#Gorgeous collection shampoo

[charliemwrites]

Hiiiii! So I’m not super thrilled with this but I’ve been having a time of it at work so I worked on this when I could 🙃

Not sure if there will be a second part yet tbh we’ll see!

Edit: almost forgot to add that the gorgeous divider below is by @gildui they have some absolutely beautiful cod themed dividers.

Carrion

Reader comes back Wrong

Content: implied/referenced torture, injury, suicide reference/implicated “pact” (by background character), lack of wound care

The breakup was bad.

Not in the top 3 of Simon’s worst nightmare-inducing memories - but likely top 5. He certainly wakes up chest aching and eyes burning often enough for it to be a solid contender. He’s haunted by tears that dripped like acid and the cracks in your voice deafening him.

On bad days, he thinks he can still see you shuffling down the halls, eyes sunken and red-rimmed, dark circles and chapped lips. Anger giving way to resignation giving way to pain and sadness. The rest of the team tight-lipped and wincing, no sides taken, shoulders and ears offered equally in commiseration.

Your misery wanted no company, though.

You didn’t tell Simon that you were leaving. Gaz let slip over a subdued but obligatory game of cards, you’d be gone for a long time - loaned out to Laswell.

Simon didn’t go to see you off. Didn’t ask why you were leaving or accuse you of being too immature to be on a team with him. He didn’t wish you good luck, stay safe with the rest of the team on the tarmac at 0-dark when you took off.

He should have.

Price says you’ll be gone for six months. Just six. It’s better this way, he reminds them when Johnny balks. His eyes are on Simon, though, when he adds that you need to get your head on straight, and you weren’t able to do it with them.

So. Six months.

Simon stops expecting you on his left. Stops smelling your shampoo lingering on bits of clothes he pretended not to notice you steal. He still dreams about you begging him not to push you away.

183 days come and go.

On day 184, Laswell sends word - your temporary team likes you quite a bit. They want you to stay on for one more month… one more mission… one more…

Six months turns to ten.

312 days since you left; since you were home.

The team hasn’t stopped leaving a space for you at their tables, right between Gaz and Price. You miss your own birthday. Laswell says she’ll pass along well wishes.

The situation changes. A target resurfaces. All hands on deck, including yours.

374 days. Twelve months and some change.

They don’t spend the holidays with you, but there’s a stack of presents waiting in Price’s office. Your mugs have collected dust in the back of the rec room cabinet.

Laswell says you’re still deployed on one last mission, return TBD. Soon, though.

487 days. Still TBD. Soon. Really. Just some loose ends to tie up.

561 days. There was some trouble during exfil but you’re alright. Just a bit of recovery.

You’re coming home.

590 days. You’ll land at 0700 tomorrow.

It’s been 591 days since Simon last saw you. Since any of them last saw you.

Laswell has come to deliver you personally, a kind of apology for keeping you away so long. She’s the first off the transport and you’re right behind her.

Your hair is shorter. Much, much shorter. There’s a new patch on your jacket - memento from your temporary team, Simon figures.

Apart from that, you look… almost exactly how you did when you left. Dark circles under your eyes, mouth drawn and tight. There’s invisible weight compressing your shoulders, urging them in and down. But you’re there again. Just the way he remembers.

(Why are you the way he remembers?)

“Long time, no see,” Gaz calls, reaching for you.

There’s half a beat, you blink. Hesitate.

Then you grin and reach back.

“Missed my pretty face, did you?” you reply.

Johnny laughs and brings you in for a hug. You twitch hug him back, patting his shoulder as you pull away.

“Good to have you back, Sergeant,” Price says, shaking your hand.

You turn to Simon, nod in greeting, expression pleasant. “Ghost.”

So that’s how it’ll be? Alright.

“Sergeant.”

That night, you go out for drinks with the team and Laswell. Simon goes along to show there are no hard feelings.

(Not that you seem to need reassurance. It’s not even that you’re not looking at him. You are. Whenever he speaks, the rare times he does, or if he shifts in his seat. Your gaze doesn’t linger or jerk away, you treat him like you do Johnny and Gaz and Price.)

When Johnny mixes up your usual for Price’s, you don’t even seem to notice. But Simon does.

“When did you start drinking whiskey?” he wonders.

You used to swear you’d never like it, claiming it tasted like boot polish and the “Boys Club” wasn’t worth the indigestion it gave you.

“Someone from my other team,” you say by way of explanation.

You don’t ask for another whiskey. Laswell gets the rest of your drinks for that night.

Simon turns into the rec room two days later and finds you already there. There’s only the light above the sink on, and you’re staring at the steady drip, drip, drip from the faucet. A cup of black coffee cools in your hand. You’re already wearing gloves.

“Sugar’s in the left now,” he calls.

Your head twitches, something pops in your neck.

“Oh, thanks,” you chirp, turning for the cabinet. “Sleep okay, LT?”

“‘Bout as well as I ever do,” he replies gruffly, sidling up next to you for the kettle.

You hum. There’s a yellow packet in your hand. (Didn’t you used to like the blue one?)

“I get that,” you sympathize.

He snorts. Since when?

“Do you?”

When he glances down, you’re not looking at him. Instead, you’re trying (and failing) to get the sink to stop dripping.

“You know that’s been broken for ages,” he says.

At least as long as the 141 has been around. You tried to fix it once when you first joined up, too, with no luck.

“Right,” you say. A little too quickly, a little too agreeably. “Well, anyway, enjoy your tea, Lieutenant.”

You leave the packet of sugar behind. Unopened.

You’re back and it’s like it used to be - not just before you left, but before the breakup. Before there was ever anything to break up.

Your time away seems to have given you whatever space from Simon you were hoping for, because you act like there was never anything at all.

He’s half expecting, dreading, that you’ll pull him aside at some point. Ask for a word after dinner, or swing by his room before bed. Talk about the break up now that cooler heads prevail and 19 months have sanded down the rough feelings. Seek closure, maybe.

But you don’t. The weeks pass until a month has gone and you never exchange more than easy pleasantries with Simon. You give him space, give him privacy. Things you never used to give him much of before, for better or worse.

You fool around with Gaz and Johnny, trade quips with Price, and follow Simon’s orders. Train recruits. Write reports.

You’re back, better than ever.

So why does it feel like Simon’s still waiting for you to return?

You’re always dressed now, head to toe. Day or night, rain or shine. From the neck down you’re in full sleeves, long pants, boots and gloves.

It doesn’t occur to anyone until you’re sweating through your compression shirt in the gym. Wipe your shiny forehead for the dozenth time before Johnny says, “why not just take it off?”

“It’s not that bad,” you laugh, waving him off.

When you lie down to bench press, Simon notes the bottom of your shirt tucked tight into your waistband. He exchanges a glance with Johnny - he’s seen it too.

You used to dress in shorts and sports bras during exercise, a towel over your shoulder. In the common room, you’d mill in tank-tops and boxers. Even used to trot down the hall swaddled in a towel or robe, mumbling that you forgot a razor or some other toiletry before showering.

“What, did ye get an embarrassing tattoo or somethin’?” Johnny asks finally.

You blink at him, expression bemused. “A tattoo? Why do you think I have a tattoo?”

“Yer covered up like a nun on Sunday. It cannae be comfortable.”

You snort. “Just because you’re allergic to clothes, MacTavish…”

“Allergic?! Wha’s tha’ s’posed t’mean?!”

Gaz barks a laugh. You grin and continue your workout.

Simon tries not to be disturbed by the name “MacTavish” coming off your tongue for the first time since you met.

It’s your first mission since you’ve been back. You have new gear, a new handgun. Something’s been carved into the side of the barrel in Cyrillic, Simon can’t read it. A new callsign.

(“What kind of a name is Carry-on?” Johnny teases, but he doesn’t quite hide the unease in his eyes.

You snort and lace your boots tighter. The edge of you sleeve inches up, revealing the curve of a glossy scar that wasn’t there before.

“You’re one to talk Mister Maybelline.”)

Someone painted an upside down cross on the temple of your helmet with their finger. You thumb it before stuffing it over your head.

“You ready for this?” Gaz asks, knocking his knee into yours. The two of you have been paired together for this mission. (Was it Simon’s imagination, or did you look annoyed that you would have a partner?)

“Always,” you reply.

Simon doesn’t hear what happens, but Gaz looks shellshocked when you haul him into the helicopter during exfil. You shake him a bit once everything is secure and the bird’s in the air.

“Garrick,” you shout, “c’mon, where did he get you?”

It takes him a second but he blinks, offers his arm for your inspection. You move with a speed even Simon is impressed by, tearing into the nearby med kit almost viciously. Gaz is patched up in record time and you sit back with blood on your hands, barely even seem to notice as you wipe them carelessly on your pants.

(You used to be more squeamish, weren’t you? You used to be the last one they asked for medical care because seeing your teammates in pain made you nauseous.)

“What about you?” Gaz asks after a small eternity.

You yawn. “What about me?”

“You got nicked too, didn’t you?”

Simon takes a second look at you and now that Gaz mentions it, you’re soaked in blood. Wet patches on your vest, your pants, dripping down your boots. It takes him a moment to notice the tear in your thigh, shredded flesh visible when you rock with the wind turbulence.

“Did I?” you wonder, glancing down like you only just noticed it.

Johnny curses, reaches for you - but you wave him off.

“It’s just a scratch,” you reply. “Barely even feel it, no worries.”

Then why is it still bleeding?

When the team lands, you hop off the heli without so much as a wince. Droplets of blood lead all the way back to your room.

(When Simon asks Nikolai about the hand-etching on your gun, he says the word means “promise.”)

In the after-action report, your callsign isn’t “Carry-On.” It’s Carrion.

Laswell takes you off the mission two months later, a joint assignment with KorTac. They send three operators to work with TF141 - Stiletto, Konig, and Nikto.

On the transport to infil, Simon notices the Russian inspecting his handgun in a seat separated from the rest of the squad. He recognizes the Cyrillic carved into the barrel this time: Promise.

It’s an eerie, creeping suspicion. An anxious fog rolling in.

It’s not one single thing that trips an alarm in Simon’s head, but a steady collation of oddities over months. A single arhythmic beat, a note off key. Just once or twice, but over and over until he can’t notice anything else.

You act just like yourself except for all the minute ways you don’t.

You smile big and wide, sunshine bright, when they make a good joke. Your laugh is still the same, bubbling up in your throat, head thrown back. You smell the same when you pass Simon in the hall, shampoo and soap that’s haunted him for a year and a half.

It’s insidiously subtle; he can’t pinpoint what it is for the longest time. Your mannerisms are almost too practiced, the cadence of your voice too measured. A missing turn of phrase you often used, replaced by something unfamiliar.

Simon dismisses it as guilt-laden paranoia. The two of you ended on bad terms with a year and half worth of space between. He’s hardly one to gauge what’s normal for you anymore.

And besides, the few times someone else has noticed at those tiny yet all-too-obvious inconsistencies, you shrug it off as something you picked up while away.

But he catches Johnny’s brows furrow one afternoon as you light up a cig (after swearing for years that you’d never pick up the habit) and Simon knows he’s beginning to see it too.

“You ever notice,” Gaz begins slowly. You’re the only one missing from the rec room this evening, retired with a drawn-out yawn. “That Carrion always mentions being away, but never talks about it?”

Simon stills. Johnny’s eyes fly to Price, who’s grimly tapping at his crossword puzzle.

“The file’s redacted,” he says. He’s seen it too then, tried to investigate for himself.

“That’s normal for a mission like that,” Simon reasons carefully.

“I don’t mean the mission,” Price says. “I mean Carrion’s file.”

“This is a good movie,” you mumble from the armchair you’ve stolen from Price. “What’s it called?”

Simon exchanges glances with the rest of the team. No one points out that this is (used to be?) your favorite.

Price looks into the team you were loaned out to. All were KIA or remain MIA. All but one. His file has been scrubbed too, the only documents readable are discharge orders and a PMC contract, both associated with the callsign “Nikto.”

They’re running out of time.

Less than 36 hours on the clock with only one lead, and it’s a zealot with a suicide pact. Price and Laswell both took a crack at him with nothing to show for it. Even Ghost has gotten hardly anything and he’s running out of nails. With time, he might get something useful, but they don’t have much of that left.

In the anteroom looking into interrogation, you’ve been observing through the one-way glass with your hands in your pockets, head tilted, expression serene.

Price and Laswell are discussing strategy, contingencies. Gaz and Johnny are throwing in their two cents, but Simon… Simon is watching you.

Like medical, torture used to be your Achilles. You were trained like the rest of the team, but there was never any need for you to step into the room yourself. Hell, you were a last resort even for observation or emergency resuscitation. No one blamed you for having a weak stomach for information extraction.

But today, you glance over your shoulder and make eye contact with Laswell.

“I’ll handle it,” you say with an air of finality.

The room goes silent. Price opens his mouth, but it’s Laswell that speaks, voice hard with resignation.

“Do it.”

You don’t blink. “Yes, ma’am.”

You walk out the door without a backwards glance, shoulders loose but each step steady and purposeful.

“What the hell is going on, Kate?” Price demands.

Kate sighs, looks away as you enter the interrogation room.

“Let’s do this outside. It won’t take long to get that intel.”

The only thing she’s able to share is that you and your team were captured. For a long time. And then you’re already stepping out of the interrogation room, wiping your bloodied hands off on an old rag.

There’s an unusual glint in your eye, an unnatural stillness in your expression.

“Got what we need,” you announce cheerfully.

[gremlingottoosilly]

Sleepy reader that constantly uses König's clothes as blankets or pjs whenever they're sleeping or outright just climbs onto Konig lap or just tackle hug him just so they could sleep hugging the 6'10 Austrian Colonel for warmth

I hope she enjoys making her adorable boyfriend getting a painful boner instantly!! Because this is what she is doing to him! Seriously, she can't just get up to him and lay across his lap and then expect him not to be completely crushed by the understanding of how freaking beautiful she is!! So so so pretty, it's insane...he will guard you like a dog - not allowing you to move even for an inch, and especially not allowing anyone to wake you up. He knows better than to shout while you're sleeping on him so innocently, but he will glare at anyone passing buy, not allowing them to disturb your beauty sleep. He can't help but stare at you while you're asleep. Wearing his shirt, probably naked under it - you were never one to wear pants at home, in all senses...you even smell like him, and he just adores it. Every last second he sees you, he understands exactly how much he freaking loves you. How much you deserve to be loved - and exactly how he wants for this to be. He is pressing his head against your hair, smelling in the mix of his musk and your shampoo. Gets his hands under your shirt, not enough to really wake you up, of course not, he is a gentleman, but enough to make you shiver. He could even snap a few pictures! For his personal collection, obviously, he would never share it with anyone...but he does like to jerk off to those pics - even though there is nothing erotic about your droolling sleepy face. You're wearing Konig's tactical mask vets/shrouds as a blanket and he just fucking adores it. If anyone ever questions the fact you've been taking his equipment and you shouldn't do this, he would break their necks. No one will stand between him and his adorable precious gorgeous girl! She is so sleepy, he totally doesn't do anything weird with water you drink so you could be even more sleepy and helpless and reliant on him for everything...

[miguelhugger2099]

What a Man!

Summary: Your past experiences with other men had left you with scars. Scars that show in your lovely relationship with Miguel. Art by AndalusiaLu on twt <<Prev

Miguel x GN!Reader, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Drabble

It had been quite a few months since your relationship with Miguel had blossomed into something beautiful and real. He really was different from everyone else and you couldn’t be luckier. Miguel would often disagree, he thought he was the lucky one to end up with someone like you. Kind, intelligent and headstrong as well as so loving. You were the prettiest package to him. You tried your very best not to screw things up. You don’t know what you’d do if you said something or did something to make Miguel not want you anymore. So you remained diligent, making sure that Miguel was happy with you and that he stayed happy. Despite your best efforts to hide the ugly side of you, it managed to creep in the more you were with Miguel. It became harder to hide, slipping through the cracks of the facade you kept up. It started with him arriving home late. Miguel at some point had asked you to live with him, which you declined and eventually settled on visiting and having sleepovers at his place as a compromise. It was still technically early in the relationship. At first when he would come home late, you’d be worried sick wondering if this was good for his health or if he’d get home safely when he’s so tired. Miguel would trug through the door and you’d be at his side as soon as you heard the click. His tired eyes brightened seeing you, wrapping his arms around your waist and trying not to rest his entire body weight on you. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” He murmured in your hair, one arm around your waist and the other going around your shoulders. He breathed in the smell of your shampoo and lotion, his body nearly melting on top of you. You returned his hug with a tight squeeze, the worry in your heart subsiding and replaced with a warm feeling. “It’s okay. I wanted to stay up to see you.” You snuggled closer to his shoulder, his cologne gone after a hard day's work and only leaving a lingering smell along with his natural scent. “No, no, that’s not right. I don’t want you to get big ugly giant eyebags like me. You’re too gorgeous.” Miguel lifts his head up and stares down at you, sleepiness evident in his eyes but his will to see and feel you are stronger. You smile softly and reach up to cup his cheek which he leans into. “I think your eyebags add character.” You giggle and he chuckles along with you. “Really. I don’t mind.”

Miguel’s hands go down to squeeze your hips. “Well I mind. You deserve proper rest. C’mere, off to bed. I’ll join you in a bit.” He takes your hand in his larger one and leads you to his bedroom. What was once very plain and sleek now had little trinkets of your things around like your hairbrush, your favorite candles and a half empty water bottle. Hell, even a new blanket Miguel had bought you along with some extra clothes and pajamas. You practically lived here. After Miguel had washed up in the shower, he joined you in bed, collecting you in his arms and running his hands up and down your back. He asked you about your day, what you had done, what you bought with his credit card–none, you told him– and any other things he might’ve missed when he was off at work. While you listed things off, Miguel listened with an attentive small smile. He focused on the way your lips moved, how your eyes looked up at the walls in thought and how your hands played with his chest hairs. Before falling asleep, he promised one thing. “I’ll do my best to come back home to you.” To your demise, Miguel continued to come home late. Each time he'd come home late he would apologize in any way possible. In kisses, extra cuddling time even when he’s exhausted and showering you in gifts. None of it was enough when he was gone most days and you only got maybe an hour with him before falling asleep. He was one of the top geneticists in his field, most likely number one. He was bound to be busy and needed everywhere. He can’t help it, you told yourself. It’s a taxing job. He’s not doing this on purpose. So why does it leave a sour taste in your mouth? Why does it bother you so much?

You grew anxious. Why couldn’t he just ask for more days off? Why is he so busy? What was the point of him finding a partner when he’s just too occupied from his job? You began to feel alone. His kisses started to feel weak, cuddling time was cut short and the gifts meant nothing after each apology. You tried pushing those thoughts aside. You were acting spoiled. Miguel basically threw his money and love at you and you’re taking it for granted. How selfish can you be? He’d be furious to know you’re using him like this–taking his gifts and whining about it. What if he’s lying? What if the job is just an excuse? Was there someone else? Is that why he’s going to bed faster? A few pecks on the lips before he passes out? Oh, how could you think that of him? He’s been nothing but burned out and trying his best. What would he do if he knew what you were thinking? He can’t. He won’t. So you do what you know best: you shut down. Your inner emotions conflicted with one another. One berating you and the other trying to convince you. You sucked up all your spilling emotions when Miguel came home late again. You met him at the door like always but this time a little slower, more hesitant.

Miguel drops his bag by the door like usual, taking off his coat and placing it down on a chair seat before looking at you. Like always, his eyes brighten up and he brings you in his arms for a hug. He feels himself recharge with you in his embrace but you just feel uncomfortable. The weight of your thoughts and feelings rest heavy in your chest and you slowly wrap your arms around him, resting your head on his chest and hoping to feel some comfort again. “I’ve missed you so much.” You hear Miguel mumble. “I know I keep saying this but I’m really sorry for coming home so late these days. You know I’d rather be here than anywhere else.” “Yeah. I’m sure you do.” You mumble bluntly before slipping out of his arms. Miguel feels his heart drop and confusion overshadow his exhaustion. He watches your back afterwards and there’s nothing he hates more than seeing you walking away from him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He chases after you, walking behind you as you walk into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. “Nothing.” You sigh and it’s quiet between you two except for the tap water running and filling your glass. Miguel’s eyebrows furrow. He can feel something’s wrong with you but he doesn’t know what. Did someone say something to you? “What’s wrong? Did you have a bad day at work?” He crosses his arms and leans back on the counter next to you. He notices how you purposefully look away from him, settling on just sipping from your cup. “No.” “Did someone say something to you?” “No.” “Did I do something?” “No.” You said more quickly this time. “Then can you tell me what’s wrong?” Miguel reaches out his arm to try and turn your cheek to face him but you shrug off his touch.

“I said nothing, Miguel.” You feel yourself grow irritated. You wanted to spill but you knew it would only lead to bad things. You didn’t want to start an argument and have it spiral into more arguments that would inevitably ruin your relationship. You take a few steps away from him until you hear Miguel call your name sternly. You pause in your tracks and for a moment, there’s fear. Is he going to yell? Miguel had never yelled at you but you’ve been yelled at before when being…difficult like this. You felt your heart start picking up speed and you held onto your glass tightly. You hear him call your name again, softly this time, but you still hear it as yelling. Miguel touches your arm and you quickly flinch, turning around and taking a step back. You look up at him, an apology about to drop from your lips. “I’m sor–” Your breath hitches. “Did I do something wrong?” He repeats again. Oh, he noticed your tone. “No, I’m–I’m sorry.” Miguel’s eyes soften, a knowing look as he tilts his head and says your name gently, coaxing the truth out of you. “Talk to me, cariño.” He whispers, now both heads coming up to cup your cheeks. You don’t know what to do. It was a risk to talk about what was bothering you, even as small as him coming home late, but it meant a lot to you. You miss him. You take the risk with a shake of your hands. “I…You come home late,” You start off slowly and he waits patiently. “It’s too much for me. Well… maybe not too much, I know how hard you work but it–” You take a deep breath. “It’s not enough. I miss you. I want to see you for more than just a couple hours in the morning and at night. I just want you to be here and I’m sorry if that sounds clingy of me, but it’s how I feel.” You feel your chest tighten up and look down, unable to meet his eyes and failing to see his face crumble. Miguel takes the glass from your hands and places it beside you on the counter. “C’mere.” He whispers, bringing you in a hug again. “And you promised me so it just feels extra bad, y’know? I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You bury yourself in his arms. Miguel shushed you. “Don’t apologize. I should be the one apologizing.” “But you did–you have–” “And yet here we are. I made you cry.” You didn’t notice the way your tone got more nasally or how you hiccuped and sniffled–all of your tears getting soaked up by his collared shirt. “Are you mad?” You ask. Miguel pulls away to wipe away your tear stained cheeks.

“Jesus, no I’m not mad. How could I be mad at you?” You sniffle when his thumb swipes across your cheekbone. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” You shrugged. “You promised and I just…I dunno. I felt like it wasn’t my place to tell you to work less just because I felt lonely.” You try to look away but Miguel doesn’t let you. “I don’t know any other way to tell you this but you are equally as important as my job–maybe even more. You never mentioned that this was bothering you. I could’ve asked for less hours.” “I didn’t want you to get mad at me or think I’m spoiled.” “Baby, it’s my job to spoil you.” Miguel smiles and playfully pinches your cheeks, making you mutter a small ‘ow’ and grin. “I’ve just been taking so much time because everyone there looks at me for answers and advice and other bullshit so they make me oversee everything. But if you want me home, then I’ll come home. Just say the word and I’ll do anything you ask of me.” His tone is soft, as soft as it can be with his deep voice. “That’s a lot of power.” You joke. “It’s yours. I’m yours.” He leans his forehead on yours. “So you’re not mad?” “Not even a little.” “And you’re gonna be coming home earlier?” “Starting tomorrow.” Your smile widens. “Are you sure this is okay? I don’t want you doing things just because I said so.” Your smiles wavers and you slide your arms around his neck. Miguel leans down to pepper kisses along your cheeks, wanting to see you smile more. “Trust me, this is more than okay. A gift even! A couple less hours of work to spend time with the most beautiful, stunning, outstanding, and amazing person in the entire world.” With each compliment, he leaves a giant kiss to your cheeks, forehead, nose and even your chin.

The next day, Miguel comes home way earlier than usual, just when the sun is setting. With more energy than before, he picks you up in his arms and lifts you off the ground after dropping his things to the floor. He runs to the bedroom with you in a fit of laughter, the sound making his heart drum against his chest. He jumps in bed with you, his weight nearly crushing you but you still laugh anyway. “Stop! No outside clothes on the bed!” Miguel smothers you with his lips. “We can clean the sheets later. Let me finally spend time with you.”

[the-kr8tor]

May I have Bitter Orange in a ⭐ bottle please? The start of R and Hobie being handcuffed together before they turned, with R succumbing to the effects of the virus much faster than Hobie due to his spiderpowers, so for a bit he just watches his love become a husk of who they were before he too is a zombie?

*laughs evily* Yessss I've been waiting for a request exactly like this hwjsjwijsjaj hope you like it!

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 3.2k (whoops)

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), description of illness, TW blood, CW injury, TW death, zombie AU, Zombie apocalypse AU. Angst, Hurt/comfort

A prequel to this one shot

Katy's one year celebration 🎉

The air is nice and cool on your face as you walk hand in hand with Hobie in the barren street. There's rows upon rows of abandoned houses, all in different stages of decay from both scavengers trying to survive and time itself proving to be the worst enemy. But it's on your side for now for it has given you infinite time to be with him.

Hobie's hand is suddenly on your scarf, fingers gingerly sliding the fuzzy material up to your chin. He smiles at you, the sun blindingly light behind him. Despite the apocalypse, he still looks just as handsome. He has new shallow scars on his chin where a stubble is slowly growing, hair a bit of a mess but beautiful nonetheless. You've once told him after a lucky find of one whole pound of chocolate pudding that he's apocalypse chic, that he makes the end of the world look good. To which he laughed and shoved a spoonful of chocolate pudding in your mouth. Compared to him you probably look like a mess, you wouldn't know, you've ignored mirrors ever since you ran out of shampoo a few days ago.

“What are you thinkin' ‘bout, gorgeous?” He tugs you closer to him, the crowbar hanging from his backpack clinks against the machete next to it.

“That I really need shampoo, and that you look unfairly handsome in this light.”

Chuckling, he intertwined his fingers around your own. It could mean death for the both of you if the undead suddenly lunges and he doesn't have enough time to take his hand away from you. But he thinks it's alright for him to do, to indulge himself to your touch since the entire place is empty save for a few dead cars and scattered luggages left by people.

“You should see yourself in my eyes, lovie, the greasy hair is doin' a lot for me.”

“Oh yeah? You like it when you pat my head and you get petrol on your hand?”

“We need petrol, d’you think if I bunch up your hair and squeeze it I can collect the oil?”

You nudge him playfully, “you're an ass.”

“Yeah, well, you're stuck with this arse.”

Your mind goes back to your friends and family you've left behind. “Do you think they're okay?”

“'m sure they are, Yuri's got them, and they have Ned, he'll whip them into shape. ‘sides, we're almost at James’, if I was them I'd stay there.” He adjusts his hold on his pack and guitar. “We'll find them.”

You smile, nuzzling his bicep for his own reassurance, knowing that he also worries for them. “You're right. They're probably doing better than us.”

“Yeah,” he pecks the crown of your head. “They're living like kings, I bet.”

You two stop in front of a large house, complete with white marble steps and tall roman columns. “James' dad never had taste, huh?”

Hobie snorts, “his son took all of it. C’mon, then.” He leads you on the porch, trying the door, wishing that it was locked because if it is it means that someone's inside, that they're surviving and waiting for the two of you. To his despair, the door opens without a problem.

Hobie looks back at you having the same expression. “It's okay,” you try to be optimistic, “maybe they left a message for us.”

He nods, “yeah, maybe.” Crossing the abandoned space, he takes his guitar from his back to strum a tune. When he doesn't hear stumbling or any rattling from anywhere inside the house, he continues forward, but his guard is still up. “We might as well get some supplies while we're ‘ere.”

“Yeah, there might be some left in here.” You give him a small smile. “How about we split up? This place is too big, it'll take us forever to comb over this place.”

Hobie considers it for a moment. The place seems pristine except for the furniture and cabinets that are picked clean, so he deems it safe. “Okay, just…” you walk to his side, rubbing his arms, smiling sweetly at him even though he probably doesn't smell the best. “...keep your knife close.”

“I will keep my knife close,” you repeat his words, “and I'll stay alert.” Poking at his chest, you peck the frown off his lips. “And you keep safe.”

He's still apprehensive, but he knows you can hold your own. Taking your face in his hands, he kisses you fully, smooching until you're giggling. “We’ll meet back ‘ere in fifteen.”

“Aye, aye, Cap'n!” You mock salute. “Any special requests?”

“Chocolates.”

“I said a request, not wishful thinking.” You tease, he has an urge to kiss you again.

“Towels, the nice fluffy ones.” You slide your hands away from him, to which he already longs for.

“Got it! I bet James has a ton of them.” You wink, knife in hand, walking away from him.

Hobie watches your retreating back, tamping down his anxieties. He searches upstairs, grinning at James' familiar room. His posters and messy floors remain untouched, the bed still looking like it was tossed around by a tornado. He almost cries at the picture frame on the bedside table containing his band's smiling faces plus you who's embracing him.

Turning the frame around, he takes the picture and pockets it to show to you. After rummaging James' room, he takes a few shirts and pants for him and you. He even finds a pair of silk pajamas that he knows you'll love. A piercing scream echoes around the house, he immediately bolts downstairs, heavy footsteps thudding across marble floors.

You're on your back, fighting for your life while the undead on top of you tried to get a chunk out of you. It all stops when Hobie's guitar connects to the corpse's skull in a sickening crunch of metal and bone.

You scramble away, neck and arm in pain. Hobie's wide eyes meet yours just as when the back door bursts open, revealing a whole horde of the undead. Panicking, he yanks you up, holding your hand, running outside to more of the shambling dead.

“Fuck!”

“Hobie!”

“Just hold on!” His hand is tight around yours, you try to run at his pace, panic in your veins, adrenaline in his.

It feels like you've been running forever, Hobie sees an opening hidden in an alley. He can climb on his own without a ladder but you can't. So he leads you towards the empty alley while the rotten, decayed corpses of once human beings run after you at full speed.

Hobie jumps to take down an emergency ladder, without missing a beat, he grabs your waist and throws you on the ladder. You climb, but the pain in your arm gets worse so you're slower but you still try for him.

The undead finally gets to the alley, you don't dare to look down. Once you're on the rooftop, you peek below to see him struggling to get up the ladder, he's halfway with a handful of zombies dangling on his leg.

You scream his name but it's too late, one of the undead has bitten a chunk of his leg as he tries to kick the former human off the ladder where he's desperately trying to climb to. You wish he didn't run out of web fluid, you wish the world didn't end, you wish the throbbing pain on your arm is just muscle spasm, but the warm crimson seeping out of teeth marks says differently.

With a sickly crunch, the zombie falls down the ladder and into the rotten horde. Hobie climbs up quickly back to you, hands immediately grasping on to you.

“Did it get you?!” You yell, still in denial, frantically checking in hopes that his boot saved him. Your heart falls into your stomach at the sight of broken skin, blood staining your fingers where you hold the hem of his trousers away to get a better look. You're frozen on the spot, tears clinging to your lashes. “Hobie,” you gasp, taking off your scarf to make a makeshift tourniquet around and above the bite. “Fuck—!”

“You okay?!” He does the same to you, heaving, ripping off your sleeves like a madman trying to find the secrets hidden in your skin. He prays that he finds none. His eyes widen, terrified, broken hearted, shaking his head, refusing the fact that you're infected. “No,” he shakes his head again, closing the torn up cloth around the slowly rotting wound. “It's just a scratch, love, y-you’re not—”

“Hobie…” you smile bitterly, eyes mirroring his own. He rips the hem of his shirt, using the cloth to wrap it around your arm, just above the wound in an attempt to stop the spread. He ignores the stinging pain on his leg. “Hobie, stop, it's—”

“We can still stop it!” He yells desperately, tying the cloth tightly. “It's just a scratch.”

“Hobie, please.” You hold his trembling hands, “it has been ten minutes.” He refuses, you squeeze his hand weakly, the virus already taking hold. Slowly killing you. “And—” with trembling hands, you show him the gaping bite on your neck, oozing dark decaying blood. He choked on a sob. “B-but there's a chance for you, your abilities might've made you immune—”

“No, if you're goin’, ‘m goin’” He stands up, not giving up on you. “There's a chemist’s ‘ere, maybe if w-we…” he puts on a brave face amidst the impending doom and rotten flesh that stings his nose. “Maybe there's somethin’ there.” Hand reaching down, you smile up at him, orange and pink hues from the sky dancing around your face. “C-can you get up?” His voice breaks, chest heaving. “I can carry you. Don't make me carry you, love.”

You slide your hand onto his own. “Hobie,” your voice is soft above the mindless groaning below. His eyes beg you to move. So you do. “Okay,” with a single word, you bring him hope.

With divided effort, you both make it towards the roof of the pharmacy. He was uncharacteristically silent the whole way, but his hand never left yours. His eyes never met with your wounds that's slowly festering. You feel it inside you, the fever, the virus that's eating at you, spreading throughout your body, gnawing at every bit of your warmth like a seed taking root. Hobie feels it too, he's terrified that you're experiencing it too. It's his worst fears came to life only because he wasn't fast enough.

Opening the creaky door, he hopes that it's devoid of the undead. Like he's not on the brink of eating flesh, he does his usual prep. He strums his guitar softly to attract any walking corpses waiting behind doors, when none comes out, he cracks the door wider. With his torch, he lights up the way. But he doesn't feel your presence behind him.

Looking over his shoulder was a mistake, he finds you hunched over the doorway, groaning quietly, nails clawing at the throbbing wound around your neck. That's the moment he knew that you'd go out before him. For the first time, he curses his gifts.

Slowly, he crosses the distance towards you, shaking hands grasping your shoulders. You're warm, incredibly warm. “Love?” He could cry, but he doesn't want you to see his sorrow.

You sniff, tears streaming down your face from the pain and the tragedy of it all. You've accepted that you were infected, but not him, you'd take the virus from him too if you could. “I'm s-sorry, so fucking sorry. I should've—”

“Oi, none of that, yeah? You're gonna be fine.” He says it to convince himself. “You'll be back on your feet tomorrow and by then we'll see Yuri and the others.” Nodding, he takes you by your arm, careful of making your wounds worse. There's blood sticking to his clothes, seeping through his clammy skin. He hates the fact that it was yours. Bringing you behind the counter, you almost keep over. “I've got you, I've got you.” He says it against your temple like a prayer.

“H-Hobie.” You sob, salty tears marring your pretty face. “I can't— it hurts.” The gnawing feeling gets worse, as if a chainsaw is ripping you apart from the inside. “It's so hot, I–I can't breathe.”

“O-okay, I'll set you down ‘ere, get you comfortable. There's some fever meds over there. It'll help.” His hazel eyes pleads for anyone, anything that'll help you. He helps you sit down, and you immediately lie down on the cold tiles. “Do you want a blanket?”

“N-no,” you're hot and cold at the same time. “I don't know.” You look up at him, he sees the light in your eyes fading. “I don't feel so good, Hobs.”

Hobie could only look away from you, inhaling, exhaling but it doesn't feel like he's breathing right. He kneels down, setting his guitar next to you, palm placed on your forehead. “This is nothing, love.” He tries to smile, but fails. “Remember when you had the flu?” You nod weakly, “you were a fuckin' beast, you beat it on your own in just a few days.”

Even though you feel your heartbeat going faster and then slowing down in a weird rhythm like a heartbeat monitor going haywire, you smile for him. “I was, wasn't I?”

He rubs your bicep, under his touch, he feels your muscle twitch. “Yeah, you still are.”

You chuckle softly, tears sliding down your cheeks and into the cold tiles. “Okay, get me the meds.”

“That's my girl,” laying his forehead atop yours, he hopes that he'll take your pain away with the simple gesture, but it's futile. “I'll be back, I promise.”

“Don’t make me wait.”

Smiling, he squeezes your arm. “Never.” Standing up, he rummages through the entire place for the pills you need. Crouching down to check under the broken shelves, climbing up on the walls to get a bird's eye view, and all the while ignoring his own pain. It's slim pickings, but he manages to find a single bottle of tylenol that has rolled under a shelf, it's not enough, but it'll do.

With a victorious sigh, he quickly makes it to the counter, rounding the corner, he sees you wheezing, catching your breath and with blood leaking out from your eyes and ears. “No, no, no!” He takes you in his arms, making you sit up. “I've got the meds, love. Oi, open your eyes for me.” You crack one eye open tiredly. “That's it, good job.” He almost cries when you smile at him through the thick fog of illness.

“G-good job,” you murmur, he doesn't know if you're delirious or you're congratulating him for finding the medicine.

“Bottoms up.” He brings two pills to your mouth, to which you gladly take. Giving you his canteen, you drink most of it, downing the tepid water. “That's good, see, you're already gettin' better.”

You shake your head weakly, barely opening your eyes. “Thanks to you, Hobie.”

“Yeah, thanks to me.” He tries to joke but it comes out choked when blood still leaks out of your tear ducts. Sitting next to you, he now feels his temperature rise so he takes the same amount of pills as you.

You lay your head on his shoulder, hand shakily reaching towards his own. “I'm sorry.”

He almost breaks down at your apology. “Nothin' to apologize for, love.” Meeting your hand halfway, he intertwined his fingers with yours, you're cold now, frozen under his hold. “D’you want that blanket now?”

“Please,” you wheeze out.

Hobie obliges, taking a thick blanket from his pack and then draping it around you as if it'll protect you from the infection. “There, nice and cozy, eh?”

“Thank you,” he feels your crimson fall down on his collar. “For everything.”

“None of that, Y/N, please. None of that.”

“I still want to talk to you.” Your voice is soft and small. “I still want to stay with you.”

Hobie brings your intertwined hands to his lips, kissing each knuckle softly. “And we will be, after this—” a sob escapes from him. “After this, we'll be together, yeah? Just like how we talked about.”

“Forever and ever?”

His tears flow freely, “yeah, forever and ever.” After a beat of silence, he fears the worst. “Love?”

You cough, he sighs in relief. “Still here, Hobs, not leaving yet.”

“Not yet,” embracing you, he lays his chin atop your head, you're made comfortable in his hold. Home, you feel like you're back home in his houseboat, watching a shitty romcom while he rambles on about his patrol. You want to be back there again. He wants to be back there again. “Can I say somethin'?”

You hum into his chest, squeezing his hand tighter but your sickness, he barely felt it.

“I don't want to…” he could barely say it. “I don't want to kill you. ‘m sorry, I know we talked about it—”

You lean up, he's met with milky eyes, he knows you can barely see him now. “Then don't, I don't want you to—” you pause, clinging to humanity. “— to feel that before you go.”

Nodding, he kisses your forehead, crying, weeping into your skin. “I couldn't save you, ‘m so fuckin' sorry, love, ‘m so sorry.” He shakes, you gather enough strength to embrace him and bury yourself in his chest, letting his scent waft around you for comfort.

“Don't apologize, nothin' to apologize for.”

He sniffs, peppering your face with heavy weakened kisses. “Oi, don't use my own words against me.”

You smile against the rough leather of his jacket. “Can I say something?”

“Go,” he can practically see the countdown. “We have all the time in the world, love.” There's something warm leaking out of his eyes and ears. He's catching up to you.

You'd laugh but you can feel your life slipping through your fingers. “When we turn, I don't want us to be separated.”

“What do you propose?” He tries to inhale but he could only let out a sickening cough.

“Tie our hands together…really tight.” Your words fade away, but you still hold on.

“I've got rope here, I can do it now.”

“But I'll turn first, Hobie, I-I might—”

“It'll be my honour to be your first meal.”

“I'd laugh if we weren't dying right now.” Eyes too tired to open, you feel the rough rope around your wrist, and the unmistakable sound of a knot getting tied. You smile for the last time when you feel his fingers wrap around your own. “I love you.”

“How's that? Too tight?” He whispers close, he feels you slipping away, “Y/N? Love?” he breaks down when your hand falls limp around his own. “Not yet, please, not yet.” He holds you, rocking you back and forth like a babe needing to be held. Your heart doesn't beat in sync with his anymore. “C’mon, not yet, we still have to find the rest of the band, right?” His eyes cloud over, cold taking root inside his entire body. “Say somethin’, fuck!” He yells with all his might, “I love you, fuck, please wake up.”

Closing his eyes, he wraps you in what's left of his warmth. “Don't go, please.” Hobie pleads and cries until he can no longer breathe the same air as you. His last thoughts were of you.

[steviewashere]

I Am the Kiwi

Rating: General CW: None Apply! Tags: Post-Canon, Post Season 4, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Insecure Eddie Munson, Negative Self Talk, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington Calls Eddie Munson Pet Names, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson

🥝—————🥝

Maybe he shouldn’t bother their tentative relationship by asking insecure questions.

But that’s not how Eddie’s mind works. He’s never known peace unless there’s been an answer. If he senses the beginning of a question like the itchy fur of a kiwi on his tongue, he has to spit it out. And only then, even if the answer is bleak and even if the answer is negative, he’s at peace with it. He’ll just remember to cut the skin off later, taste the fruit for what it is, find something else about it to savor. Because not everything is sweet. And most of the world is bitter like the skin of that kiwi.

He peels the skin off, hair and all, offering it out to Steve to ponder. In the quiet space of his living room, surrounded by warm love in the shape of Wayne’s mug and hat collection, the five year old instruction manuals for appliances they don’t even have anymore, and amber lightbulbs stained with the broken limbs and melted corpses of stink bugs. Maybe he is an unfortunate bug, drawn to Steve’s light. Maybe he is willing to give himself, all of himself, the ugly parts and disgusting parts to something warm and savoring and bright inside Steve. He knows he is. He always has been.

In the quiet, Steve hot under his arm, droopy with fatigue, chuckling low at the sitcom on the television set, Eddie prickles with unanswered unease. He drags his rough palm down Steve’s soft right arm, fingernails dully scratching from mole to mole, pressing into his loose muscles. Eddie leans his head down, cheek laid atop Steve’s voluminous hair, and he breathes him in. Fruity sweetness, floral undertones, some sort of professional salon shampoo. He kisses tender.

“Why do you love somebody like me?” He breathes. And in the quiet, he startles himself, no matter how much that question begged to break free. Steve tenses in his hold, but Eddie can only force him in tighter. Fingers pressing harsh into his fatty parts. Nails mean and sharp and jagged. He buries himself farther into Steve’s beautiful hair.

His boyfriend is gorgeous. And he’s self-sufficient. Kind in a way Eddie seems to have forgotten to be. How can somebody like Steve love him?

Steve doesn’t answer right away. His breaths falter in the room. Like he’s trying to catch his breath after being scared in a haunted house. Maybe, if Eddie allows himself to marinate in it, maybe it’s exactly like that. There’s something rippling, haunted, venturing lonely and howling under Eddie’s skin. He thinks it started with his mom’s death, percolated when his dad went to prison, came full bloom like a crumpled flower on Wayne’s doorstep so many years ago. In a way, Steve is scared. Not scared of Eddie. Or the truth. But this third thing, of answering the question. Of finding the right words, to which Eddie knows he struggles with—so in all aspects, asking something partially insecure and partially selfish is demeaning. It’s, if Eddie thinks about it, challenging Steve’s love. 

There is no response, not yet. But what does fill between them is the live studio audience laughter. The laughter of people who probably didn’t find the joke particularly funny or even clever. They’re just there to laugh. To see behind the scenes of some TV show. To be recognized among the crowd.

Sitcom laughter. And Eddie refuses to let Steve see him.

He hears Steve take a tentative deep breath. The back of his hand touched by the softness of Steve’s palm. And he’s reminded, even in the simplest interactions such as this, that they come from two different worlds. Of all those biases he held onto for years. Unable to get over himself or get with the program. Steve is nothing of what Eddie thought. He’s a jock, sure. And he’s got the better life in some ways; nothing to really label him as other and a status that seems to override him, but it’s not negative. He isn’t a bully. He’s soft and kind and sweet and loving, not a douchebag. A good person. Where, sometimes, Eddie feels as though he lacks all the qualities that Steve seems to be plentiful in.

“Eddie—“

“No, sorry,” he apologizes immediately. His voice small and childlike. “Sorry, that’s not okay to ask. You love me and that needs to be enough.”

Then, Steve shifts. Pulling himself away, sitting on the edge of the cushion, turning to be face to face. And Eddie’s ashamed. He’s mad at himself, too. If the heartbreaking soft sadness in Steve’s eyes is anything. His little frown, pulling down his pretty lips and furrowing his eyebrows and making him wrinkle in all the bad ways. He tilts his head and peers at Eddie.

“I love you because I just do,” he murmurs, “I don’t know how to explain why I do. You’re unlike anybody I’ve ever loved.”

Eddie swallows, takes a breath, and asks, “In a good way or a bad way?”

Steve’s gaze softens. The sadness still lingering, but replaced by determination, even the lightest form of it. “Always in a good way,” he whispers. He reaches out, takes Eddie’s right hand in his left and squeezes. He’s so soft. “You know who you are. And you’re loud about it. I admire that about you.” He closes his eyes, thinking. When he’s gathered, his voice is enamored and murmuring, “And, baby, you’re gentle even if you don’t realize it. You know how and when to take care of the people around you. I’ve never—I’ve always been the one to do that in relationships. You make me feel…Complete.”

Eyes back on him, Eddie swallows most of this insecurity. “Really? You think I complete you?” He questions meekly.

Then, Steve nods, not even taking a moment to consider. Because he just knows. “Yeah,” he mutters, “I know we just started this whole…thing—“ he swings their tangled hands back and forth between them. Eddie chuckles, earning him the most earnest smile he’s probably ever seen. “But, I have a feeling that we’ve got something special. Plus, we’ve got all the free time in the world, y’know, now that it’s not ending. We’ll be okay. I love loving you.”

“I love loving you, too,” Eddie murmurs in turn. He brings his free hand up and brushes some stray strands of Steve’s hair back. Thumb tickling down his temple, swiping under his eye where it’s heavy and blue. “I’m sorry for doubting your love.”

“Honey,” Steve sighs. “It’s really okay. I get it, you know? Everybody has their insecurities. Hell, I have some deeply awful ones.” He leans into Eddie. His warmth radiating once more. Breath ghosting over his cheek, words soft, “I will always reassure you. Because I know you’d do the same for me.” And then, Steve presses a tacky, sweet kiss to his cheek. The tip of his nose crumpling with the soft plunge he gives into Eddie’s skin. He is cracked open raw and for once, instead of being turned away or shunned, somebody is there to enjoy him. Steve is there to savor. “You’re special,” he whispers, “my special one.”

Eddie can only melt in his hands. He’s content with this answer. Fulfilled.

This relationship may be new, but Eddie knows it’ll soon be something sacred. Like the sticky, sugary green insides of a ripe kiwi.

🥝—————🥝 Fun fact, I'm allergic to kiwis. Found this out after my tongue got itchy from the skin of a kiwi. That was a scarring thing to discover in the middle of my kindergarten snack time, tell you that much. Haven't had one since.

[hannahssimblr]

Her shoulders begin to shake with her sobs. “I hate this,” she says. “I hate all this bloody change all at once.”

“I know.”

Startled, we both look up as the patio door opens. Evie slips out. Perhaps she is looking for me, but she diverts her course and begins collecting the empty plates on the table instead. She goes back into the kitchen. 

“Fuck sake,” says Jen, swiping at her face like she could shove the tears back where they came from. “Here I am, crying at you, after Evie’s already cried at you, and who knows who else, Jesus Christ.”

“It’s alright. There’s a kind of sad, crying vibe in the air these days.”

She laughs. “Except you, right? You’ve not shed a tear.”

“I’ve cried,” I say mysteriously. “Just not tonight.”

“You will.”

“I don’t think so. To be honest, I’ve been feeling a bit numb in general.”

“Makes sense. I wish I was.”

“No, you don’t.”

She rests her head on my shoulder. It’s a familiar, specifically Jen kind of action, the feel of that soft, warm cheek through my t-shirt and the smell of her shampoo. This action is one she’s repeated a thousand times before, like when we watch a film, or when she’s tired, or sad, or wants to talk about her day, or read a book with me and comment on it without context. I know it will be the last time for a while. 

“I’ll miss you,” she says. “I think I’m going to miss all of this time in my life when it’s gone.”

“Nah, things will get better than this. Don’t hold these years up as the best you’ll ever have. That’s depressing.”

“Do you think we’ll romanticise our teens some time in the future? Whether we’ll think about how young and gorgeous we were, all the fun we had, and give absolutely anything to get it back?”

I chuckle. “No. I’ve hated this mess. There’s barely anything I’d like to preserve.”

“Except me.”

“Yeah, except you, exactly as you are. Obviously. I’d keep you in a glass jar if I could and take you all over the world in my bag.”

Evie crosses the kitchen window with another handful of bowls, and we both watch her slot them neatly into the dishwasher. “And her,” says Jen. “You’d keep her too.”

“Jen.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Of course not.”

“I think that if you had half a brain, you would.”

It’s true. This girl that I watch through the window, with whom I spent just a summer, has trusted me with her dreams. Those whispered to me in a parked, idling car. Her secrets, she revealed as we lay on the grass under a canopy of blossoming trees. There are parts of me only she has seen. I know that if the timing were different, and a girl like this would have me, I would build my world around her, but we’re too young, and by the time I met her, it was already much too late.

She flits around the kitchen until she’s cleared away the last dish, and then with idle hands, for one moment, she stands and stares out the window. I know she is looking for me, and won’t see me in the dark, yet I feel like there’s a frisson between us. It’s striking and strange. It’s some sort of knowing. We are watching one another with a stillness, like two animals of the same species spotting one another in the wild. 

Then she turns and is swallowed up by the darkened hallway behind her. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[90shetfield]

The Everyday Life of Kirk and Y/N

What is the routine like with Y/N and Kirk?

1988

The Everyday Life of Kirk and Y/N

5:30-6:30AM: Me and Kirk Love to cuddle for at least an hour before we get up. It's like an unspoken rule. He holds me tight all night as i feel his body heat creep up on me spooning me with so much love and adoration. His breath on the nape of my neck and his curly fluffy hair tickling my skin. If one of us gets up we whisper to each other sweet nothings praising each other before going back to cuddling. Sometimes the cuddling escalates to something more…

6:30-7:15AM: After we finally get up (which can be a struggle sometimes as Kirk loves to sleep in) we shower together. A lot of body worshiping and touching usually happens at this time, y'know being naked with your Fiance in close quarters makes this happen. He’ll shampoo my hair giving my scalp a much needed massage making sure to handle me with absolute care like I'm some dainty flower trying to preserve the poor petals. He usually hums a song or even a riff he's been writing in my ear. I bob my head along loving his voice. After the shower he still takes care of me brushing my hair and putting on my completion products for me.

7:45-8:30AM: This is when me and him eat breakfast. Its silent only the sounds of sipping and chewing can be heard with the occasional car passing. It's an enjoyable silence. I’ll sit next to him on the table leaning my head on his shoulder reading the comic books or magazines that he reads with him. He feeds me a piece of toast, tucking my hair behind my ear and kissing me on the cheek.

8:30-9:30AM: We get ready for our day together. Me and him take an hour to get our clothes on and out the door. I'll do my makeup while he walks in back and forth into the mirror's frame wondering where his jeans are despite them being right next to our bed (he checked them four times already) He kisses the top of my head, getting his jeans on telling me how gorgeous I am with or without makeup. I tend to borrow a lot of his clothes too like the band tee shirts and jackets, boy do i love wearing his jackets. If i'm not with him i have the jacket to remind me of my wonderful soon to be husband and that just warms my day no matter how bad i'm feeling.

10:00AM-2:00PM: when it's our errand day we take a long time just walking around exploring los angeles. Going to countless outlets and antique stores trying to find something that both plagues our interests. Me and Kirk both love classic horror movies and comic books, we have quite a collection already. If we see an item relating to any of this we get it displaying it in our collection. Days like this are rare though with him being a famous rockstar and all. He's so busy from this time with meeting and recording sessions so i cherish the time we spend alone everyday.

I remember him taking my hand running into this one store he found. The inside being filled with couples gifts and cards. He takes me straight to the chocolate section knowing how much i love it. (almost as much as him) He tells me to take my pick saying he’ll pay for it because he loves to see how happy it makes me. This is the sweetest man ever, I don't know what I'd do without Kirk Hammett in my life. It would be one boring life..

2:30-5:00PM: In our house we have our own little creativity room. One half of it is dedicated to painting and artistry something i take so much pride in. Ever since I was a little girl I would have such a love for scribbling something on a paper with a green crayon that it would somehow be classified as art? It lets all my creativity flow with a stroke of a brush or the ink flowing out of a ballpoint pen. The other side of the room is where Kirks guitars a music related things reside. The room is pretty big and I give him most of the space because Music is his actual career not his hobby but still. All of the guitars hung up on the wall securely, the mess of papers on the floor having musical notes with unreleased music attached. Next to it is a huge pile of multi-colored picks with all different textures and thicknesses to create a whole new sound. While I paint he’ll play the new things he's working on with his bandmates trying to perfect every last detail. Somedays James and Lars will show up to give him some encouragement and just to hang out. We’ll all just have a beer as black sabbath is blasting in the background from our old record player.

5:00-6:30PM: Dinner time! I do most of the cooking in the house. Kirk told me i never need to work a day in my life ever again, hell take care of me. I want to at least give him some stuff to fuel him up. He’ll cut veggies for me and put them into a soup or watch the pasta cook while i work on the sauce. After the food is done we tell eachother about our days. He listens at every single fucking work im  saying being so engaged. It makes me feel so loved

6:30-9:00PM: We just watch TV after a long day of painting or being a legitimate pioneer in your field. You get kind  of lazy. That's me and Kirk every day. We’ll sit on the couch seeing what's on the channels. I like to watch MTV. If a Metallica interview or song ever came on, Kirk would blush heavily and bury his head in arms being embarrassed at seeing himself. I chuckle stroking his hair until it's over. Then I'll check the news, it's good to keep up to date on the world  even if it turns to shit now and then. Kirk will get bored and change the channel to a horror movie that I haven't even heard of. It's always an enjoyable experience though watching a movie with the love of my life. He’ll grab a blanket and throw it on top of us, he puts his hand on my inner thigh under the blanket being sneaky even if no  one is here. 

9:15-11:00PM: we fall asleep on the couch as the movie still blears in the background. The subtle sound of his snores engulf the room. Taking a small little nap.

11:30PM: Kirk will softly nudge me telling me to wake up. My eyes slowly flutter awake and I yawn. Kirk looks down at me on the couch being way too comfortable to move. He gently picks me up into his arms bridal style, carrying me back into our bedroom. He places me onto our sheets with a gigantic sincere smile admiring my sleeping stature. I sit up ruffling my tangled hair yawning again just wanting to fall back asleep. Preferably in his warm embrace. He takes his shirt off discarding it on the dark hardwood floors he fidgets with his belt on his pants also taking it off. The rest of his clothing besides his underwear come off in room for a pair of black sweatpants still leaving his exposed chest for me to eye. He walks back over to me on the edge of the bed.

“Let me take care of you baby” He caresses my cheek helping me slip out of my clothes and into my pajamas. I'm still half asleep for all of it, my heart is still beating as fast as it did when we first met back at an early Metallica gig when they were still little itty bitty baby’s. I don't think Kill Em All even came out yet. Me and him just clicked, James would always make fun off us saying why dont we just fuck already. 

It wasn't until one day in early 1986 where he confessed his love under a bridge in New York, my birthplace. He gave me a necklace asking if i could be his other half. I cried so much that day, happy tears though telling him yes I wanted to be his stupid nerdy girlfriend. Now we’re engaged and ready to get married in late 1989 or early 1990. Time really does fly.

He climbs on top of the bed grabbing me holding me tight like he always does. He leans in, locking our lips together in a kiss that lasts an eternity. I tighten my grip on his bicep running out of breath, desperate for more. He stops the kiss only to kiss me with more ferocity and passion.

He covers us in our blanket once again touching our foreheads together keeping his hand on my face staring hearts into my eyes.

“God I love you so much Y/N” He kisses my forehead, shutting our light off.

11:45PM: Me and Kirk fall asleep in each others arms ready to start the next day together as one.

[lil-spider]

So Damn Pretty

Chapter 5

Part 4 : Part 6 :

Pairing: Johnny Slaughter X Female Reader

Summary: Johnny is sex starved and you’re very attractive, so attractive that he doesn’t want to kill you. Instead he finds ways to keep you around longer.

Note: My fav song when writing about Johnny.

Warning: This is 18+ and please do not read if your sensitive to heavy descriptions of non/con and violence. Including bondage, blood, gore, assault, objectification and unsafe sex. For those who don’t mind, I hope you enjoy.

I rise up groggily and stretch my tender muscles. "Johnny got some stuff from your van for ya'." She places a wooden box of stuff next to me on the bed. Looking in it, I find a collection of hygiene items, including hair brushes, underwear, clothing, and Jessica's beauty bag.

 

Jessica took it everywhere, even on the camping trip. It's all that I have left of her. "I took a few lipsticks from that bag; they were such pretty reds." Sissy tells me frankly. I’m upset she took them, but I don't want to quarrel with her; it's not worth it. I don’t know what she’s capable of.

"Have a shower, sugar, and meet me downstairs in the kitchen." She caresses my leg and saunters to the door. I wait till she leaves to grab my stuff. I slide the makeup bag underneath the bed, hidden away, so no one else steals from it. I’ll find a better hiding spot for it later.

 

I grabbed some of my fresh clothes, which include a pair of denim shorts and a yellow knit tank top. I head to the shower after picking up some travel-sized shampoos and conditioners as well as a body wash with a pleasant scent. I'm so eager to get refreshed.

I lock the door behind me as I use the restroom. I take off my dress, put it in a basket of dirty clothes by the door, and get into the hot shower. Scrubbing my body and hair made me feel as though I were trying to erase the previous days and start over.

 

Rising the soap, I feel much better, finally smelling like my old self. Squeezing all the water out of my hair, I decided not to use the towels, as I doubt they were clean. Uncomfortably, I put my clothes on while damp. Thankfully, it’s a hot day, so I won’t take long to dry.

I go back to my room to grab some old sandals from my box of belongings and walk downstairs. Entering the kitchen, I find Sissy making eggs and bacon for breakfast.

She grins at me. "Oh, pumpkin, you look lovely," she says examining me. "So do you." I respond, noticing she is wearing a short dress with dark red and white polka dots. She gives me another of her gorgeous grins.

"Thank you very much, sugar; this is one of my favourites." She does a little spin, showing the rest of her dress.

We cook breakfast together while conversing, and she tells me about our chores for today.

Repeating what I did yesterday, I prepared the table as Sissy plated the food. As usual, she rings the bell while I take a seat, waiting for the family to arrive. They seem to be normal—except for the killing and eating people—that's not so normal, but other then that they treat each other like every other family.

During breakfast I keep looking at Johnny. Every time I do, I get these butterflies in my stomach. Even though he’s dressed in his typical ensemble of a black shirt and denim pants, he looks so damn fine.

His hair is currently not styled, letting it frame his face. I want to glide my hands over those dark locks of his. Shit, he looks good like that.

I watch him with hungry eyes as he leaves the dining room first, returning to whatever he was doing.

As the others finish, Bubba descends to that dreadful basement. Nubbins was the last person to go as Mr. Sawyer headed out to open the gas station.

Nubbins mumbles something about wanting head cheese next time, and he scatters off up the stairs. Ew, what the fuck is head cheese? As soon as he departed, Sissy and I got to cleaning.

Finishing up, Sissy shows me the rest of the house and what other chores that need to be done. Right now, we’ve got a whole lot of laundry.

As we start on at least two baskets worth of dirty clothes, Johnny shows up. His hair now back to his usual style. He waltzes up, wrapping his arm around my waist and leading me off to who knows where.

“I’m going to take her around the property!" He yells back to Sissy while we walk away.

We step outside to the side-yard, which has a lovely field of gorgeous sunflowers, a collection of old abandoned cars, and a tool shed.

“Avoid wandering through the fields, Nubbins has set up some strange traps there.” He provides more details about the areas I'm not permitted to visit.

Guiding me around the vast estate he points over to the tool shed. “I'm generally out here, if you ever need to find me."

We stopped walking, now near a workbench underneath some shade across from the car graveyard. “I really like the sunflowers.” I tell him bashfully, glancing over at the flowers. He has a charming smile on his face as he puts his hands on my hips, facing me. “Do you now?” He smirks as I nod my head.

He moves closer to my ear. “Do you also enjoy eye-fucking me?” I stared wide eyed at him, embarrassed at being caught.

I thought I was being discrete during breakfast.

He holds my hips tightly. “I bet your pretty pussy is aching for me." He states picking me up and placing me on the workbench.

“And wearing such cute clothes, showing off this body to tease me, huh?” He slides his hand down my sides to the end of my shorts, tugging it off along with my underwear. "Johnny, what if someone catches us?" I ask him, worried his family might see.

“Don’t worry. Just focus on me.” He says annoyed, continuing to undress me.

I lift my hips up, letting him pull down my shorts and toss them to the ground. He skims his hands over to my chest and pushes me back. Getting me to lay flat against the bench, my legs hanging off the edge.

We're about to fuck outside in the middle of the day, I really hope no one sees us.

Johnny grabs my legs, placing them over his large shoulders, spreading them. He stares down unshamefully at my bare cunt.

"Such a wet, slutty pussy.” He smirks, taking pleasure in my embarrassment.

He squats downward, pushing my legs further apart, and presses his mouth on me. Eating me out in broad daylight.

He rubs his hot tongue over me. I close my eyes and rest my head on the bench.

I let out whimpering moans as he licks my cunt, teasingly avoiding my clit. His groans vibrate my poor, neglected nub. I move my hips while holding onto the end of the bench, attempting to direct his lips towards my clit for relief.

"Please suck my clit, Johnny!" I chuck my dignity aside and pleadingly grind against his mouth.

While he plays with me, he keeps a grip tight on my thighs. He leaves his tongue flat against my clit. I sit up, grab his head in frustration, and grind on his face erotically attempting to move his tongue against me.

“Please, lick my clit! I need you!” I pant out.

"Demanding little slut." He chuckles, pushing up my shirt and exposing my chest. I let out heavy breaths as he gropes them, giving my chest a hard squeeze, pinching and flicking my nipples while I continue my pleas.

I place my hands over his as he toys with my tits. I thrust my hips and keep my legs open as he goes back down on me. He kneads my chest while finally licking my little clit in sloppy circles. I gasp and moan out loud, holding his veiny hands harder.

I glance at the man between my legs and found him staring back. His eyes are observing me like a predator as he devours his prey. He’s so intense yet alluring. He leaves soft kisses on my clit as we stare at each other.

"Nnnh." I whimper, now slowly shoving his tongue into my pussy, rubbing my clit with his nose.

He takes his sweet time, savouring me. I tremble as I feel his tongue slide against my walls.

Just as I get close, he pulls away. He stands up and shoves me harshly back against the table again.

I watch as he drops his jeans; his hard cock bounces upwards, pre-cum dripping from his swollen head. He gives it a few pumps before pushing my legs back, holding them to my chest.

“Don’t you dare resist me. Keep em’ open.” He instructs. I head to his words, holding the back of my calves to my chest. He starts tapping the tip of his cock against my clit. “That’s my good girl.”

Now he’s dragging his heavy cock downwards to my hole, wetting it in the process.

Johnny pushes inside me very slowly. “Fuck baby, take my cock." He grunts, watching my cunt suck in his hard dick. I dig my nails into the back of my legs while he stays still.

He does a few agonising slow thrusts, and I moan at the sensation.

“You love this, don't you?" He mocks. I cry out a yes, agreeing with him.

Johnny grabs my calves, placing them over his shoulders while holding my thighs for leverage; He starts his brutal pounding.

I'm cupping my tits as they bounce roughly from his pace. The poor bench sounds like it’s about to collapse.

He‘s fucking like a wild beast that’s been starving for pussy. “Mine, mine, mine.” He grunts out, placing a hand over my mouth to muffle my loud moans.

Wanting it more intense he removes my legs off his shoulders and pulls his cock from my drenched hole.

He turns me over on my stomach, grabbing my hips, bringing them back, so I’m standing doggy style.

I gasp as he monovers his cock back into my pussy. I spill whiny moans as he thrusts in from a new angle.

"Come on, Darlin, give me a baby." He groans as he aggressively fucks me; I cry out a yes as his cock keeps hitting my sweet spot.

He’s turning me into a drooling moaning mess. His hard fucking makes my tits swing while his hips and abs are slamming into my ass. "I'm gonna fill ya full!"

He smacks my ass hard, watching the fat recoil. He growls, gripping my ass in an attempt to get a better hold on me.

He's displaying his strength by supporting my weak lower body while maintaining his speed. Before I could finish, he slows down. I whinge pushing back against him.

Cooing at me he reaches an arm around my waist. Putting a thick finger on my clit, rubbing it in circles.

Just shy of my peak, I ask him permission to orgasm. "May I cum on your cock, Johnny?"

"Yeah, sweetheart, release yourself, baby; come, you can do it.” He says breathless, picking up his original pace. I cum right there. My legs shake as I leave a mess on his cock.

He grunts, cumming right after me. Shoving his cock deep, drowning my insides with his hot cum.

We both pant heavy. I squeal as he thrusts his cock more deeply. He chuckles and slides out.

I feel his hot cum dribble over my clit. I rest my head on my arms, trying to compose myself. He holds my hips, muttering as he watches his cum drizzle out of my pussy.

“Fuck.” He moans out, turned on from the sight. Johnny goes back down on me. Using his tongue to clean me up.

I gasp and wriggle, super sensitive. He holds my hips still, eating me out from behind. I try to fight, but he's too strong. Holding my legs apart. I cry out for him to stop, but he just licks my tender clit faster.

He drags his tongue up, pushing his cum back inside me while rubbing my nub up and down with his thumb.

I bite my lip getting closer to another orgasm, humping his tongue and thumb.

I'm gasping, cumming again, hot tears rolling down my face. He shoves his tongue into my entrance sucking up my juices. “No more!” I cry squeezing my legs.

But he still doesn’t listen now tongue fucking me.

Once he's done, he stands back up, turns me around, and kisses me. I taste our flavours. I whine into the kiss, and he grips my ass hard, smacking it.

“The tour is now over, darlin'; better get back to your chores.” He says this with a cheeky grin, letting me go to putting his jeans back on.

He gives me a smirk at my dishevelled appearance and turns around, walking back to the house.

I fumble putting my shoes and shorts back on. I struggle to catch up to him on wobbly legs. Walking beside him, he takes a cigarette and lighter out of his back pocket.

He puts an arm around my waist and lights the cig in his mouth. Smoking it while we head back to the house. God help me, I think I’m in love.

[iwouldn-tdothatifiwereyou]

Sleepy Fun (18+)

FRANK IERO x FTM!READER

SUMMARY: Frank and Y/N are sleeping in the same bed, and Y/N wakes up to Frank ✨jacking off.✨

WORD COUNT: ~1.8K

————

It was late already, music playing quietly in the background. Y/N was in the shower after a super duper ultra hella mega long day at school. He didn't really know where Frank was at this point, but he could assume that his boyfriend was at the very least in the apartment.

Y/N sang along to the words, eyes scrunching up as he lathered shampoo in his hair, knitting his fingers into his scalp.

He smoothed his hair down as he let the shampoo be washed out by the high-pressure shower, occasionally running his fingers through the locks to make them stick up at funny angles because it felt good.

Eventually the man had to turn off the shower head, because they couldn't afford for him to be taking forty-five minute showers. So he counted to three, and on three (not after three) he turned the faucet off. Cold immediately swarmed into the shower and bit at his entire body. He shivered, quickly stepping out and groping around for the towel while trying to stay on the mat placed in front of the shower. A bit of a feat considering how short he was and how far away the towel was, but he managed.

He dried off, carefully patting down the still-healing scars on his chest before going to swipe the towel down the rest of his stomach to collect the water beading down the skin. Carefully avoiding looking at that one part of his body, he continued to dry himself off. He went back up to his hair eventually, scrubbing the fabric through the locks and then drying off his shoulders one last time. He didn't bother to brush his hair down before stepping out of the bathroom.

The air was even colder outside in the hallway, so he waddled, with the towel under his armpits to keep it up, to the bedroom that he shared with Frank to get dressed.

Frank looked up at him as he opened the door, eyes lighting up and face stretching into a fond smile. "Hey, love. Good shower?" he asked. He made grabby hands at Y/N when he walked across the room towards the closet.

"Yeah, give me a minute." Y/N threw over his shoulder as he ruffled through the t-shirts hung up to find one to wear to bed. He settled contently on a Slipknot shirt that Frank had managed to catch for him when they had gone to one of the band's concerts back in 2018. He dropped the towel, completely naked with the door open, to slip the shirt over his head.

"Nice ass," Frank teased. Y/N blushed slightly, despite being used to compliments like that and also being used to getting dressed and undressed in front of his boyfriend. The shirt went down to mid-thigh, so he didn't exactly care to bother putting on boxers.

So he tip-toed back to bed and fell fully onto Frank's body, wrapping his arms around the middle of the man's torso. He scooted his legs to where they were bent under him and his butt was more or less up in the air, wiggling it teasingly but content with any outcome.

Frank moved his head so his mouth was right next to Y/N's ear. "You're so gorgeous," he mumbled. Y/N hummed happily at the praise. They stayed like that for several minutes, the music still playing in the background.

"Well, it's late baby. We should get some sleep." As Frank turned his body, his clothed dick brushed against Y/N's thigh. The man hummed quietly but didn't make any move to do it again, instead just hugging his boyfriend closer and rubbing his back through the t-shirt. They tangled their legs together.

Y/N fell asleep like that, dreaming of nothing.

But then he woke up. He wasn't sure what had woken him up until he heard something familiar. A gust of air right next to him, like a labored breath. He opened his eyes, rubbing the sleep from them. In the dark, it was difficult to see, but there was light coming from the hallway where a night light was plugged into the wall, and an outline of a hand moving back and forth caught his eye.

"Frankie?" he whispered, stomach swooping as his boyfriend's face turned towards him. "Are you..."

"Oh, baby, I didn't mean to wake you up. I'm sorry. I just..." he began. He paused. "I'll go finish in the bathroom." But Y/N's stomach had already begun to fill with familiar butterflies and his arms started to tremble with excitement.

"No... wan' help," he stated sleepily.

"Sugar, you're half-asleep," Frank protested, but Y/N's body was already shifting to hover over him.

"C'you kiss me?" he asked, voice slowly losing the tired rumble that he usually had just after waking up.

"Are you sure?" Y/N nodded, before realizing that he probably couldn't see him, and vocalized his consent instead. "Okay." Frank leaned up as Y/N leaned down, both of them tilting their heads opposite ways. His lips were as soft as ever, and the stubble on his face left this delicious tingling in Y/N's mouth. It started out as just lips moving gently against each other, but eventually a hand slick with pre-cum came up to rest on the side of his face and the kiss became harder, more needy. A tongue slipped into his mouth and he didn't even attempt to fight for dominance, basking in the heady warmth of being dominated.

"Baby, baby," Frank gasped as he pulled away. "My prettiest boy, can you lay down for me?" His breathing was a little ragged at this point and his thoughts were clouded in a shy type of lust, but he understood vaguely what Frank wanted from him, and so he complied. He rolled onto his back and bent his knees slightly.

Expecting a cock, he was surprised when his boyfriend crawled down to the bottom of the bed and grabbed onto his thighs, face between his legs. "Gonna eat you out, sweetheart," he whispered as his breath ghosted over Y/N's cunt. His teeth grazed against the clit as he spoke, and Y/N whimpered, eyes going half-lidded, but he wanted to watch, so he forced them to open.

Frank's tongue darted out of his mouth to swipe along the labia, making Y/N's legs shake for a moment. He pulled his tongue back, leaning in closer, nose buried in the pubic hair there. His tongue once again pushed out from his mouth, this time pressing all the way into Y/N's quickly softening cunt. He mewled, voice cracking in a way that it wouldn't have even a year ago.

Frank's tongue twisted as it fucked in and out, slowly but powerfully, dragging against Y/N's walls. Spit was beginning to dribble down the length of Y/N's labia and he shivered. "Please..."he whispered, not quite sure what he wanted but needed to voice whatever thoughts he could piece together. Frank liked when he did that.

The tongue was gone and Frank's head lifted a little bit. "Gonna finger you..." He went back down, a hand now gone from one of Y/N's thighs, and a calloused finger pressed in along with Frank's tongue. He pressed the tip of his finger into the walls of Y/N's vagina in a way that made the man's stomach curl delightfully. He felt in the moment like this was what Frank's fingers were meant to do, even more so when another finger slid in alongside the first. The drag felt so good.

He kept sliding them in and out at a painfully slow pace, for minutes and minutes, sweet gods, how long was he going to keep up? If Frank kept taking his tongue out to nip at his clit, he was not going to last much longer.

And that's exactly what Frank did, pulling little moans and choked pleas out of his boyfriend's mouth until he came with a shudder that strung out his whole body and curled his toes. He tongue-fucked him through the orgasm, pressing one last kiss to the opening before pulling away, stubble grazing along the sensitive skin and making Y/N shake again.

"Can I..." Frank's cock was still out and hard, swollen and deep red. Y/N shook his head as he sat up on jelly-like knees.

"My turn," he mumbled, pushing Frank backwards, hearing the man's body thud against the bed.

Y/N had only done this a few times, being shy and unsure of himself, but he was determined to get his boyfriend off this time. He pressed a butterfly kiss to the tip of Frank's length, and another, and another. "Baby, don't tease." Frank's voice was ragged and low.

Y/N huffed out a laugh, loving the control he had over the current situation. He rubbed the side of his face along Frank's cock before going back to take the tip of it in his mouth, tonguing at the slit of it and sucking gently. His boyfriend groaned.

He pulled more of it into his mouth, halfway down now, swallowing again as he continued to suck, harder now, remembering the tips that Frank had given him over the course of time since they had begun their sexual adventures together. His fingers traced mindlessly along the insides of Frank's thighs as he continued to suck, tongue running along the underside of his cock.

Y/N continued to inch deeper until he was almost struggling to breathe, and then he let himself relax as much as he could. He brought his hand up to Frank's, fisted in the quilt, and tugged on it, placing it on his head when the fist uncurled. "Fuck, love. Love this, so good, you're so good," he muttered as his hand carded through Y/N's hair, tugging gently on it but careful not to do so too harshly.

"Gonna cum, fuck, fuck, fuck—" Frank's hips bucked slightly, making Y/N gag and tears form in the corners of his eyes, but he stayed where he was, swallowing down the warm spend that Frank released. Frank's hand trembled where it was tangled in his boyfriend's hair. Y/N hummed as Frank's orgasm came to an end, coming off of his softening cock and crawling upwards to rest his head on the other's shoulder.

"Thank you, pretty," Frank panted in Y/N's ear, and his stomach fluttered again. "Now let's get back to bed."

———

I have several several fics that I have prepared to post bc I’ve been writing for a while and my bf just recently suggested for me to post them on here. Hope you enjoyed!

[overleftdown]

angsty farleigh start blurb

hello hi fanfiction! mostly character study with a lot of sad hehehah. what else would one expect from me!

There are things that Farliegh took for granted. 3 months after leaving Saltburn, he realizes that money isn't really one of them.

Instead, he finds himself folded over a mug of lukewarm coffee at 2am, staring down a collection of postcards mounted on the far wall of his local diner. He had just finished working a double, unwilling to decline an offer that would bump both his pay and reputation. Farleigh has 8 hours until his next shift. He's staring at a postcard from Greece, a name hastily penned onto the front; the edges are worn, and the corners bent. He's wondering what's written on the side pressed to the yellowing popcorn walls. Almost absentmindedly, he lifts the rim of his mug to his lips and thinks, I wish I told them how much I wanted to see Mykonos. The coffee is bitter.

It becomes a constant, after that. Walking through the American snack isle and passing his favorite cereal brand, thinking I wish I had told them how good Reece's Puffs were. Catching the eye of a boy around his age with a piercing through his left nostril, thinking I wish I told Felix to get that one. Going, alone, to a movie theater and thinking I wish I told Venetia that I loved Rocky Horror Picture Show. On and on it went. 

I wish I told them I saw the Grand Canyon, and that it was so gorgeous I lost my breath. I wish I told them that I always preferred white wine over red. I wish I told them that my silk bedding was so my hair wouldn't dry out, tangle, or tear. I wish I told them about the friendship bracelets I once made for us; that I kept all three in a box under my bed. I wish I told them I was scared of being insignificant.  I wish I told them that I missed my mom and dad, that I'm farther from myself every day, that I might hate myself despite my arrogance. 

Farleigh has spent his life hiding. There were dinner party invites that didn't extend to his father, yet somehow included him. Farleigh remembers sitting secluded, for once wishing he kept his hair short. Older women who wanted so badly to be young, gravitating towards him with greetings like "You're Frederica's son! I always wondered what you'd look like. I never expected a handsome young man like yourself." And the men; rough yet unworn hands that sometimes gripped the nape of his neck. "You're unique, Farleigh. It's hard to find someone who looks quite like you. You're maturing quickly." On and on it went. Despite the itching, Farleigh never cut his hair short. The Cattons would ask him why he insisted on such messiness, contrary his otherwise sharp fashion. Silk pillowcases. Five shampoo bottles, an array of hair creams--all kept out of eyesight. Better to let them believe his hair was a casual affair, and intentionally so.

The cocaine had been the least of his hidings (and look where that landed him). People are always sequestering the sunburnt, raw-rubbed, defective pieces of themselves. The things they so desperately clung to, bad habits like a bright red blemish on a ledger, or a lifeline. The first time Farleigh saw the inside of a teacher's lounge had been 30 minutes past the final bell, with a head of tangled hair that he had styled perfectly just 7 hours ago. He remembers accepting the offered cup of tea and thinking Felix won't notice I'm gone. He had told Felix what he did that evening, anyways. This, Farleigh had never thought to hide. Better not to. Better to tell Felix, who was so prone to flippancy, that he would do anything for a good grade. 

"What, you're that shit at school, mate? Jesus. You better not tell anyone; you'd get ousted in days." Felix had said, a painful looking blush to his face. They had only been 16, after all. "I mean, seriously! I never took you for a pillock." At that, Farleigh had raised his eyebrows skeptically. There are some things that were abundantly clear. Uncle James had insisted that Farleigh required a higher education than whatever American dumpster he would be learning his times tables in, and the rest of the Cattons had quickly glued themselves to the idea. They liked to think that they were saving him from stupidity.

In the end, it had been Felix who told someone Farleigh's secret. Namely, his new friend that had been sitting in Farleigh's seat for the last 2 weeks. After countless meetings and scoldings, and significant attempts to publicly humiliate him, Farleigh was sent back to Saltburn before his transfer. When Elspeth and James asked, frantically, what Farleigh had been thinking, he had told them that he needed a better grade. They'd just have to try harder to save him. In truth, there were some things that never really went away, like a teachers lounge and a fresh cup of tea. Something secret, something just for him.

The things that Farleigh insisted on hiding were good things, already half-stained by the bad. A family photo album inside of a shoebox inside of a pillowcase inside of a duffel bag under his bed, next to the ornate little chest where he obviously kept his drugs. Photo strips, polaroids from New York City, his mom's peach scented powder blush, his dad's discarded tie clip. If you keep what really matters just far enough to the side of what people consider a secret, they'll never look any harder. Farleigh has always believed that your worst mistakes only marginally define your humanity. Really, it's what someone loves, isn't it? It's who they would change for. It's who they would make bracelets for. 

Back to the diner, back to the present, back to a time and place where nobody really cared to distinguish a secret from a statement. Back to the postcard from Greece that Farleigh wants to rip off the wall, just to read what is obscured. Saltburn was so large of a life that it was impossibly surreal, too many millions of dollars past tangibility. Whatever was written on that postcard was touchable. A small piece of an even smaller existence. Farleigh was terrified of what it meant to be alive. To stash pieces of himself in dark places like stowaways on the Titanic. To carry what was left after the rest capsized.  

I wish I'd given them those bracelets. I made them so they'd think of me, even when I wasn't there. 

[iheartchv]

Hiii, i’ve seen your match ups before but just realized that i wasn’t following, ugh! But anyways, i came here asking for a match up of a call of duty character, if you have time of course. So little about me: Im a little bit of a nerd so i do well in school and i care a lot about it. I also have like “weird” hobbies, i collect animal bones and i collect old books. I listen to mainly goth music but with some metal and rock on the side and my favorite artists are : Type O Negative, Ghost, The Cure, London after Midnight.

About how i look. I have long dyed blonde hair with extremely dark makeup usually. I also have facial piercings and i in the future i want to get tattoos but only a couple. I mostly only have black clothes but my favorite color is actually a very muted dark blue.

Soo thank you in advance and have a grand day!! -Noora💗

🤔 I match you with...

Simon "Ghost" Riley 💀

I think Ghost would fall for you

Ofc it takes a bit of time but he would be smitten with you

He feels something there between you two

One of your "weird" hobbies, he doesn't find them weird at all

Others might find it morbid

But hey, Ghost's got a dark sense of humor so he doesn't mind it at all

And there's nothing wrong with collecting old books

He'd like to read them if you'd let him

Loves your taste in music

You'd probably catch him tapping his foot to the music when he's reading something

Your looks...

Surely you must've been someone divine

He finds you to be otherworldly in a good way

In his eyes, you're such a gorgeous creature to ever walk the earth

He'd gently as possible play with the ends of your hair...

Just to feel is its soft as he imagined

It is.

Then he'd start to run his fingers through them, stirring the scent of your shampoo

You always smell so good its addicting to him

Ghost's love gifts, I think, are physical touch ofc, and acts of service

Hug him, lay your head on his chest/shoulder

Let him know that you're there, and that you're real

"I used to not believe in angels, that they weren't real... but I think do now"

He'd call you his angel/angel of the night, whichever he's in the mood for

[wandafiction]

French Braids - Just Us Chapter 49

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2221

Series List | Chapter 48 | Chapter 50

================================

I lean against the bathroom door, as I watch Wanda just relaxing with her eyes closed, her hands resting on the sides of the tub. As to not scare her, I gently knock on the door smiling at her when her eyes flutter open and she tilts her head to the side to look at me. She lifts her right hand up making grabby hands, this woman and her grabby hands, so I hold out my hand taking hers in mine as I kneel down on the floor next to the bathtub. I interlock our fingers, using my other hand to wipe some stray hairs from her forehead as her eyes search mine. 

"Hi princess. You feeling okay?" A soft smile pulls at Wanda's lips as she relaxes more, her body sliding down into the water a little bit. 

"Perfect. Thank you dorogoy." Her voice cracks cutely as she tries to whisper, keeping the calm atmosphere.

"You washed your hair yet?" I ask, noticing that half of it is in the water floating around her shoulders. 

"Not yet." I weave my hand through her red looks that I absolutely love. 

"Can I wash it for you?" Wanda gives me a fuzzy smile, nodding her head. "What shampoo do you use?" 

"The essential oils one. The conditioner is next to it." I look at the small collection of shampoos and conditioner picking out the two strawberry scented ones and place them on the floor next to me.

"So this is why you always smell like strawberries?" 

"It is. Do you not like it?" 

"Mmm, no, I love it. Whenever I smell strawberries I'm reminded of you and these gorgeous red locks of yours."

"Well you always smell like Vanilla and Cinnamon." I smile fondly at Wanda as I start scratching at Wanda's scalp. "What?"

"Nothing, just vanilla was always what Sarah would smell like. I just kept using her perfume, as a, I don't know. I way to help me cope I guess." Wanda's other hand moves to cup my cheek.

"Well then I love the scent even more." I give Wanda a small peck on the lips.

"Lean back for me princess." 

I remove my hand from Wanda's, so I can lean over the bathtub a bit more. My left hand moves to the back of her neck, while I make sure all her hair is put of the way, my right hand starts to weave through her hair as she leans her head back towards the water. I cup some water in my hand pouring it on the front of her hairline, ensuring none of the water goes anywhere else but in her hair. I continue to weave my hand through her hair, making sure it is all nice and wet. Once I've deemed it okay I use my left hand on her neck to bring her head back up, and allow her to sit up angling her body to I can apply the shampoo. 

I put some shampoo in my hand, rubbing them together before I start weaving them both through her hair making sure to go from the roots all the way to the tips. I allow my fingers to scratch at her scalp, as I apply the shampoo all over her head and I hear her let out a content sigh: her head flopping backwards slightly. I replace my had on her neck, as she moves to slide back down into the water. I take my time to wash out the shampoo making sure to get it all out, pouring water along her hairline so she doesn't have to strain her neck backwards more. I do the same thing as before lifting her head up, the bathroom filled with silence. The only thing that can be heard is our gentle breathing; and Wanda's sighs when I massage her scalp when applying the conditioner.

The bathroom is filled with the sweet smell of strawberries and it makes me smile, which only grows when the beautiful red-head infront of me turns to plant a kiss on my lips. Her wet hands cupping my face as her lips give attention to my bottom one sucking on it lightly before nibbling at it, earning a small groan from me. Which seems to be what she wanted because she pulls away, resting her forehead on mine and our breaths mixing together. 

"I love you baby." She brushes our noses together in an Eskimo kiss.

"I love you to my lyubov." Wanda scrunches her nose against mine at the new pet name. "You like that one."

"I do." I feel her shiver slightly, her lips turning slightly blue. I push her back down towards the water so I can rid her hair of the conditioner, so she can get out of the water that is slowly getting colder.

"Time for you to get out and get dry. Can I braid your hair?" 

"You can, let me just get out. Can you pass me my towel." Wanda stands up in the bath and my eyes rake over her perfectly sculpted body as I bite my lip. "See something you like?" 

"Very much so. You are beautiful Wanda." A light blush grows on her cheeks as she smiles at me, I divert my eyes so I can grab the towel from behind me. I unfold it and hold it out in front of me as Wanda steps out of the bath, bracing herself by placing her hands on my shoulders. I wrap the towel around her body, under her armpits tucking it into itself and then rolling the top over a couple of times to keep it in place. I then grab the smaller towel as she leans her head forward so can collect all her hair in it and wrap it around so its securely sits on her head. 

"Even in a towel you look absolutely ravishing my lyubov." I look Wanda up and down, in her two red towels and just admire the sight of her and a random idea pops into my head. "Can I use you as my muse for something?" 

"Uh, what would you want me for?" I grab her hand dragging her into the bedroom, patting the bed to get her to sit down as I find the hair brush and hair bobbles. Once I have what I need I make my way back to the bed sitting comfortably behind Wanda,  removing the towel from her head and start pulling the brush gently through her wet hair.

"Well you remember the character name I came up with for you."

"The Scarlet Witch."

"Yeah, well I think I want to bring her to life. Add her to the comics I have going and I want you to be my muse for the character." She turns her head ever so slightly looking at me through the corner of her eyes as she smiles bashfully.

"You want to turn me into a comic book character?"

"I do. But only if you are comfortable with me drawing you."

"I love that. Of course you can make the Scarlet Witch a real thing. What sort of outfit is she going to have?" I grab some of Wanda's hair, splitting it into three as I start twisting them around each other, going from the front of her hairline all the way to the ends of her hair: hoping to make two perfect French braids.

"Well I was thinking, maybe something similar to what you wore in that picture with your boys."

"The Sokovian fortune teller."

"Yeah that one. And then I also have another one that is full on crown, cape, gloves, maybe a corset top type thing, full length pants and some killer boots."

"You will have to show me once its done."

"I want you to help me. It's going to be your face that I am drawing so I want you to be comfortable with what I draw on the character." 

"Isn't it only going to be us that sees it?"

"And Carl and some of the Sokovian witches. So like I said I want you to okay what people see when they see you in the costumes on paper." 

"Okay. Well just let me know when you want to do this, and we can make a date of it."

"Perfect. I love you princess."

"I love you too baby."

We sit in comfortable silence as I finish off the first braid, moving onto the second one. Wanda pulls my hand down with hers before I can start, placing her lips against my palm as she pecks it a couple of times and then places it on her cheek. Her hand remains on top of mine as she leans into my hand, eyes fluttering closed taking in the peacefulness that surrounds us. I use my free hand to scratch at her scalp, her head tilting back so she can look up at me upside down as I continue to scratch my nails along her skin. She puckers her lips so I lean down to place mine gently on hers, as her hands come up to my face resting on my temples as her fingers play with a few stray hairs. I pull away slowly, pecking her lips once more before moving up her nose along the bridge and all the way to her forehead. Now that I have my other hand back I start weaving it back through her her making sure it's ready to be braided, the hand that was scratching her scalp lifting her head up so I can continue. 

I'm sat on my calves with my knees either side of Wanda's waist so when I continue to braid whats left of her hair, her hands move to rest on my knees her thumbs drawing gentle circles. The room is once again silent, but it isn't awkward; it is the most comfortable silence one can ask for. I finish the braid, leaving a small kiss on the crown of her head before moving off of the bed and searching the draws for some clothes for her to wear while she dries herself off. I pick her out some simple mom jeans, a nice plaid top; some canvas shoes and place it on the bed for her. I head into the bathroom to wash my face and clean my teeth, tying my hair up into a messy bun. I splash my face with water, dabbing it dry with the hand towel and walk back into the bedroom to a giddy Wanda as I see her changing out her top for one of my baggy ACDC ones tucking the front into her jeans.

"That top looks familiar." I quirk an eyebrow at Wanda as she just shrugs her shoulders.

"Hmm, I wouldn't know why. Never seen it before in my life." 

"Oh really?" I creep my way over to Wanda swaying my hips slightly and her eyes drop down my body to watch my movements before connecting with my eyes. I wrap my arms around her waist pulling her flush against me as I bring my mouth to her jaw and playfully nibble along it. Her head tilts to the side to give me more room to work with as I ghost my lips down her neck, allowing my tongue to drag along the skin. I suck and nibble on her pulse point earning a small moan, when I'm happy with the small mark I've made I move my lips up to her ear lobe taking it between my teeth before whispering in her ear.

"It looks so much better on you than me princess." Wanda swallows harshly, nodding her head a little.

"So, uh." I smirk as Wanda clears her throat trying not to stutter and I bring my head back to look at her. "Where are you taking me shopping?"

"Depends what you want to wear. We can go into some high end stores. Or if you have somewhere in mind we can go?" 

"What if I was to say I wanted to wear a suit?"

"I would say you can wear whatever you want, but you would look absolutely divine in a suit. Any particular suit in mind?" 

"Yeah I saw this red velvet looking one online once and have wanted to get it since I saw it, but it is just a little too pricey for me." She pouts at the realisation. 

"Well I did say it was my treat." Wanda looks at me wide eyed.

"I can't ask you to do that."

"Who's asking? Like I said, my treat." Wanda stands on her tiptoes wrapping her hands around to the back of my neck.

"You are the best girlfriend ever." She pecks my lips between words. "I. Love. You. So. Much. Mwuah." 

"Let me just get changed and we can head out, we need to grab the cars first so we can grab the underground to the Tower. Grab my car and then we can pick your car up on the way back here."

"Sounds like a plan baby. Now get dressed I will be waiting on the couch." She gives me another kiss before releasing me from her grip and disappearing out of the room.

At least she seems okay with the money situation. Right?

================================

[bookwormsbutterfly]

Who am I to deny a challenge? This short fic takes place pre-story so tragically Buddy does not appear.

It was June, and Chase found himself at his grandpa's home in sugar springs. He'd just arrived recently and he already knew it would be a boring summer, so he decided to focus on his career. Stardom took work, and practice, so that was how he decided to spend his time.

This particular day he was so busy practicing his routine in his bedroom he almost didn't notice his phone go off. He wouldn't have if it weren't for that notification tone. His phone let him set specific notifications for specific people, and that particular chime he was always alert for, the sound of a text from his mom. He sat down and grabbed his phone opening the text,

Mom: Susie came by the other day with a care package. I think Beth and Dale tried to stop her from bringing this monstrosity into their house but you know how Susie is.

The photo was of a rainbow basket packed with various things all decorated in rainbow. It certainly looked out of place in the boring room it sat in. There was a plushie, a blanket, a collection of scarves in various colors, a wig, and a note that just read "it's pride month, you know what that means."

Chase chuckled and texted back

Chase: omg that's awesome. Beth better let you keep it.

Mom: even if Beth hides it in the closet, it's bringing me joy here and now.

The next photo was of Chases mom wearing the rainbow wig, propped up with the rainbow blanket atop her.

Mom: what do you think? How do I look?

Chase: amazing. I might need to dye my hair to match.

Mom: now that would be a sight.

Mom: I love you

Chase: I love you too.

Chase sat there for a long moment, staring at the photo of his mother. The bright colors of the wig made her seem all the more pallid, but she was smiling. He saved the photo to his phone.

It was the same day that Chase found himself bullied into grocery shopping by his grandpa and cousin. As he grumpily made his way through the isles a rainbow display caught his eye, it was mostly just random stuff with rainbows put on it sold as "pride merch" but there was a collection of mini-bottles of temporary hair color, all the colors of the rainbow. And it reminded him of his conversation with his mother. No way he'd actually dye his gorgeous blonde hair, but it could be fun to color it temporarily to send a photo to mom. He tossed the set in his cart.

Chase didn't get the chance to do it until the next day, where he spent the entire morning staring in the mirror as he tried to get his hair colored rainbow in just the right way. Then there was the matter of an outfit, what should he wear for this? He settled on a black shirt so if the hair color bled onto it it wouldn't be a big deal, and took a photo. The shirt was wrinkled weirdly in that one so he took another, then another, and another, and when he finally had the perfect photo he was being called down to lunch. He sent it to his mom as he went downstairs.

At the lunch table everyone stared at him "it's wash-out" Chase reassured them.

Deacon simply asked "Why?"

Chase told them over lunch about Susie's basket, and as he was finishing up his lunch Deacon said "you should wash that out now. Even temporary dyes can stain blonde hair like yours.

Chase was in the shower in a flash, watching the colors meld to a soapy brown as it washed off him. He shampooed and scrubbed thoroughly until he had no more color dripping off him and even a little after that just to be sure. He conditioned his hair and stepped out of the shower, drying himself off. It was only wiping off the mirror that he saw himself. The color had sort of washed out. His hair was more of a pastel rainbow now than it had been before, but he didn't want it rainbow at all! He jumped back in the shower and continued scrubbing at his hair before he finally decided. It was pride month, his hair had to go back to normal soon and for now, it would be alright. He could hide it with a hat if need be. It could be a fun stunt to have rainbow hair for a bit in June. As he dried off and got dressed again he looked out the window at the boring lawn, and around his room, "this'll probably be the most interesting thing to happen to me this summer, I might at well just have fun with it" he decided.

[gildengirl]

Abby and Townsend Headcanons

Things that Edward Townsend loves about Abigail Cameron:

Her eyes. Those gorgeous green eyes. They're a mix of hazel tones and emerald hues with a brightness to them that goes beyond the colour. Townsend doesn't stand a chance against them.

Abby has this walk. He can't tell if it stems from her legs or her hips, or what it really is about her movements that are so mesmerizing. All he knows is that his heartbeat still jumps at the sight of Abigail Cameron walking towards him.

Her hair. It's true that Abigail Cameron could be the star of a shampoo commercial, but it isn't so much the look of it as it is the feel of it. The most at peace Townsend's ever felt is falling asleep with her head on his chest and his fingers in her hair, while he wonders how it is that the strongest and bravest woman he's ever known can still be so soft and gentle—and how on earth is he the one who gets to hold her?

Her smile. Her laugh. Her generally sunny disposition. He's seen it win over assets, diffuse the tensest of situations, and coax out the kind of information that people would usually take to the grave before giving up. As much as it's part of her spycraft—her charisma, her charm, and everything that makes her magnetic and unforgettable and Abigail Cameron—he knows that it's just as much a part of her. He doesn't ever want to think about what his life would be like without her constant bursts of sunlight.

Her scars. As much as he hates to think about how she got them and who put them there, each one is a testament to perhaps the truest fact about Abigail Cameron: she isn't one to sit back and watch the people she cares about get hurt. Once he would have seen them as the markings of her rather reckless character, but he's come to understand and admire the constellation that she's acquired over the course of her career. He always makes sure to kiss every single one.

Her heart. It's the compulsive catalyst that sends her jumping in front of bullets. It's the reason behind every scar she's ever collected. It's what keeps her fighting for whoever is lucky enough to be loved by her, and from it blooms a kind of loyalty that he'd never want to be on the other side of. And really, it's her heart that made him fall in love with her. He'll love it as long as his own is beating.

Things that Abigail Cameron loves about Edward Townsend:

His eyes. They're a piercing icy blue that makes Abby melt every time. With the help of his height, Abby could spot them across a dark, crowded room in an instance.

His voice, and more specifically, his accent. It has a certain effect on her and that's all I'm going to say about that...

Townsend is such a nerd. He always seems to know the most obscure historical facts about England, he's read The Lord of the Rings more than ten times (at this point, Abby highly suspects the man knows Elvish), and his favourite book is The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, of which he has multiple editions. "Seriously, you think I have too many pairs of shoes, but you have eight—nine copies of Sherlock Holmes?" "You do have too many pairs of shoes." "NINE COPIES?!?" "What's your point, Abigail?" "It's the same book!" As much as she teases him about it, there's just something about his intellect and academic quirks that gets to her.

Townsend has this soft, tempered smile that almost entirely belongs to Abby, and she totally knows it. Over the years, Abby sees it slip onto Townsend's face for Zach, for Cammie, for their own kids, and all of Abby's family that Townsend now considers his own. It makes her love it even more.

His arms. They're where she finds peace, where she calls home. She's never been a woman that needs saving, but the safest she ever feels is when his arms are around her, holding her tight. Somehow everything always becomes quiet and slow, and she feels she finally knows what it is to be loved.

Townsend is stoic. He's the strong and silent type to a T. And while Abby enjoys the thrill that comes from getting a rise out of him, there's nothing else that grounds her more—that comforts her more than his quiet and confident nature. He's the calm, still, blue water to her wild and raging storm. She's pretty sure she'd be lost at sea without him.

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #265 (part 2)

Okay! I'm back!!! Here goes the second part!!!

So... I dunno if you remember me mentioning that shop called Cross-Eyed Owl. But I do remember saying that I gotta check it out because I love owls. And so I did:

...I went inside. And there was this... very ethereal-sounding music playing. Like... I was temporarily transfixed by it. So I got it on Shazam. I found it. Then I went to see it on Youtube. I left a comment. This was the song; please listen to it:

...Sephiroth. Between all the stuff I was surrounded by and this song, and other songs that sounded like this one playing in the background... And... since it was Monday, and I was the only one there... the whole... "vibe"... "sensation"... "emotion"... whatever you wanna call it... it was absolutely. fucking. MAGICAL. I almost felt like when I walked through that door, I stepped into an entirely... other... place. It was almost like I wasn't even in my world anymore, as silly as that sounds. I'd almost swear that someone, somehow, managed to take the inside of my freaking mind, and turn it into a weird shop.

You know what? Here's a playlist to the whole freaking album; the whole thing is gorgeous. Here, just remove the quotes:

"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Hi4gEYqLN8&list=OLAK5uy_kO-PsyMtwpnBr80oDkmfqJlrSKXJRBq5U&index=1"

...Sephiroth, knowing who you are, knowing the softness you carry, your sensitivity, and how readily you delight in beauty... I'm absolutely freaking confident that you're going to love every single track. I know it in my bones. Please... give it a try. I... don't wanna think of you, all alone, in a place as silent as the Edge of Creation, without at least having something nice to listen to...

...I want to fill your world with sound and color so that you can understand that you're not all alone in a harsh and ugly place...

Anyway, I took some photos inside the shop. I saw so many beautiful and delightful things of various sorts, and... I wanted to share them with you...

They even had some weird snacks!!!

They had a crazy huge collection of weird socks, too; I love weird and colorful socks almost as much as I love concord grapes, so... these were a delightful find:

...And of course, they had a bunch of owl-themed things:

...Somebody done put me on the cover of a journal!!! Ahahahahaha~!!!

...There was a great big collection of puzzles, too:

...Hey, Sephiroth? Have you ever put a puzzle together? I wonder if that's something you'd enjoy. Hmm...

Speaking of things you'd enjoy, I found this vanilla-and-rose scented thing, and... I wondered if you'd be delighted at it:

...I got a few things. I got some stuff for M and J - mostly candies and chocolates and different kinds of hot cocoa mix, because I doubted they'd be interested in any of this other stuff. And I got some things for me, too:

...I... don't know why, but... (jeez, this is gonna sound silly... but here goes...), when I combined the scent of "Adventurer" and "Big Sky"... it reminded me of you. "Big Sky" smells - with almost frightening accuracy - like grass and soil and rain. "Adventurer" smells like pine trees and mountains and berries - also with almost frightening accuracy.

...I know you used to put vanilla-and-rose scented shampoo and conditioner in your hair. I know that; I do. But... still, I... guess this combination felt... "correct", somehow...

...

...I feel so many things. My eyes are welling up with all the things I will probably never see. The way I perceive the world, and... all the things that have been happening to and around me lately, ever since I started writing... it's as though I'm wrapped around in things that I can't possibly begin to understand, and... I don't really know what to do. Who can I talk to about any of it? Who would believe me, when I can't even do that, half the time...?

...

...Well, it's not as though there's anything I can do other than carry it, right? So I guess I might as well keep going with it, and see where it leads... Maybe something good will happen. Or maybe in the end, I'll be left disappointed and hurting. But either way, it's riskier to dismiss it all than it is to have faith, so... having faith is what I'll do, even if it's difficult and scary.

In any case, I've got even more pictures for you - but not too many more. I'm already at 30 for this one, I think. So I guess I'm gonna write a third part to today's letter!!

I love you. See you again in a few minutes...

Your friend, Lumine

[scented--whispers]

Musc Noir For Her by Narciso Rodriguez: One of the Best Day, Office, "My Skin But Better" Scents Out There

Notes: Plum, Musk, Heliotrope, Suede

I recently purchased some samples of many different perfumes and also added a sample of Musc Noir For Her by NR, one of the very few Narciso perfumes I hadn't smelled, and yes, I like this one as well. It is a "my skin but better" fragrance, a "no-perfume" perfume. It is by far the most toned down from the For Her collection, it has a fruitness from the plum in the opening, but not juicy-like, but jam plum after some minutes it becomes very slightly flowery and vanilla-y with the slightest touch of almonds and after an hour or two it settles down in the most gorgeous skin-like powdery, creamy musk with suede. If someone wants a clean perfume without the soapy/deodorant/shampoo feeling you are here. I have seen people complain about longevity, but I don't think it's the issue here. I could still smell it for a solid 7 hours after I sprayed it on myself, BUT the sillage is very very intimate. VERY intimate, put your nose on my skin intimate, I could smell it on me, but people around me didn't give it any thought except if they were extremely close to the point of touching me. And this is where Noir comes into play I think. When I first sprayed it on I was so confused with the name Noir, which inclines you towards a darker/ night perfume and this ain't it, but it is an intercourse perfume for sure. It smells so good and so clean and skin-like creamy powder, but also sweet and slightly fruity, that if you are intimate with someone it will be detectable and they will enjoy it. It is Noir because it's perfect for personal night activities, not for a night out and the bottle/color I think supports that, white/rosy/nude, sheer, undetectable, and sleek. Loved it, my favorite from the For Her line, I am thinking of a bigger bottle. Not for people who want statement perfumes, perfumes that cling, and perfumes with sillage.