release.

“There it is, fuck, look at all that, Love. Paintin’ me like a naughty fuckin’ portrait.” Ghost gasps, a hand coming up to connect to the table by your head, feeling you completely flood his pelvis—he doesn’t stop even when you whine in overstimulation, fucked-out eyes wide and mouth dripping drool into a small pool. The milky ring at his root grows and grows. With a loud moan, he looks down and watches the vulgar sight rabidly, pounding into your heat as his own end gets closer and closer. 

“Shite,” His forehead hits your spine, taking the skin into his teeth and biting hickeys as his open mouth leaves trails of saliva. “Took me so bloody well, cunt was made just for me.” 

His body shakes and with one last shove from his hips, he spills into you with a loud whimper muffled into your flesh. Teeth biting down so hard that you moan in turn, the spent releases dribble out of you like a stuffed bird. You feel his chest atop you as he places his weight slowly down; the fast-panting mirroring your own. 

Sweat connects the two of you as it bleeds through your clothes, the smell in the air and the scent of delirious sex staining your bodies. 

Your mouth remains open and hoarse, scraped dry. Ghost above you moves delicately as he pulls back up, moving back to peel your messy hair away from your blown eyes. After a moment his small voice hits you—the accent deep. 

“All good?” Your eyes slowly rove to him as he kisses your forehead, shivering violently as he slips out of you; the wet drip of cum hits the carpet in the still silence as you whimper at the feeling. “...Masque?”

Dull concern emanates from his tone and you blink back. You clear your throat and utter in a torn voice, “...P-pretty good apology, Ghosty…S…shit.” 

Smugness burns in his orbs, but the roll of his eyes hides it quickly. The puff of his chest couldn’t be hidden from you, though. 

His hands reach down and hike up your panties and cargos—both items completely wrecked. The large splotch on Ghost’s own clothes showed you that you weren't alone in that aspect. 

As he carefully flips your limp form back over and pulls you up by your arms, you groan in annoyance but shut up when his hands go to zip your zipper and clip back your belt. 

“Couldn’t have had a revelation in your barracks room?” You huff, itching at your throat. “You’re buying me cough drops, you ass.” The state of your voice was laughable. Anyone would know what happened if they spoke to you. 

Ghost sighs and begins with his own clothes, stuffing himself back into his boxers and growling at the chilled fluids on his pants as he pulls them back up. He goes and retrieves his belt before walking back. 

“Acting like you weren’t beggin’ for it.” He slides you a smirk before he grabs onto his mask and begins to cover his jaw. 

Your hand snaps out and stops him. Ghost startles, eyes flashing before his muscles stiffen. You raise a brow and he slightly calms. 

Scoffing, you lean in and place a final kiss on his lips—a tinier and tender kiss. Gaze wide, the man stares off as his heart starts to beat fast again at the firm press. After you’re done your hand goes up and grasps the fabric yourself, carefully re-shrouding the mystery of a man with a smile. 

He watches blankly.

“We okay?” You ask, tilting your head as your lower body aches when you shift on the table. “I miss my annoyingly gruff Ghost. This new one’s a jerk.” A small laugh graces your ears, and it makes you beam. “I know why you did it,” you admit, and hold out a hand between your bodies. “But pushing me away will only hurt the both of us. Let's try this, Ghost. Please.” 

“...You’re makin’ it seem like a good deal, Love…is it?” He holds out a hand of his own, large and scarred hands that had gripped you so tight before utterly loose and awaiting. 

“No clue,” you admit with a smirk, “Wanna figure it out?” Ghost watches as he always does and always will, searching into your eyes for any hint of hesitance or denial. 

“Always liked a challenge.” He grunts and encompasses his hand with yours. You squeeze it and nod, chest light as your normal breath comes back.

“You know what a real challenge is? Trying to take down your fucking dic—” The meeting room handle jiggles and you both snap into action. 

Ghost tosses you your notepad and you slide a shoved-away chair his way on shaky legs, slipping into a free seat with failing knees. You both sit side by side on the opposite side of the table, shoulders bumping and faces hot not three seconds later. Ears twitch at the sound of a key entering the slot. 

You try to act normal and begin messing around with your notepad, stealing a pen from Ghost’s gear as Price opens the door. At the sight of the two of you, he pauses and stands in the doorway.

“Ghost…Masque.” With a squint, Price looks around the room slowly, confused at the rod-straight spine from his Lieutenant and the way you awkwardly scribble nothing onto your pad. 

“Price,” Ghost utters as you look up and fake smile, waving as you tighten your hips under the table in an attempt to hide the evidence spilling out of you. 

The Captain continues to stare, scrutiny in his eyes, for at least a full minute. 

“Problem, then?” The Lieutenant asks. Price’s lips thin and he gains a sheen of deep annoyance. You groan under your breath and knock your head to the table at the next comment.

“In the fucking meeting room?!”

TAGS:

@emerald-valkyrie , @anna-banana27 , @blueoorchid , @cryingnotcrying , @writeforfandoms , @homicidal-slvt , @jade-jax , @frazie99 , @elmoees , @littlemisstrouble , @alpineswinter , @phoenixhalliwell , @idocarealot , @lavalleon , @facelessmemories , @h-leigh, @20forty9 , @glitter-anon-asks , @emily-who-killed-a-man , @neelehksttr, @aeneanc , @escapefromrealitysm , @i-d-1-0-t , @pparcxysm , @hawkscanendme , @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney , @sanfransolomitatm , @maelstrom007 , @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet , @pheobees , @glitterypirateduck , @uselsshuman , @fan-of-encouragement , @halfmoth-halfman , @ghostlythunderbird , @I-inkage, @pukbadger , @kopatych11 , @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop , @knightofsexyness , @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons , @330bpm-whiplash , @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu , @tiredmetalenthusiast

[leighsartworks216]

I Come With Knives Pt2

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Part 1

I am posting this at almost 1am AND I have to get up early tomorrow to do work for class before the actual class haha I plan my time accordingly

I was going to make this chapter longer. I had an idea and I started to write it, but it just wasn't coming out like I wanted it to (bc I'm writing at 12am duh) so I'm gonna put that in another chapter

Warnings: mentions of torture, trauma, hints of paranoia, hints of self-deprecation

Word Count: 1,390

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

I Come With Knives Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

After a grueling battle yesterday, you chose to give everyone a day off. It gave them time to rest aching muscles, repair and sharpen weapons, relax. It gave you a chance to bathe.

You didn't neglect your hygiene, but most of the time, once camp was set up, the sun would be dipping below the horizon. On those days, you'd run into the water, scrub the gunk out of your hair and get out, back to the safety of company before the first stars faded in. Now that you had the chance, you weren't going to squander it.

Once you were certain you were alone - an uncomfortable thought soothed only by the sun filtering in through the canopy above - you stripped down and waded into the water. It was cool, but not unpleasantly so. You wasted no time scraping the dirt and blood off your skin.

Once you cleaned your body within an inch of its life, you ducked your head under the water and scrubbed at your hair and scalp. It was disgusting - you could only imagine the smell your companions had put up with this last week. You were just so happy you were clean. Your hair was smooth as water soaked it through, no knots or clumps of blood to be found. As you squeezed out the excess water, you caught your reflection between the ripples. In moments where it stilled enough, you could see the scar on your neck. It was still deep and prominent, but it was beginning to heal. It'd never healed before.

"Enjoying yourself?"

You nearly shrieked when you turned, sinking into the water up to your neck for protection. Astarion chuckled at your reaction.

"Would it kill you to stop sneaking up on me?"

"I was practically stomping like an ogre, dear, it's hardly my fault you weren't paying attention." You shot him a glare, but it was half-hearted. It was your fault you let your guard down. In the day, you were safe from (most) vampires, but there were any number of things ready to attack at any moment. "Mind if I join you?"

You shake your head, but you're already wading to shore to grab your clothes. "No, go ahead. I'm done."

"Leaving already?" You nod, not making eye contact. "I won't look, darling, if that's what's got you so flustered."

You pause mid reach for your shirt as he removes his, placing it haphazardly on a rock by the water's edge. His pants came next and you looked away until you heard the water sloshing around him.

"Though, I don't mind if you look," he teased, sparing one last glance over his shoulder before he got to work cleaning himself.

Gods, if he could hear the way your heart raced... You peek over, just a glance, before you look back at your clothes. But then you're looking again.

An intricate scar of circles, lines, and curved symbols marred his back. You feel your throat close just looking at it. You'd been forced to watch spawn and slaves alike punished by the cracking of a whip. Forced to keep your eyes forward by a hand on your jaw as the leather snapped and tore into their skin. This was worse. This was deliberate.

"Did..." You swallow, forcing your voice not to crack with the sorrow you felt for him. "Did your master do this?"

He hummed, continuing to wash his arms as though you'd asked him about the weather. The only hint it bothered him at all was the way his muscles tensed and the disdain in his voice. "Cazador," he spat. "He considered himself quite the artist and used his slaves as a canvas." His movements slowed to a stop. "He composed and carved that one over the course of a night. He made... a lot of revisions as he went."

You couldn't stop staring. Your mind kept replaying the torture you witnessed, but it replaced their cries with Astarion's voice. You hated to be so lucky. To be so fortunate that your master wanted you to look absolutely perfect and unmarked. You never received physical punishment. You were too precious.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, shakily. "If I could, I'd..." What? Remove the markings forever? Take away his pain and suffering? Go back and change everything so he never had to be a puppet? You couldn't do anything. You can't help. You can't remove that pain. All you can do is witness the aftermath.

He sighed and ducked his head so he could wash his hair. Drops of water slid down his back, only drawing your eyes in further. “It won’t matter when we get to Baldur’s Gate. I’m going to kill that bastard for everything he did to me.”

You know you should leave. Put on your clothes and slink away. But… being around Astarion isn’t entirely unpleasant. You’re still a little scared of him - of what he could do, but you trust him enough to believe he wouldn’t do those things. He probably understood your plight better than anyone else.

So, you slide down into the water until you’re resting on your knees in the silt. It doesn’t quite cover your neck unless you duck deeper in. You want to hide the scar, the damn mark showing everyone else who - or rather, what you belonged to. But it felt wrong to try hiding it when Astarion was fully showing you his.

“I never asked who your master was.” He turns his head slightly, eyes just barely catching sight of you. He did promise he wouldn’t look, after all. “Where she…” He waved a hand noncommittally and scowled. “Rules.”

Her eyes flash in your mind, wicked and burning. You almost flinch just thinking about them. When you speak her name, your voice trembles. “Kir Parthene. I… don’t remember where she lives. It’s been years since I’ve even been outside - I must have forgotten.”

He slowly turns, giving you time to tell him to turn back again, but you don’t. You watch him through a fog of memories. “How long were you enslaved?”

It’s harder to answer than you thought it would be. Time begins to blur when you can’t tell if it’s night or day, when everything is fuzzy and incoherent because you never had enough blood to think straight. Sometimes she’d feed and then leave you for days. Others, she never wanted to stop feeding - drinking from you morning and night before you ever got a chance to recover. You were a slave to her hunger - time never mattered.

“I was… 16 when I was taken.” You wrap your arms around yourself. Safe. “I don’t even remember home. My parents… I’m all alone.”

He’d never heard your voice so small before. You weren’t the most demanding leader, but you could still bark commands when things were getting rough. You even held yourself well in conversation, shutting down lopsided deals or uncomfortable topics with all the authority of a royal guard. It was easier, seeing you like this, to imagine your life in servitude. Meek and quiet.

“That’s not entirely true.” He kneeled in the silt a few feet from you, smirking. “You have us for as long as this adventure lasts, as long as we don’t transform into tentacled Mind Flayers.”

“And then after that?” He shifts uncomfortably at the question. “Everyone will go their separate ways, and when you do I’m a sitting duck. I’ll be captured again. Used again.”

You trail off, but the weight of your words sit heavy. You’ll never be free. You could help everyone else with their quests, help them free themselves from what ties them down, help them get stronger - but the same couldn’t be done for you. Without knowing where your master lives, there’s no way to seek her out and kill her, too.

The water is too cold now. The cool summer breeze only freezes you more. Astarion watches as you get up and slink back over to your clothes. He looks away before he can see anything you wouldn’t want him to. In no time at all, your clothes are back on and you’ve pulled on your boots. But before you walk away, you turn to him. Your eyes are so sad.

“Thank you. For… showing me.” He says nothing. So you head back to camp. Alone.

---

Tag List:

@satelliteapotheosis

@hypopxia

@flsalazar

@beverlybeav

@angelofthorr

@emiemiemiii

@marina-and-the-memes

@lynnlovesloki

@aurasyn

[luddlestons]

i saw your tags on that one post about fanfic dialogue and i locked tf in immediately so can you pls tell me about kingsley's speech patterns? :)

Of COURSE I can!

So, of our 3 purple tiefling iterations, Lucien sounds the most different, bc he’s voiced by Matt, and using a stronger accent. This actually works, I think, bc Lucien had a lot more history, and we know from Molly’s comic that he basically had to learn to speak again, so it follows that he’d only retain a touch of Lucien’s accent. The difference between Molly and Kingsley, however, is interesting to me.

The thing about Molly is, he talks incredibly fast. This is there from the jump, he rambles his introduction so quick that Tal slips on his NAME, that’s how fast he talks. It’s a showmanship thing, a carnival barker type thing, and it works for someone who “grew up” in the circus.

While Kingsley retains more from Molly than Molly does from Lucien, he speaks at a much more measured pace. Like Molly, he doesn’t frequently use filler words (compared to Caduceus, who says “um/uh/yeah” a whole lot to fill space when he’s thinking—and of course Cad talks to slowest of all Tal’s characters) but he also doesn’t ramble as much as Molly.

So the interesting thing about writing dialogue for characters is that tone/pitch/accent/other audible effects aren’t there. Sure, you can describe a character’s voice, but for fic, we all know what they sound like, so a character’s voice is more based on cadence and word choice. THEREFORE: Kingsley sometimes ‘sounds’ more like Ashton when I write them, because his pace of speaking is similar to Ashton’s—the only difference is Ashton uses more filler words (usually swearing) and occasionally drops understood nouns. I only realized this when I wrote Kingsley and Ash interacting!

I think another big reason for that similarity is that although actors modify a lot for their performances, in extended improv acting like dnd it’s hard to change your vocabulary. Ashton just swears a lot more than Kingsley, because no other character has as intimate and long-standing a relationship with the word ‘fuck’ as Ashton Greymoore.

When writing, that difference in pace gets displayed by more description or dialogue tags within a line of dialogue, so the reader mentally takes a breath. Molly has very little of that when he really gets going—he talks for long sections at a time without breaks, because he’s not taking a breath. On the opposite end, caduceus tends to have full lines of description/mental narrative in the middle of his dialogue bc he pauses longer, bc he’s thinking a hell of a lot more than Mollymauk

This isn’t always the case, of course, because that would make for a very monotone fic, but it’s often enough that I could find a good deal of examples! Fortunately or not, the only dialogue-heavy thing I’ve written all three of them doing is seducing Caleb Widogast. So that’s what these all are.

Molly:

“My dear, I am an awful roommate, but I am not in the habit of laying stark-naked on the bedcovers and getting myself off while looking at the only other person in the room when I don’t intend to fuck him.”

“I want you. I always want you, anything you want to give me. Hells, if you decided to bend me over the cart and have me during the middle of a watch in front of whatever bandits came sneaking up on us, I’d let you.”

“Most of them, yes. There was a fellow in the circus—he was tattooed on every inch of his body and, excepting the areas he couldn’t possibly have reached, he did a majority of them himself. I told him if he wanted more canvas space I would gladly oblige— oh, fuck—“

Kingsley:

“Gotta warn you, if you brought me here for magical research, you’ll be disappointed,” Kingsley said.

"Let's get a fuckin' drink," Kingsley said. "I'm going to need a strong one to manage this place."

"Ah-ah-ah." Kingsley's tail insinuated itself between Caleb's legs, looping around his calf. "You’re not getting away without telling me that story."

Ashton:

“I can also be your pet theory if you want,” Ashton said, blaming the extra stupidity on headache plus horny somehow.

“I don’t care either way,” Ashton said. “I’m not particularly squeamish about being naked.”

“Holy shit, fuck me,” Ashton said, fully aloud.

For comparison, Caduceus talking with Caleb about physical intimacy (Caleb brushing his fur):

“I’m not. I’m very comfortable, actually.” He settled back in, watching Caleb with a soft smile. “I like this.”

“That’s nice.” Caduceus leaned his head against Caleb’s leg. “That’s really nice. Let’s just be together, as close as you want to be.”

“I’m probably shedding a bit.” The Menagerie Coast and even Xhorhas were warmer than the Greying Wildlands. “As long as it doesn’t bother you, that’s fine. Probably needed a deep clean.”

[hwaightme]

Hand hug

(masterlist) (perma-taglist)

🫶 pairing: hongjoong x gn!reader 🫶 genre: fluff, friends to lovers, implied producer/idol joong bc iykyk 🫶 summary: you and hongjoong have many traditions, inside jokes, and stories, but do you really know him like the back of your hand? 🫶 wordcount: 3.0k 🫶 warnings/tags: editing? mayhaps, coffee at questionable hours, food mention, convenience store snaccysnaccs, producer!joong, wholesome joong in a hoodie, rooftops/being on roof, night scenery, very late(early) night(morning) 🫶 taglist: at the bottom of the fic~ 🫶 a/n: @pocketjoong my love, my Sky, my universe, my everything. happy birthday <3 i love you to infinity, and thank you for everything and more! i am wishing you all the best on this amazing day~ and i hope you like this joongie~ <3

Hand hugs. One of the many, many inside jokes and mini traditions that you had crafted together with Hongjoong over the course of your friendship. Or relationship. Or whatever pining for your friend for ages was supposed to be called. You did not mind. At least you got your Hongjoong by your side. Or could you even say that?

While you watched Hongjoong rush down the aisle of the convenience store after he had exclaimed that he had forgotten something ‘essential’, the thought plagued your mind, gnawing on it like a persistent little devil. Just like it had done the last time you two hung out, and the one before that. How would you react if he were to ever date anyone? Get in a relationship? Get married? Would you be okay with being the best friend at his wedding, quietly seething in the corner and wishing that it was you standing next to him? You shrugged to yourself and clutched the basket tighter in your hands.

It was always you and Joong. You knew him like the back of your hand, and he knew you like the back of his. Maybe that was why the hand hugs were so symbolic, transcending their original intent, which was to find a compromise between your desire for oxytocin surges and his aversion to all things physical touch. A simple palm to palm, digits to digits, thumb around the other’s hand. A hand hug. Simple. Sweet. A reminder for both of you that you knew each other, and were living a beautiful life together.

While you were caught up in your musings you noticed your load lightening a little too late - Hongjoong was already on his way to pay, again. With a yelp you started for the self checkout, but he softly nudged you with his hip, a cheeky smile adorning his face while he scanned the items. You pondered if this deserved a joking purchase of something abominably spicy, but decided against it. After all, you would not be able to force him to eat it even if you tried. So you simply held a resting gaze on the methodical swiping and the way in which the items disappeared into Hongjoong’s trusty canvas bag, one after the other. 

It was tattered, showed some darkening at the edges, a couple of loose threads here and there, but Hongjoong would fight you if you were to even dare suggest throwing it away. But you would never even think to do it - after all, the design that it bore was one you two had painted together, a few years ago in the midst of one change after another. It was a depiction of the Earth surrounded by the random favourite things that made the two of you who you were. Pleasant and heart-warming memories. This canvas bag had carried things equally as pivotal to the both of you. It had carried your items when you moved out to begin life as an independent adult (only to have Hongjoong visit you, or you visit Hongjoong so often that you knew no solitude), it had held the equipment and disks owned by none other than your closest and dearest friend as he marched to the studio, dreams stronger than ever, passion and eagerness to achieve in every step. The handles remembered the way in which you would share the weight, one for each person, swinging ever so slightly as you would walk in stride down the city streets wherever your hearts desired. Just like you were doing now, with the snacks and quick meals protected by the sturdy material. In your free hands, you had your ‘cost effective coffees’, as Hongjoong had called them once and the title stuck. This was your favourite kind of two in the morning.

There was only one place where your feet would take you at this hour, and it was the rooftop. Not any kind of rooftop, but the one on Hongjoong’s apartment building, located in a scenic and quiet residential district, a little ways off from the centre of the city, but giving the best landscapes and skyline view of glimmering lights. The walk to his building was silent - there was no need to fill the atmosphere with aimless chatter that would, either way, turn to a hazy, noisy static. You knew what the other was thinking, at least you wanted to pretend you did. You smiled to yourself. If only he was thinking the same as you were in this moment. About the closeness of your hands, about how your heart was pounding in your chest, about how you caught the scent of his cologne that suited him so well when he playfully pushed you. You focused on the dimly lit street ahead, trying to keep your breathing level as you trekked higher and higher up the hill, to your one true paradise.

Thankfully the building was only a few stories high, and did not need too intense of an effort to conquer. At least this was what you told yourself every time before starting on the journey up the spiralling flights of stairs, one step after the other until you were almost out of breath and your legs were just starting to ache - there was your cardio for the next day or so until you would decide to do this all over again. Because this was a small price to pay for the timelessness that you would experience once you got to the top. A click of the key, a turn of the doorknob, and the infinite expanse of the night was surrounding you, and the breeze gently tousled your locks as you stepped out onto the roof, following Hongjoong closely. 

You were not sure how exactly he had managed to convince his landlord to give him the keys to the roof, since it was normally off limits and a mystery even for the permanent residents. Maybe Hongjoong promised to clean and re-vamp the place a bit - which he most definitely did, considering that it now looked like the ultimate relaxation spot, with outdoor fairy lights, plants that did not mind waiting until the next rainfall to be watered, lounge chairs, an antique table that he had picked up at the secondhand market and reinforced to live through the tests of the great outdoors, and some little trinkets that were simply so him that it made you want to burst into tears. He had an eye for design, an eye for expression, and whether he would have liked for you to say this or not, had an eye for love. It was all around you. In everything he had done to the place, in how he treated it, in how he pulled out the chair for you, in how the two of you took a moment to look out into the distance, marking out the local attractions and main highlights of the city before launching into a scavenger hunt through the canvas bag, keeping quiet and feigning obliviousness when your hands brushed once, twice, another time. No, you could never give up this feeling. 

Clinking plastic cups, the lids preventing the drink that was the colour of deep mahogany and the taste of bitter remnants of a campfire, you reclined on your seat and nodded to yourself absent-mindedly, taking a sip. Nothing could be sweeter than this after all. You stole another glance at Hongjoong, who was still wistfully staring off into the distance, caught up in his thoughts. You and him decided to wear your ‘accidentally matching’ hoodies today, in the true free and young spirit of the late night, or early morning, raid on the convenience store. You said ‘accidental’, but was it really when the hoodie was one that he had gifted you for your birthday, and ‘just so happened’ to have a similar one, obviously new? Regarding the piece with a soft smile, you had taken note of how the sleeves of the hoodie spilled just a little bit over his frail, yet elegant wrists, practically transforming into warmers or mittens. Only thanks to the drink which he was cradling in his perfectly manicured hands - with one finger sporting a new coat of nail polish, could you even see his digits in the lulling semi-darkness.

Nothing was being said, and yet a whole universe was passing with every second. In every sigh, twist, tilt of the head, in how Hongjoong flicked through his phone only to put it down and let soft instrumentals twirl from the speakers - a track he was working on, no doubt, in everything that the two of you shared was something you did not wish to even begin to define, out of fear that it would crumble before you. A fragile creature, a precious little bird that cautiously shared its song with the two of you, perched on the echoes of years behind you. Hopping from branch to branch of dialogue and dreaming. The acoustic piece ended, and with it, the birdsong. A trembling flutter of the wings carried it away into your ribcage, and you waited with bated breath for the next moment. Hongjoong set his coffee aside, clumsily pausing the track which had already returned to the intro and was beginning to repeat the first few strums of the guitar chords, and with a timid smile, gazed at you. Expectant. You looked away, trying to find comfort in the glints of distant stars, the hum of traffic miles away and howling of ghostly sirens reflecting off the blanket of deep navy, an onyx-coated purple, and right at the horizon, of stubborn, yet dazed and tired ashen reds and yellows of the urban nocturne. 

“Thoughts?” not liking the sound of his own voice, he cleared his throat after letting the whisper escape him. You paid it no mind, every syllable turning into a stunning creation in your mind. The best the sonorous world could offer. He leaned closer, you could feel it, but you remained how you were, pretending to be transfixed by the starry masterpiece.

“It’s pretty,” you mumbled back, ambiguous. You knew better than to hope that Hongjoong would end the discussion there. Ever since the early days, he would ask you for your reviews, opinions, critiques, input… During nights like these, the most casual get-together could turn into a listening party, with him playing song after song only to stop one midway and start another, worried, wanting to impress you. All the more exciting for you - you could listen forever.

“What is?” he tried again, perching his elbows on the armrest of his chair, to the point where you could sense his presence next to you.

“The tune.”

“There wasn’t one though?” you could imagine his eyes narrowing as he asked.

“I can hear it. And I know you already have one in mind so,” you let your sentence trail off as you took another sip of the cooling coffee.

“Got you. Incomplete, right?” he picked up on your cues better than anyone could. You nodded, humming in agreement with his conclusion.

“Yeah. But I know you considered it.”

“Sure did. What are you piecing together?” he continued, running a hand through his hair, to adjust some invisible strand. A nervous habit. So he could feel it too after all. Unless you were misreading in your recent state of hoping. You chuckled, deciding to not delve further into whether it was at yourself or the evident tension, lifting the cup to eye level to inspect how it caught the fairy lights, revealing various shades of brown, copper, silvery white from the plastic. 

“That one melody from last week. Tuesday, I think it was. The one where you had the synth riff and the humming. And then the lyrical refrain you told me you wrote while waiting for me by the bakery,” he gleamed, soul growing warmer from your recollection. You fiddled with the cardboard holder, Hongjoong’s burning look proving to be too much to handle.

“I swear, you can read my mind,” you could not help but exhale sharply, bemused at the suggestion. If anything, you were convinced of the opposite. There were few times when you were certain of what was going on in Hongjoong’s beautiful mind. Be it a new project or creative adventure that he was embarking on, or an entirely different experiment, or a surprise that you could not even begin to conjure ideas about. He was a mystery, but that was one of the many things you loved about him. Your reaction earned you a raise of the eyebrow and a light tap on your shoulder, making you finally turn towards your friend, only for the intensity of his eyes to be almost breathtaking, “what was that?”

“Nothing,”

“Am I wrong?”

“I mean… you do keep whole albums a secret for… goodness knows how long so…”

“I bet you know what I am thinking now,” his boldness took you off-guard, and you paused. Blinking a couple of times to adjust to the sudden shift in what was between you, so laden with an unspeakable force that you could barely formulate your own response, you regarded his outstretched arm, palm facing you, fingers together, all except the thumb. You squinted in suspicion, but failed to conceal the grin that was creeping onto your features as you moved to complete the hand hug. 

“Kim Hongjoong… what are you plotting?” words failed to leave an impact, it seemed, since your friend merely picked the cup from your hands to leave it beside his at the table. 

Pressing his palm to yours, he concentrated. You could not look away, not when you were going progressively more haywire with each passing second. He was not letting go, thumb beginning to dig into the back of your hand, and his gaze remained trained on you, only you. Right through you and into your heart. He was reading you and seeing your every thought about him - that was how the exchange felt. Hongjoong was picking apart your infatuation, inspecting it, living it. You felt exposed in front of him, and yet he would not allow you to let go. That much you were sure of. Unlike whatever he was mulling over. 

But you did not need to wait much longer for your answer, as, in a split second, your fingers were intertwined and he was pulling you closer and closer to him, his other hand flying to your shoulder to support you and prevent any falls. When you were only a couple of centimetres away, he stopped, as though all bravery had left him temporarily, and his eyes darted from yours, to your lips, back again, anywhere except your face and back to you, now staying. In this eternity of being in one space, sharing the same breath, searching for a future in the decision that was to come, you finally clear that no, you could not see anyone like this. Anyone except your Hongjoong.

“I'd say you can guess… maybe?”

“I don’t think I can,” coy, you responded, much to Hongjoong’s relief. You were you, the one he loved, and nothing was going to change that. This, just like any of the traditions, habits, memories you had made together, was the most natural, and most precious thing in the universe.

“Let me give you a hint,” a whisper, sultry, low was the last thing you heard before your worlds collided, and his lips were moving in a perfect rhythm with yours.

It was like puzzle pieces falling into place. Long lost soulmates finding each other. The sun rising after a thunderstorm. It felt like all the times that had made you and Hongjoong who you were, and who you were going to be. Your hand found purchase on the side of his face, his sharp jawline and soft skin in a stunning harmony against your fingertips. In every sense, it was him, and him alone, and you were blessed by the stars themselves.

Only when you heard the creaking of a chair did you pull away, and glimpsed Hongjoong cursing under his breath and muttering that he ‘hated this thing’ before he stood up, sweeping you away with him. You obliged, longing for his closeness. This was unprecedented, but so, so very welcome. A strong arm around your waist, and a quick push under the chin focusing you back on him, and you were back in bliss, in an entrancing tandem. The kiss was a revival, just like it was a revisitation. It was right. It tasted like the coffee and the late nights, it reminded you of the deep talks and the walks to nowhere and everywhere, it made you yearn for more and yet in the marvellous dance of your lips against his, you found it.

“What am I thinking?” Hongjoong asked as you broke apart, inhales pronounced by the chill of the early hour.

“You are thinking… ‘wow, this is way too close for comfort’,” you jested, chuckling when he scrunched his nose in mock frustration.

“Okay no you definitely cannot read my mind,” he answered, finding your hand once more, and lifting it to his own. Palm to palm. Digits to digits. Thumbs around to complete the miniature embrace. You watched, beaming. 

Hongjoong was closer than ever before, for you and with you, and your heart was about to burst. You regarded him, the love in his eyes and his every gesture as he rocked side to side, just how he knew you liked. Soothing, and always yours. He knew you and you knew him, and at the same time, never failed to find new beauty in one another and details to learn. Masterpieces, forever evolving, you were in this moment together, in this city, on this rooftop, in each other’s arms. Alive and in love. Through the silence, your voice travelled.

“So we are now hand huggers who kiss each other sometimes,” he laughed, breaking into your favourite grin, and leaned forwards until his forehead was against yours.

“Mhm. Sounds good to me.”

🫶 taglist: @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @hongthoven @cqndiedcherries @uwuheeseungie @cheollipop @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @mingigoo @michel-angelhoe @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @ssaboala @jaehunnyy @kitten4sannie @maddkitt @lightinyreads @ren-junwrld @burnmepls @pyeonghongrie-main @archivesummer @little-angel-k @marsstarxhwa @/pocketjoong-reads @alyszaen

enjoyed the fic? i would really appreciate any reblogs, comments, notes! much love!

[red-dye40]

sweet @zombified-queer tagged me in a lil game to share some wips and i am feeling SO creatively disheartened rn so this couldn’t have come at a more perfect time thank you so so much 🥺

from stixxx:

The canvas is warm; it shudders against the cool of the paint and the icy touch of his hands. He drags his fingertips across its surface in gentle little strokes. It takes the paint with ease, with gratitude, bowing at his touch. So soft. The magenta is so vibrant in the blue of dusk in his room, almost electric neon, so alive and it keeps uttering his name. His fingernails drag down the woven texture, through splotches of paint, leaving white claw marks across its skin. The canvas gasps. He feels Lora’s hands again, this time grasping his back, the nape of his neck, moaning Johnny, Johnny, John-Nny. It drowns out whatever combating noise there is in the room; it’s just the scraping and the moaning now. Johnny gets lost in the breathing pit of pink before him, his hands act miles away from what his brain can catch up to, and soon he feels the canvas relent, and Lora yelps with pain and pleasure, and threads of canvas tangle under his fingernails, and he’s snapping its skeleton in his hands and over his knee, his palms littered with splinters, his teeth a mess of blood or paint. Lora loves saying his name and he loves to hear it when it’s her, so soft and forgiving even with bone grasped in his fingers.

The magenta floods his veins, blooms in beautiful clouds through his arteries, pours over his eyes so all he can see is Lora. It pushes him over. A rubber band snapping, or a blister popping. Careening down a hill in a car stuck in neutral, inertia pinning him against the seat, flinging him off a cliff towards a viscous throbbing ocean.

from ancaux (literally the first paragraph of the next chapter so enjoy da preview 🤪):

In the pitch black of the room, the door yawns high with gnashing teeth, a pinpoint cycloptic eye leering, from its belly a repetitive loud low bark. Devi has herself flattened against the carpet. She can see the window but nothing behind it, the outside just as inky as in here. All she hears is the rain—sloshing out gutters into the parking lot, running so copiously it sounds thick like gore or muck or particularly chunky vomit—and the knocking. The door shudders on its hinges with each knock. It shakes the whole room. Foreboding like a threat, someone is trying to get to her, she’s been found out. The reckoning’s right here at her doorstep.

i tag @margaritaville and @wastelockwoes bc i love to eat your writing w a spoon :) anyone else feel free to as well i love to read ppls wips !!!!!

[garglyswoof]

A small Klaroline drabble bc i miss writing, no promises I'll ever do more than this, but wrote this in an hour based on this amazing prompt.

Some friends joined for the sprint and I'm looking forward to seeing what comes out of their brains! If you see this, feel free to write on this prompt too and tag me, whatever ship!

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

Long as I Can See the Light

The night is dark and full of horrors, and she is very much one of them. Dried blood cracks on fingers clutched tight on the wheel for the 24th straight hour of hurtling towards a ten year inevitability. She runs a tongue along her teeth, the taste of copper still strong despite the hour. She is shaking, shaken, what she calls vampire guilt lighting her synapses, images flashing across her field of vision. Elena lying still, Stefan’s face anguished above her, the stabbing motion through a chest wall, the feel of a heart in her hands. It still beats, for a moment, after it’s removed, did you know? An unbidden reminder of life clinging in spite of it all.

Caroline’s never been sure she’ll ever get over those moments, and now she’s not sure if magic will let her. She feels the panic rise, a physical sensation that has her clutching the wheel harder, blowing air out through her nose, calm breaths one two in out calm calm calm.

Panic won’t help this situation, not in the least, and the only thing that will is close enough that now the panic shifts focus to the coming reunion. 

What’s he been doing all this time? Would he even remember her? She’s pretty sure the answer is yes. After all, she's had quite a bit to worry about on her plate yet somehow she still found time to remember the rasp of his stubble on her thighs. Not now, Caroline.

God.

The smell of the city hits her like a freight train, sweet decay, earth and muck and something ageless and unnamed beneath the typical scents of civilization. She glances down at her phone in the passenger seat, a chipper Australian voice telling her to turn off on the next exit for Esplanade and tries to ignore the smudges beneath her eyes, stark in the rearview mirror. There’s just no time to look her best. She isn’t even sure what time she has, whether things had already been set in motion the moment her hand sliced through that man’s rib cage. 

She isn’t sure of anything except that Klaus is the only one who will know what to do.

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

Klaus steps back from his work, eyeing the canvas with a thousand years of experience. Something about the light source is off, and he rocks forward, using a palette knife to daub shadows amidst the light. It's fixed now, masterful even if he says so himself, but somehow not enough. 

Nothing really is these days. He knows and recognizes the ennui of an eternal existence, but that certainly doesn't make it easier to bear. Maybe someone needed killing. Maybe he needs to see the Northern Lights again. Maybe he needs to torture Rebecca. Something, anything to break up the monotony which spreads years out like taffy, stretching beyond human lifetimes, beyond anything but his own kind's lifetimes. 

And there is the rub - immortality is, in the end, unbelievably boring. What new things to see and delight in when you’ve experienced it all? It becomes a matter of degrees, a matter of who you share those experiences with. His thoughts flash to a place he’d pretended long buried. He lets go of the pretense in times like these, testing the weight of promise like a tongue against a loose tooth - funny the things that stick with you through the millenia - and thinks of breaking it.

He won’t. He knows this, but the act of testing the bonds makes him feel like he’s in control of this feeling; this strange, heart-flipping, enraging and exhilarating feeling. He thinks of checking in on Mystic Falls but the last time he did he had severed the head of the reporting hybrid with the force of his thrown mobile, and he didn’t need to see what surprises Kol would program into his replacement phone this time. 

He inhales in an action long useless and looks at the canvas, the play of shadows and light, and reaches a hand out to play god. Voices rise, a sussuration that reaches through the plaster, and he sets down his palette with annoyance, deciding that if art isn’t the answer, perhaps a spot of death would be.

He descends the staircase, hand trailing down the antique balustrade, fingers picking up trails of dust he’ll need to eat the housekeeper for, and approaches the voices. Two men - some of his guards, Thierry and Alan perhaps, and a higher pitched voice interrupting, tone demanding with a note of desperation behind it that his mind latches on to before the rest of his thoughts catch up and he realizes that Caroline Forbes is in his foyer, her form emerging as he rounds the landing, her legs bare, covered in blood and her face sallow and oh, the dichotomy of vampire, he hates it, he hates himself, he hates her, he thinks she is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Caroline?” His voice betrays nothing to her, and he watches her stifle a flash of annoyance that almost makes him smile.

“Hi, Klaus. Can you get your lackeys to back down? No offense, lackeys,” she says, offering one of the vampires clutching her arm a bright smile. “I just know how he is.”

They drop her arms at a word and step away, leaving the two of them standing alone in the foyer. The sound of locusts whirring outside is almost overwhelming as she lifts her eyes to his, searching.

He’s not sure if she finds what she’s looking for, but she speaks anyway, her eyes bright and trembling.

“I killed a hunter last night, and I didn’t know where else to go.”

[tetsutits]

jaY!!!!!! your tags!!!!!! ue ue ue ue ue ue ue ughhhhhhh your tags!!! the pinch in his eyebrow and the sweating this is terminal

no no rika just IMAGINE this. he has ur legs folded up on his shoulders, harsh grip on your hips while he’s thrusting, forehead and noses almost touching cause he’s so close to you, literally sharing the same breath. and you’re like, giving him that look, like yknow… like the one right before you cum. and he’s GONE. squeezes his eyes shut… gritting his teeth bc it feels too good … gasping into your mouth. he pulls out right before and blows his load all over your belly, torso, chest, literally a canvas for him to paint white. and he rly does. works his dick until there’s literally nothing left to give, until he accidentally overstims himself. he looks back at you in awe because his baby looks so cute covered in his cum. literally becomes a guilty pleasure of his

[ja0-s-blank-canvas-fic]

Part 3 - Chapter 16 - I-Island: Exploring The Expo

Blank Canvas Part 3

AO3 - here

Fanfiction.net - here

And we're back continuing our journey on I-Island! :D We've got a bunch of friend fluff coming your way this update so I hope you enjoy! ^________^ Editing took a bit more time than usual because I had some parts I still had to flesh out. Didn't help that I had a really long week at work last week. On top of that I also caught a cold, but I managed to survive!

Alright, enough complaining. Let's get to the chapter!

Reminder that it isn't just Izuku who came to I-Island in BC. We've got Hitoshi, Shouto, and Mei tagging along under Present Mic and Hound Dog's supervision. All Might is here too but currently with David Shield.

Linktree to all the things!    

End notes for the chapter are under the line.

All the friend bonding! :D Izuku's friends really like to tease him and Melissa got to meet some peeps from Class A. No Kirishima though. :/ I could have brought him as well with the working the expo thing but I wouldn't think he would want to leave Bakugou behind by himself. Especially since the rest of the Bakusquad did go to I-Island. You're probably wondering how it's going to go down without Bakugou or Kirishima, but I'll just tell you throw canon out the window for this one. :P I've got a plan and I think you'll like it. I do anyway.

Sh-sh-shout out to cooper and Baltimoresurvivor for their help with outfit suggestions! (really thank you, I'm quite fashion illiterate...) :P I was originally going to keep Izuku's the same as cannon but Baltimoresurvivor had some fun ideas for changing it up as well as something for Hitoshi. Which I think I made it work? ^____^ And cooper even threw together some schematics for Mei's which I then drew up which you can see here!! :D To give you a better idea of her outfit. So thanks!

Flirting. Just a whole bunch of flirting this chapter. ;)

Also reminder I have no idea how coffee works. I don't drink the stuff myself so I made stuff up in an attempt to write something cute. If anything, I see it as Kaminari made that coffee himself also without much knowledge how it works. So there, that's my logic. :P

Fun Facts About Japan:

Let's talk restaurant etiquette! Now in the US, good customer service consists of the wait staff regularly checking in with their tables and seeing if there's anything they need and if they are doing okay. Very much attentive service without the customer having to ask for it. That is actually not the case in Japan. In fact, it's kind of the opposite. In restaurants and food places, they don't come unless you call for them as they don't want to interrupt your meal or socializing. In fact, a lot of places have a call button for that specific reason to notify them you need something or ready to place your order. There are also places like conveyor belt sushi that they will have tablets and such you can use to order your food without even talking to a person. I experienced it where those places will either serve your order to you via person or conveyor belt depending on the restaurant set up. This also goes for karaoke booths as well. You order through the tablets or indicate you're ready to order. Then they come and get your order and give it quickly once it's ready so that you can maximize your enjoyment of the experience. (also karaoke is super duper fun in Japan and they do have a large selection of English songs to choose from over there)

Another difference is tipping. In the US, tipping is a big part of the restaurant industry and are part of restaurant staff wages. The better the service, the better the tip. (at least in theory) In Japan, they don't tip. Top service is considered to be a part of the job and no extra compensation is expected. Which was really hard to wrap my head around at first because customer service in Japan is top notch. They are just so kind and determined to get it right the first time. You just feel like you want to tip them anyway but it's just not a cultural thing there. Like how I previously mentioned that if you're in a convenience store and they notice what you are buy is expiring, even that day, and they will go out of their way to get you a fresh one. I strongly feel this is tied to their cultural mentality of the betterment of the group verses the individual. Get it done right the first time and everyone will be happy.

That's all for today! I hope you liked all the fluff this chapter. 'Cause next chapter is the attack itself and just plain drama. A nice balance. ;) Thank you for your patience and have a great two weeks!

[1000-thr]

in a furby mood (hcs below tha cut)

-gordon: hates furbies. they scare him. darnold gifted him a melon ball shelby however and he loves it. either it hangs out on his shelf or joshua plays w/ it. named it Kane like kane and lynch 2: dog days (ive never played the game)

-joshua: benrey got him a rooster furby named Cowboy(s) that never gets turned off. gordon despises it but doesnt wanna tell josh that so he just deals w/ the constant furby chatter. later asks his dad 4 more so gordon gets him lightning bolts (jellybean) and pink hearts (cashews) booms bc theyre "less scary"

-benrey: likes the 98s and buddies a lot but only has a single skinned ocean ripples (very rare) name gamecube he got as a gift from tommy. gave the skin back 2 tommy and puts stickers on the shell. rlly in2 oddbodies (things like long furby, furbies w/ arms, furby faceplates put on other toys, etc)

-tommy: avid furby collector. thinks the connects and furblings r very cute. owns just the skin of an ocean ripples that benrey handed back so he gave it a clay faceplate and named it gameclam

-coomer: owns a snowball long furby that tommy made. only refers 2 it as "my Long Furby!" totes it around like a boa scarf and is very interested in the mechanics of them

-bubby: doesnt own any but likes 2 see pictures of any new ones that tommy or darnold get. thinks theyre cool but cant stand the chatter they make

-darnold: big fan of shelbies and the 2005s. owns a ladybug (pepsi), mint (baja blast), and lemon drop (fanta orange). also a passionfruit (sprite cranberry) and tropical mango (sunkist...2!) the guy’s also hunting down a kid cuisine 2 add 2 his collection

-forzen: gizmo

-gman: keeps this in his suitcase. refers 2 it as "the... as you might say.. 'fur-bee...?'"

[cosmicbrowniefan]

byler headcanons for you guys bc we’re all super tired and drained and the tag is feeling way too negative rn!!

so we all know and love the headcanon that el just doesn’t know what homophobia is and is therefore very confused when will comes out, but headcanon that el “suddenly understands why he felt so nervous” when he tells her that he likes mike

mike is a gay that is emotionally attached to his english teacher and will is a gay that is emotionally attached to his art teacher but HERE’S THE KICKER: that english teacher and that art teacher are MARRIED and hear about them pining for each other all the time and have a bet going on about how long it’ll take them to get together and who’s going to confess first

will calls mike “honey bun” when mike says something that sounds like his head is full of rocks

for example: 

mike, after holly repeatedly told him to look “under there”: under where?? under WHERE??

will: oh honey bun

whenever will is painting mike will come up and hug him around the waist

and will always puts a little spot of paint on mike’s nose <3

whenever will mentions a song he likes, mike puts it on a list titled “potential wedding songs” and will sees him typing in the list one day and just starts sobbing uncontrollably

when they start dating, they start making their characters flirt during dnd night

“will the wise thinks paladin mike looks rather dashing this evening” “oh yeah? well paladin mike thinks-” “sir dustin is running to the nearest cliffside to hurl himself over the edge”

will is the “finds cool rocks” bf and mike is the “has pockets full of significant other’s cool rocks” bf

mike gets a tattoo of a blank canvas and will colors it whenever mike is stressed <3

will french braids mike’s hair into two every second he gets and sometimes they make fun of mike for it but mike doesn’t care, he wears the braids with pride

when mike comes out to his parents will stands there holding and rubbing his hand with his thumb

and karen hugs them both and says she’ll always love and support them

ted doesn’t even look up from his paper but says “about damn time”

bc i’m a “ted has no thoughts but he’s not blind” truther

that’s all for now but more to come <3

[sugxrslushy]

<33 Hi, my love, my daring! Can I please have 20 (or 2 for my back up) with Rosinante (bc I’m nothing if not predictable). Thank you Maxx my love

🌼 a/n: writing late at night bc I can't sleep, I've been in a mood to write for Rosinante so here I am delivering!! I hope that you like this! also it's implied that this is after the incident with Doffy but in this case he survives

🌼 prompt - patching each other up

🌼 pairing: Rosinante x gn!reader

“You’re lucky to be alive.” You say in a concern laced voice as you tighten the bandages around his chest. With each deep breath, the white bandages pull taut against his torso, reminding you not to wind them too tight. Taking the free end you’d left out, you tie it off for the bandage to stay in place then turn to your med kit to search for more.

“I truly am.” He laughs between a puff of smoke, hissing slightly as you begin to apply the antiseptic to a gash in his skin. “Glad I have you here to take care of me, I can already feel myself getting better.” His words are followed with a shout as you splash a bit too much of the liquid against the injury, apologies spill for your mouth as you try to soothe him.

He bites clean through the cigarette, the butt falling to the floor between the two of you and Rosinante makes a sad sound at his loss. You resist the urge to chide the man about the dangers of smoking, he’d narrowly avoided being killed and you’d like to keep it that way. But sometimes the smell was almost soothing, the faint smell of tobacco you’d catch when you’d bury yourself in his coat during hugs.

“Sorry about that, just can't risk an infection.” You murmur instead of anything about his habit. Rosinante just shrugs, he'd dealt with worse pain as shown by the reason you were even patching him up. There was no malicious intent behind it and how could he be upset when it was you.

Upon you motioning to him to turn, his long legs are spread open for you to inch closer and inspect the rest of him. The bleeding was no longer as bad, you wouldn’t have to change the bandages out as soon but it wasn’t like you minded.

There was something sweetly intimate about patching him up, something that happened shockingly often with your clumsy partner. Whether it was him tripping over the coffee table or setting himself on fire, you were there in an instant with your first aid kit. You were always there to put him back together, a sturdy anchor to keep him in place after even the worst storm. Gently mending his wounds with tender hands and sweet kisses that promised a fast recovery.

Taking the wet washcloth you’d set off to the side, you wipe away the rest of the specks of blood and dirt along his body, gentle when running over new cuts. Your fingers lightly brushed over them, red and angry now but with time they’d fade into the canvas of scars covering his body. He’d never liked them, you could still remember the embarrassment written on his face when you first saw them. But to you they were a sign that he lived.

Once you finally flipped the lid of your med kit closed, Rosinante flashed you a smile. “Am I clear to leave Doctor?”

“Just one last thing.” You scoot closer and kiss him softly on the lips, your fingers carding through soft blonde locks as you two exchange a kiss. “Now you're all good, let me know if anything still hurts.”

tag list: @acesmarigold

[kkusuka]

Y/n and either Ushijima, Suna or Sugawara ((I couldn’t decide so you pick 😫)) put paint on themselves and then fuck on a canvas to hang up in there house. Nobody would ever know that the art they were just admiring was made by Y/n and him having seggs 😂😂

✨Puppy🤩

i’m gonna do Toshi and Rin because i couldn’t think of something for suga, if i do i might post something for him bc i really like the prompt lol

ushijima wakatoshi <3

at times he hated the fact the collage required him to take an art class. he was there on a full scholarship for volleyball, not art.

most of the time he didn’t care all that much, he could draw and use the class pastels for an hour two days a week. and he was no Picasso but he was passing so that was all he could ask for.

well that’s what he thought until about an hour ago when he remembered that his midterm, what will be 40% of his semester grade, was due in the morning. it was fairly open, only had a few restrictions, it had to be on a 36’x48’ canvas and must have a single medium, he chose paint because it seemed easy at the time.

well now he was sitting in front on the white canvas, mind completely void of creative inspiration, and he had practice in two hours. making things about one-thousand times worse was that his social media was full of women painting their nudes, a trend he knew you had tried.

“toshi? you’ve been sitting there for forty-five minutes, are you ok?”

the idea hit him like a truck, his teacher said they could do whatever they wanted and that’s what he was going to do.

“y/n? will you help me out for a few minutes?” he inquired, drawing your body into the room.

you never really knew what ushijima was thinking, his stone cold facade didn’t spare you in times like this. though you could see the burning in his eyes as he waved you over where he had gotten sky blue and violet cans of paint.

without a word, you watched had he began to tug your sweats down your legs.

“whoa! what are you doing?” he just picked up some of the paint before looking up to you.

“i’m going to fuck you on it.” his stated as if he was talking about ordering lunch. not waiting for your reply he smeared the blue onto the front of your thighs along your full legs.

“take of your shirt.” doing what he said he immediately began rubbing the paint onto your stomach, throughly coating your breasts, twisting your nipples and the skin underneath, all the way up to the base of your neck.

he turn you by your waist, pressing your body to the canvas that was hanging along the wall.

you would ask him if this was appropriate, but you didn’t have a chance before he was opening your folds and pushing his tip int your cunt.

“you’re wet already? all i’ve done was put paint on you, are you that much of an unstable whore?” his words and how unfazed he sounded sent another wave of heat down your walls. snapping his hips to your sent you furthers into the now colors portion of your art.

“toshi, not— not to hard-“ a smack to your ass accompanied with a harsh thrust your your cervix shut you up.

his dick was carving its was into your walls, you’d been dating for years but he made you feel like a virgin.

you were never out that the weight of his thrusts would rip the canvas, you worries thrown from your mind as his dick hit the sweet spot in your depths, squirting your cum into his thighs. halting his thrusts you felt a cold, wet substance drip over you back. you felt the pads of his fingers rub it all over your back before moving his hands to your hips, giving you a glimpse of the blue coating his palms.

“you don’t think we’re done do you?” he mocked, pulling you off his for a split second before pressing your back to your masterpiece, the blue joining your mess of purple, “i haven’t cum yet so out painting is not completed.”

suna rintarou <3

“there you go messy slut! go ahead rub those pretty tits on the board,” suna’s mocking words were accompanied with a flick of your clit, “you want everyone to know what we did on this don’t you?”

he had brought up the idea after seeing something like it on instagram, but he really just wanted physical proof that he was the best fuck you’ll ever get.

“rin-ri- i, please!”

“oh baby, this is going to look so pretty. i’m gonna hang it in our living room so everyone can see it! they’ll have no idea but whenever you see it you’ll remember how i fucked you dumb.” he sneered, pushing your torso further into the canvas.

his cock plunged in and out of your hole garnered with the wet slaps of skin. grabbing your hair to pull your head back he forced you to look at him as you came around his cock, him following in suit.

•••

“that’s a really cool painting where’d y’all get it?”

oh aran, why did you have to ask in a room full of people? you had decorations handing all around your house and he asks about the one thing you can’t explain without stuttering.

“me and y/n made it together, right? it was so much fun.” suna chimed from across the room where he was speaking with kita and osamu.

“yeah honey, we did!” you smiled, faking a laugh while observing the multiple disruption in the paint from where you had dropped wetness onto the board.

•

tags: @bakugos-cumsock

[dual-domination]

I posted 662 times in 2022

97 posts created (15%)

565 posts reblogged (85%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@the-marron

@huntress1013

@jaimebluesq

@zhu-yilong-laying-on-things

@pangzi

I tagged 591 of my posts in 2022

Only 11% of my posts had no tags

#guardian - 78 posts

#dmbj - 71 posts

#zhu yilong - 71 posts

#zhao yunlan - 65 posts

#mdzs - 61 posts

#wu xie - 50 posts

#bai yu - 42 posts

#shen wei - 42 posts

#nie mingjue - 42 posts

#the untamed - 37 posts

Longest Tag: 137 characters

#i just wouldn't take xiexie to the desert island bc if he and zyl are there i'm going to stay alone.... if you know what i mean jksjkskjs

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

I am so sorry, but you two made my day. Literally made me giggle like a teenager. Thank you so much. OK, new ask.

Pairing: Lan XiChen x Jiang Wanyin

AU : The frazzled babysitter

You're welcome! It's my pleasure to serve the humor and comedy 😆

So here we go again:

Little menaces

Xichen tried to not give up. Coffee and energetic drinks weren't working anymore. He wondered why his didi and his (twice?) brother-in-law got cute sweet children like a-Yuan and tiny romantic Zizhen, meanwhile he got Jingyi and a-Ling. Just one of them was enough to make him keep the two eyes very open, but the two, together… a true nightmare. A-Ling would fight over his jiujiu's attention - against Jingyi AND against Xichen. And Jingyi would fight back because… well, because he was who he was: the less Lan of all Lans. 

LXC: Sometimes I wonder if there's any chance of Jingyi being actually a Nie changed at birth…

JC: Sometimes I wonder HOW Wei Wuxian managed to raise such a calm son while a-jie's child is… this full-time upset baby Peacock…

JL: A-Ling is not a peacock! 

JC: Your dad is a Peacock, and so are you.

JL: Mean jiujiu!

LXC: Wanyin, making them cry won't help…

JC: Helps me to get my revenge for what they've done to us.

LXC: They're just small babies… we have to love them.

JC: I love my peacock nephew. 

JL: A-Ling is going to tell everything to xiaoshushu!

JC: Just like you, he's not a big thing. 

LJY: Jin Ling is a coward!

JL: And you are what??

LJY: I'm a fucking badass NIE!

Next time they'd have to babysit, Jingyi definitely would stay with Mingjue and a-Yao, even at risk of learning at least five more bad words and cursing to Lan Qiren's horror.

47 notes - Posted August 10, 2022

#4

Now that my husband loves Mo Dao Zu Shi, I can send him stuff I find on Tumblr. So I sent this one for him...

And he sent it back to me and told me he fixed it:

He doesn't want to be a Lan anymore. He wants to be a Nie, have a respectable mustache and qi-deviate like man.

He says: The Mustache is Canon.

93 notes - Posted July 8, 2022

#3

POV: Meng Yao never left Qinghe

Part 1:

* MY, immersed in business papers. *

NMJ: What are you doing?

MY: Long-term investments.

NMJ: For what?

MY: For good reasons.

NMJ: I was not consulted. 

MY: War is your business, investments are mine.

NMJ: Shall I remind you who Qinghe Nie Sect belongs to?

MY and NHS looking at each other from opposite sides of the room.

NHS: Da-ge, shall I remind you who you belong to?

NMJ: I sense a conspiracy here…

( @novas-grimoire I blame that tweet... and my obsession in Nieyao fix-it stuff)

97 notes - Posted July 2, 2022

#2

It's been a while since my hand tremors returned and it's been rare for me to feel like painting - especially since I've lost a lot of motivation since Traditional Art has become underrated in light of digital art.

But then this wonderful Guardian fic by @the-marron left me overly emotional and I can't get out of my head everything I felt while reading.

So, Marron, a quick painting of someone who wished he had the talent to convey your impeccable writing on a canvas, but really just has a lot of feelings.

Fun fact: it's the first time in over twenty years of being part of fandoms that I've tried to paint something for someone else's fic.

You can find this little literary treasure here:

When I walk past the mountain peak, it doesn't speak

(It took a lot of courage to post this 😅)

140 notes - Posted August 31, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

See the full post

467 notes - Posted June 25, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[h2bakugou]

hello! May I please have a Dabi x fem reader in the lov who likes to draw? I think she finds his scars and stuff to be a work of art in itself and is like (oh heck I gotta sketch this). He glances at what she’s drawing and she gets all flustered! Maybe he even takes his shirt off at one point which can lead to some other things~ (I like smut but if you think fluff fits the prompt better that’s alright with me!) Thank you and I love your writing!

a/n: hii! of course love! this is super sweet omg i love dabi, i feel like i dont capture his character very well but imma try like hell😩😩this is probably ooc for him but it’s sappy and i love it

summary: dabi’s hard to read, but that doesn’t stop you from sketching him. you find beauty in his flaws, entranced by his scars, so much so that dabi can’t help but be interested in you.

key: (y/n) - your name / (f/n) - first name / (l/n) - last name / (e/c) - eye color / (h/c) - hair color / (y/q) - your quirk

warnings: swearing, fluff, sappy romance bc i love this man, some spicy themes, one mention of a slight(possible? idrk what counts) manga spoiler (e.g. dabi’s past/history) (manga spoilers in tags!!)

wordcount: 2k

;cut due to suggestive themes;

»»————-　★　————-««

»»————-　★　————-««

It’s never been a really big secret that you liked drawing. But when it comes to working for the league, specifically, the League of Villains, your line of work doesn’t allow for very much downtime unless you’re in the midst of planning some sort of attack or rebellion.

Whether or not the league keeps hopping from rendezvous spot to rendezvous spot isn’t up to you, but you never fail to get a little used to the eerily calming silence that falls upon the league during the first twenty-four hours of the new four walls that seem to keep you safe for the time being.

With a barely sharpened pencil in your hand, a small drawing pad in the other, you’re staring at Dabi as you sketch him.

It started as a bit of a joke, maybe just teasing him since he liked to tease you about being into him since you were the only one he was really super close, if you could call being the first one he spoke to every time he saw you or the one you sought out to be paired up with during missions, ‘super close.’

But now, it was something you enjoyed.

Dabi was one among the very interesting members of the league. Something about his scars just seemed to entrance you. Pulling you in further and further down a rabbit hole of questions that you had but never let leave past your lips.

It felt wrong to ask, not that it was a bad thing to be curious, but because Dabi was just so mysterious. No one knew anything about him, or about who he was, his past, even his real name was a mystery. 

It felt wrong to disturb the unnerving peace that was Dabi. The resting expression on his features balancing on a thin cable between anger and poor personal resilience.

Dabi’s scars were the highlight of your sketches, always standing out. What the others may have thought to be ugly, or unattractive, you thought were beautiful, and emotional.

There was a story behind them, one you wanted to know, one you wanted to uncover and read, page by page, line by line, and word for word, discovering just how truly deep Dabi’s past was. But only Dabi could show you that, only Dabi could open that book for you. And you were willing to wait. You’d wait an eternity if you had too.

His rough raven hair is messy and strewn about as you scribble down his facial features, the groggy lighting making it just a tad difficult to see as you lead the pencil over the warm white paper littered with graphite covered fingerprints.

His arms are positioned on a counter, the art work resembling how he was sitting sloped against the kitchen table, elbows pressed against the dark mahogany wood, hands resting by his mouth as his cerulean eyes peer off at the cracked cement wall in front of him, occasionally glancing back at you.

The other members of the league were scattered about but it didn’t bother you. Toga asked you a couple of questions, wondering what you were doing, if you were excited about the new plans and such.

You replied quietly as to not disturb the peace.

But soon some of the members left, going off to go eat or find something to do. And soon you were among the few left behind, along with Dabi, Shigaraki and Mr. Compress.

Having almost finally finished your current sketch, you were stopped by a pair of hands picking up your drawing pad. Rough and calloused fingers drew your pad away and your attention away.

“Hey I’m not finished.” You glanced up at Dabi. Dabi just admired the talent poured into the sketch. Dabi couldn’t wrap his head around why you drew him so often, but he didn’t mind. It was kind of touching in a way.

“Is that really what I look like?” Dabi joked, handing you back your sketch pad.

“You have looked in a mirror once before, right?” You titled your head to the side, adding a bit more detail to his scars as you began to draw again. 

“A few times. But I’d rather look at you, doll.” Dabi’s hands reached down again, this time pulling at your hands. Leading you out of the room where the other two members sat, finding a way to entertain themselves, Dabi lead you up some stairs in questionable condition.

Picking a random room, he sat down on the rickety bed and waited for you to sit down.

“Why’s that?” You tease, returning to drawing, looking up at him every few seconds to reference. And to admire him.

“You’re easy on the eyes, beautiful and-”

“Are you saying you’re not beautiful, Dabi?” You stopped him, not pausing to look at him.

“I’m not beautiful, I’m gorgeous.” Dabi chuckled, shaking his head jokingly as he laid back against the bed, his head dangling off the opposite end.

“You are.” You confirm. Finally finishing up your sketch. You get up and walk over to him, handing him the finished sketch. 

“You add so much detail to my scars. They’re just scars.” The tips of Dabi’s ears flush as heat floods to his face. He’s flustered but he won’t admit it. He can’t understand why you think he’s so beautiful.

You don’t speak. For the first time, you’re speechless. You sit down beside Dabi, and now that he’s sitting up, he faces you.

You reach your hands out and gently lift one of his arms, holding one of his hands in your own. You run your fingers across the scarred flesh, gently caressing his skin. 

His hands are cold compared to your warm fingers. He’s getting chills all down his spine as you touch him. It’s not meant to be anything out of the ordinary, but he’s still shocked that he’s letting you touch him.

“Your scars are beautiful. I’m sure there’s a story, something about them that might make you hate them, but I love them, and I think they make you that much more beautiful. You are a masterpiece, every scar a carefully calculated brushstroke on a beautiful canvas.” Your words finally come out, overflowing with love. You can’t sit quietly anymore.

“Dabi you are beautiful.” Your eyes lock with his, and you can tell he’s unsure of what to do. 

Dabi no longer felt he had the ability to cry, but if he’d let himself, he would’ve done it in that moment. Being so open and vulnerable around you just happened. It came too easily, and he hated it, but he loved you.

Pulling his arm away form your warm touch, he tossed his jacket off and to the side before tearing his shirt away from his body, allowing you to see his chest, and more of his scar covered skin.

Sitting quietly with a faint blush on your cheeks, you couldn’t look away. trying to avoid staring directly at his toned chest and his nipples, you raised your hand and allowed your fingers to sink down across his sternum.

Soon your fingers were met with his abs, which the heat on your face noticed far too well. 

“Say it again.” Dabi mumbled. You lifted your head to look into his eyes again, your hand still resting against his chest.

“You are beautiful-” The moment the words left your lips, Dabi’s own lips were pressed against yours. Kissing you roughly, more than he intended too, his hands mangled into yours, pushing your arms over your head.

His heart was pounding and it felt like it was going to beat right out of his chest onto yours. Pulling away for a few seconds, Dabi’s hair covered his eyes as he looked down, finding interest in the collar of your shirt.

“I want you.” Dabi’s words were simple, but they didn’t have to be complex. You knew what he meant, and you knew what he wanted. You wanted it too. A chance to see him in a different light, with deeper meaning.

A chance to connect with him, one on one. 

“Then take me.” Your fingers intertwined with his, your arms still resting above your head. It didn’t take long for his lips to magnetize back to yours, sticking to them like glue.

When Dabi thought about sex, he didn’t come anywhere close to making love. There wasn’t that sort of option when it came to him. He didn’t think he was at all capable of love, let alone a relationship that was going to have any sort of emotional connection strong enough to make him feel stable.

But you, you were so vastly different from anyone he’d ever fucked. So different from an excuse to get his dick wet, to get his mind off of league business or heaven forbid, his past.

But you, you were what he needed, what he wanted. It was far from therapy, but it’d work. Having you around was like a drug, addicting, and he’d be going through withdrawals if he couldn’t have you.

Feeling you, touching you, fucking you, kissing you, it was fuel to his fire. He was damaged goods, broken and shattered, impossible to put together, but you were doing your best, working on the smallest parts, exercising precautions, and opening your heart to him.

Hearing his name in the form of your moans as he rutted into you, your legs wrapped tightly around his hips drove him wild, much like the way your hands tangled into his hair, forcing his head into your chest where he kissed and sucked on your skin, leaving marks.

Your moans and his own grunts of pleasure were spewing from the locked room. Dabi didn’t care if the others heard, he was enjoying the moment.

Every part of it. Every part of you, every part of your body, your words, your love. And before he knew, Dabi was at his highest, his face flush against your naked chest, breathing heavily as he inhaled your scent.

Still inside you, he didn’t move, allowing the two of you to catch your breath. It was in this moment, if Dabi allowed himself to cry, he would’ve cried a second time. He was so infatuated with you, so attached.

“I love you.” Your words scared him, causing his cerulean eyes to peak at you through locks of his noir hair.

“That’s stupid.” Dabi kissed your sternum, kissing up your chest, stopping at your neck to leave a little mark, only to meet at your lips in the end.

“How?” You ask softly, your hands massaging his scalp as his lips hover over yours.

“I can’t explain it, it just is.” Dabi frowned, trying to understand what your eyes were saying as they clouded with emotion.

“Love is complex, and I think that maybe you’ve never really had good experiences with it. If you’d let me, I could show you just how beautiful it can be.” You offer, a small smile on your lips.

“If you feel the need-”

“I do. I love you, and I want you to know love.” You kissed his forehead. Dabi eventually pulled out, not minding the mess, he’d clean up later. 

“I want you to know why I love you.” You whispered, hugging him closer to you.

“Why I love your scars, your hands, your strength, the rasp in your voice, all of it. I love.” Dabi’s arms are strung over your waist as he lays, face nuzzled in your neck. It’s a bit of a stretch for him, and he feels out of place, but it’s oddly comfortable.

The next couple of times you draw Dabi, you ask to see him shirtless again. And with every new sketch, there’s something new to be learned, for Dabi. He’s learning about love, and loving you. 

He finds that you still draw him incredibly cute, and though he won’t admit it, he loves when you draw him. He’ll pose for you if you ever ask, and you always tease him a little about how it was like he was born to be a model.

It’s a long road ahead of you, but it’s one you’re willing to take, to show Dabi just how important love is.

»»————-　★　————-««

masterlist