#I wonder who i should make into a ghost next

[bonbonly]

bon's thoughts a/n" oh look at that, its not 18+ hehehe, but I've been thinking about my temptation!au for so long now I can't get it out of my head but hehe new au alert!

chapter priest!charles leclerc finding out that pope!lewis resigned from his position, wanting to experience the world without the shackles of the church binding his soul forever in one place and now the young monegasque man secretly yearns to find himself in a similar position, to take his son with him and venture through every land just to find you again. To apologize, to make up for the horrible man that he was.

yet, the knowledge that bishop!max would most likely become the next pope burdens charles with the reality that he cannot leave the faith he had once loved. not when the dutch man knew so much about charles' past and the caged dove: you.

so he has to be careful, has to abide by the rules and pretend that his soul is getting cleansed each sunday while he turns to the holy cross and begs for a kinder path back to you, the woman he forgot to cherish and adorn with all his love. what was the lesson here for him to learn? that life without you was nothing more than hell, that he should never feel the true love of a woman till the day he dies? his poor son leo would clutch to his robes as he slowly began to learn how to crawl and all charles could do was feel the ghost of your presence besides him.

chaplain!carlos had slowly begun to observe the odd shift in behavior of his friend. charles was not the same man as he was 2 years ago. he was different - as if the entire world weighed upon his shoulders. and he clung to that orphaned boy as if it was his own son! strange, all of it was strange. he'd hear charles in his cell late at night weeping, the coos of the baby loud and clear. chaplain!pierre would rush forward to console the child and as carlos would try to help charles, the latter would shut him out with a snarl, urging him to mind his own business and leave him to "pay the price for his sins" - whatever that meant.

chaplain!carlos watched as archdeacon!vasseur whispered to charles that he would put in good word for the new pope to promote the young man to a bishop, to which charles merely snorted and replied, "i would be surprised if he would ever do such a thing, he speaks lies and his heart is filled with malice..."

what was he even saying? this was not the sweet charles who would be very careful of what he would say to others, the only words that would fall out of his mouth were the verses from the lord. not to mention the growing envy in carlos' heart; he had been working diligently in the chapel for so long but received no news from the archdeacon or the other bishops of his promotion to chapter priest. and yet here this spoiled man was being pushed to be a bishop and soon one day become pope! he had to get to the bottom of this, he'd need to understand what this church was hiding from him - most importantly, what charles was hiding.

and as charles stood there with his hands folded in prayer before the cross, he knew he would be scrutinized by his peers if the truth of his actions came forward. but even through these countless prayers and service, his mind kept drifting back to you. he wondered if you ever thought about him, or your son. if you ever dreamed of seeing leo grow up, the young boy had your eyes anyway. he would often whisper your name in prayers, as if it was a satanic chant that would lead him to damnation but he already felt as if he was rotting in his own personal hell anyway so what did it matter?

chaplain!carlos watched from afar, a scowl on his face. he'd get to the bottom of this, one way or another...

[salmonballsss]

The Violet Hour

(Chapter 11)

You are a young, awkward historian obsessed with the Salem witch trials. One name repeats through obscure documents: Agatha Harkness. She's not supposed to exist anymore. But when you find a book authored in her name and follow the trail to a remote New England town, you're met with a woman who looks nothing like she belongs in your century—and who wants absolutely nothing to do with you…

Word Count: 12k

Warnings: Blood, Drinking.

You pushed yourself off the couch and followed after her, finding Agatha already halfway through pulling things out for dinner. A loaf of bread thudded onto the counter, a block of cheese, a can of tomato soup spinning once before she caught it lazily with one hand.

You hovered awkwardly in the doorway for a second. Watching her. It wasn’t fair, the way she made even rummaging through a pantry look good. “What?” she said without looking up. “Afraid you’ll catch something if you step into the kitchen?"

You scoffed and crossed your arms. "Just wondering when you became so domestic. Should I be expecting a pie next?"

Agatha finally glanced over her shoulder, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You’re lucky you’re injured," she said dryly, "or I’d make you churn the butter by hand."

You snorted and stepped into the kitchen fully, leaning your hip against the counter. "Churn the butter? What are you, ninety?"

Agatha gave a small, mock gasp and clutched the can of soup to her chest dramatically. "You wound me," she said, flashing you a look over the rim of her glasses. The worst part was—she almost pulled it off. She almost made you feel bad.

Almost.

You tilted your head, giving her your best unimpressed stare. "Oh, please. You’re fine. Besides..." you added, grinning a little, "if you can survive my ‘stupid old ghost towns and witch obsession,’ I think you can survive a little sass."

Agatha quirked an eyebrow at you, setting the can down with a soft thunk . "You know," she said, voice lilting just enough to be dangerous, "you were smiling pretty hard when you were talking to Billy."

You froze for half a second. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

"And yet," Agatha continued, casually pulling a knife from the drawer and starting to slice the bread, "you never smile like that for me."

You blinked. Actually blinked. Did she just—? "You’re pouting," you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

Agatha’s slicing slowed for a fraction of a second. She glanced sideways at you, her mouth pressed into a line that might, maybe, almost have been a tiny little pout.

"I am not pouting," she said flatly.

You grinned, chest warming in a way that had nothing to do with the fact the stove was now on. "You totally are. Don’t worry. It's cute."

Agatha scoffed, tossing a slice of bread onto the pan with a little more force than necessary. "Cute," she muttered. "If I’d known surviving a hellbeast just meant getting mocked in my own house, I would’ve left you to bleed out."

You just shrugged, the sass coming easier now than it ever had before. "Well," you said, lifting a brow, "maybe if you were actually funny, I’d smile more."

Agatha set the knife down slowly, then turned to face you fully, leaning back against the counter with her arms folded. She gave you a long, slow once over—head to toe—like she was deciding exactly how much she was going to make you pay for that.

You stared right back, refusing to be the first one to break.

For a second, you were sure she was about to launch some scathing, perfectly delivered comeback that would make you regret ever opening your mouth.

Instead Her lips twitched. And she smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a grin.

A smile. 

Soft. Real.

And way, way worse. Your stomach flipped traitorously. "You’re getting cocky," Agatha said, pushing herself off the counter and turning back to the stove.

You shrugged again, heart hammering a little too hard. "Someone’s gotta keep you humble."

Agatha chuckled low under her breath, flipping the sandwich expertly in the pan. "Careful, sweetheart," she said. "You keep talking like that, I might actually start to like you."

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but all that came out was a strangled sort of ha, which only made her laugh harder.

You turned your attention to the soup simmering quietly on the stove, trying very hard not to combust on the spot.

Maybe you were injured. Maybe you had black veins crawling across your side. Maybe you were stuck in a house with a woman who made your stomach do backflips with a single look. 

But at least, for tonight, it felt like you might survive it. Maybe. If you were lucky.

You tried to ignore the fluttering in your chest, instead focusing on the pot of soup that had been bubbling away for far too long. You couldn’t let her get under your skin—not now, not when she was standing there looking like she was plotting some devilish move, a smirk playing on her lips as she turned the sandwich once more.

"What's the matter?" Agatha’s voice cut through the air again, a teasing lilt that made you tense up. "Cat got your tongue? Or are you just enjoying the view?" She gave you a sidelong glance, her eyes twinkling with the mischievous glint that had become all too familiar.

You couldn’t help it—you smirked, folding your arms across your chest as you leaned against the counter. "You really think you’re that charming, huh?"

Agatha’s eyebrow arched in an exaggerated fashion, her gaze sweeping over you. "I don't think it, darling. I know it."

You rolled your eyes, playing it off like it didn’t affect you. "Please. The last time I checked, you were just making sandwiches."

“Making sandwiches?” Agatha's voice went all offended as she flipped the sandwich once again, the crispy edges beginning to darken to perfection. "Excuse me, but I do believe this is more than a sandwich. This is a masterpiece."

You raised an eyebrow. "A masterpiece? It’s bread and some cheese."

She smirked, spinning around to face you fully now, her hands resting on the edge of the counter. "Don’t knock my culinary skills."

"Oh, I’m sure it’s delicious, " you teased, the corner of your lips twitching upward. "But are you sure you’re the one who’s cooking it? I’m starting to think you summoned a demon for this meal. Maybe that’s why it’s so… perfect ."

Agatha’s eyes narrowed slightly, but the smile never left her face. "You really are something else, aren’t you?" Her voice was low now, like she was both amused and intrigued. "Maybe you should be careful. I don’t like it when people test my patience."

You leaned in, lowering your voice to match hers, though there was a playful spark in your eye. "What are you going to do? Cast a spell on me?"

"Is that a challenge?" Agatha's lips curled in that dangerous little smirk, the one that made your stomach flip every time she did it.

You held her gaze for a beat longer than you intended, the words on your tongue slipping out before you could stop them. "Maybe I’d like to see what kind of spell you’d cast."

Her eyes darkened, just the slightest flicker of something dangerous dancing behind them. For a second, the tension between the two of you thickened, as if the air was electric with unsaid words. But then, in a blink, it was gone. Agatha broke the stare with a chuckle, turning back to the stove.

"Perhaps another time," she said, not missing a beat. "Now, go sit down. You’re distracting me."

You fought the urge to grin like an idiot, instead choosing to play it cool, even if every nerve in your body was buzzing. "Fine," you muttered, crossing the kitchen to the dining room table. It was hard to ignore how her gaze followed you for a fraction of a second, but you did your best.

You took a seat, eyes flicking between Agatha and the food, your thoughts still swirling with that last moment of tension.

Agatha joined you moments later, placing the perfectly grilled sandwiches on the table along with a steaming bowl of soup. The scent hit your senses like a wall—earthy, warm, and, for some reason, comforting. She sat across from you with a satisfied look on her face as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Go ahead," she said, her tone nonchalant. "You were so eager to test my culinary prowess. It’s only fair you get to taste it first."

You didn’t need to be told twice. The smell was too enticing, and your stomach growled as you picked up your sandwich, taking a cautious bite.

The crunch was perfect. The cheese—melty and sharp. The bread—golden and crispy. You could feel your eyes close in pleasure at the first taste, and you couldn’t stop the hum of approval that slipped from your lips.

"Okay," you admitted, grinning despite yourself. "I’ll give it to you. This is actually really good."

Agatha leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, her smug expression returning. "I told you." Her gaze dropped to your half finished sandwich as you continued eating, and her voice dropped, becoming teasing once more. "Now, do I have to convince you to keep complimenting me, or is that the last one you’re getting for tonight?"

You swallowed your bite, raising your eyebrows. "I’m not that easy."

"Oh, I know," she replied with a wink, her tone low and knowing. "That’s what makes it all the more fun."

The banter between you both continued, light and easy, as the meal stretched on. Agatha had a way of drawing you in, her dry wit and sharp tongue making it hard to tell where playful teasing ended and something deeper, more dangerous, began. The quiet between you wasn’t awkward; it was charged, like the kind of tension you could cut with a knife if you wanted to. But neither of you said anything more about it. Instead, the evening drifted on, filled with laughter and that soft, familiar spark of something unspoken.

And for once, it felt normal. A brief escape from the whirlwind of supernatural chaos that seemed to always follow you around lately. Just two people—sharing a meal, teasing each other over sandwiches and soup, sitting side by side in a comfortable rhythm that made you forget about everything else.

Well, almost everything. The back of your mind still couldn't shake the feeling that you were being played, that something was happening beneath the surface that you couldn't fully understand. And yet, despite it all, you couldn't stop the small part of you that wanted to stay.

That wanted to see just how far Agatha would take this.

"Don’t look at me like that," Agatha said suddenly, her voice soft but sharp all the same, pulling you out of your thoughts. "You’re looking at me like you’re trying to figure me out."

You blinked, feigning innocence. "I’m not looking at you like anything."

Her gaze didn’t falter. "Oh, but you are. Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll figure me out in time."

There it was again—the mystery, the teasing, the promise of something more.

And just like that, the playful bickering resumed, with Agatha throwing another small comment in your direction, and you tossing it right back.

The evening would end. But for now, this moment—this quiet, complicated, messy, delicious moment—was enough to let you forget that you were tangled in a web you couldn’t yet see the edges of.

---

Dinner had passed in a blur of soft clinking, low murmured insults, and the occasional dramatic sigh from you whenever Agatha corrected how you cut your grilled cheese. It had been easy. Too easy. Almost normal. Agatha had smirked through half the meal, rolled her eyes at you the other half. You’d bickered lightly. She’d teased you about your terrible posture at the table. You’d called her a tyrant for insisting you eat the crusts.

And somehow… the world outside didn’t seem to matter for a little while.

But that was hours ago.

The clock on the guest room nightstand blinked 12:13 AM in soft, unbothered red light. You rolled over under the covers, staring at the dark ceiling. Sleep wouldn’t come. Your side ached dully, but it wasn’t just that.

It was the feeling. The buzzing. The wrongness under your skin. Something was off, you could feel it like an electric charge crawling up your spine. The air in the room seemed too thick, as if it were pressing in on you from all sides. The quiet, which you once found comforting, now felt suffocating. There was a tightness in your chest, and the shadows in the room seemed darker, denser, almost as if they were breathing.

You closed your eyes tighter, forcing your breathing to even out. Maybe it was just nerves. Maybe it was the strain of the last few days catching up to you. But that was when you heard it.

A tap.

Sharp. Deliberate. A sound that sliced through the suffocating quiet.

You froze, heart thudding painfully against your ribs. You listened, straining to hear anything else, but there was nothing.

Another tap.

The sound was louder now. Thicker. It almost felt like it was coming from inside the walls.

And then, there was a third tap. No, a scrape .

Your breath caught in your throat. No. No, no—you were imagining it. You were overtired. Stressed. It was nothing. You pressed your palm flat against your chest, trying to calm your racing heartbeat.

But then— A whisper. Not outside. Inside. 

It was low, crawling under the door, slipping around the edges of the walls like some dark fog. A coldness swept over you, the kind of cold that felt like it was burrowing deep into your bones.

Your heart pounded in your chest. The feeling of being watched. The sensation of eyes on you, unseen.

You bolted upright, gasping for air, the breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The tapping grew louder, faster. Scraping now. Something— dragging —across the glass. It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t an animal. It was something else. Something deliberate.

You twisted in bed, eyes wide, scanning the window in the dark. And then your blood ran cold.

The vines were There. Thick, dark tendrils slowly crawled up the outside of the house, their shapes twisted and unnatural against the pale moonlight. They were visible, creeping up the sides of the house with a sinister deliberation, like they were searching for something—or someone.

No. Not the vines. Not now.

You clutched your side, feeling the black veins pulse beneath your skin, each beat like an echo of something darker, older. A tremor ran through you. The ache was getting worse, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts, but it was the vines—the whisper—that tore your focus away.

They twitched, sliding closer to the window. You could almost hear them, feel their scraping against the glass, inching toward you with a low, unnatural hiss.

Get out of here, you thought, but you couldn’t move.

Fuck this.

You couldn’t stay in this room. Not with those things outside, not with that whisper slithering around the walls.

You forced yourself to stand, your side burning with each movement. You stumbled, unsteady on your feet, and ripped open the door, slamming it behind you with more force than you intended. The hallway stretched out before you, dark and quiet as always.

You half ran, half limped across the creaky floorboards, desperate to find something, someone . You reached Agatha’s door, a wave of dread crashing over you. Your knuckles trembled as you raised your hand to knock. But then you paused.

The door was slightly ajar.

A cold shiver ran up your spine.

You nudged it open with your fingertips, stepping into the room slowly, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling.

Empty.

The bed was neatly made, untouched since the afternoon. No sign of her. No sign of anything. Just the emptiness of the room, the oppressive quiet.

Panic clenched around your chest, a tightness that made it hard to breathe. Your eyes darted around the room, searching for any hint of Agatha, anything that could explain this. But there was nothing.

And then, from somewhere deeper in the house, you heard it. The scraping sound again. Faint but distinct. Coming from the guest room. The vines.

The whispering.

Something was in the house. You could feel it, the malevolent presence of it. Your heart hammered against your ribs as your breathing quickened.

You spun around, your feet carrying you down the hall with a frantic desperation, each step echoing too loudly in the silence. Your thoughts spun in a panic as you reached the guest room door again. The whisper was louder now, rising from behind the door. It sounded like a voice— no, multiple voices , murmuring in a language you couldn’t understand.

You slowly, carefully, pushed the door open, every muscle in your body screaming at you to turn back. But you couldn’t. Not now. Not with that scraping sound dragging against your nerves.

The room was dark, the only light coming from the sliver of moon outside. And that’s when you saw it.

The vines, slick and black, crawled with deliberate malice across the walls. They twisted like living things, slow but certain in their approach, wrapping themselves around the furniture, the bedposts, the corners of the room. They weren’t just creeping —they were searching . As if they were alive and they knew exactly what they were looking for.

And the blood.

It wasn’t just leaking anymore. It was pouring .

The slow, rhythmic drip-drip-drip from the ceiling had become a cacophony, the drops thick and slow like a countdown to something awful. The blood pooled beneath you, dark and viscous, swallowing the floor, turning the wood into something unrecognizable.

You could feel it now. The air was alive with tension . You could feel something creeping up your spine, a presence—no, a force —gathering in the room. You weren’t alone. You never had been.

The whispers had stopped for a moment, but their presence lingered like a terrible weight in the room. You could hear them even though they were silent now. You could feel them. A soft brush against your mind, slithering, twisting into your thoughts, pulling at the edges of your sanity.

Come closer… 

The voice called your name, but it wasn’t just one voice anymore. It was hundreds—thousands—murmuring, a choir of darkness whispering through your skin. Their breath was like ice against your ear. You could feel them— feel them —everywhere, crawling up the walls, pressing in on you.

It wasn’t just the vines. It was something in the house. Something inside you. The house knew you. And it was calling you.

A sudden, sharp screeching sound made you flinch—like the sound of nails dragged across glass, jagged and grating. You twisted around, your heart leaping into your throat.

Outside, through the window, you saw it.

A figure.

A shadow, barely visible at the edge of your vision, but it was there . You could see the outline—tall, thin, blacker than the night, standing motionless, staring through the glass at you. You couldn’t make out any details, but you felt its gaze. Like it was watching you.

It was a figure you knew, but it couldn’t be. It was just a shadow, a flickering silhouette against the dark wilderness outside. It wasn’t human.

It wasn’t human. 

The wilderness beyond the window seemed to come alive, pulsing with a life of its own, reaching toward the house. The trees in the distance moved , their twisted limbs stretching, almost pointing , as if the earth itself was calling to the figure. The trees whispered with voices—low, guttural murmurs—and the wind carried their words like a song sung backward.

Your breath caught in your throat. The forest —it wasn’t just the house. It was the land. It was all part of it. The figure outside wasn’t just some person. It was a part of this place, something ancient, something that had always been here.

The trees groaned under the weight of something far darker than any storm. The shadows in the woods flickered and swayed like they were alive, their movements too quick, too unnatural. The whispering grew louder, more insistent.

Come closer… 

You couldn’t take it anymore. The blood on the floor, the vines wrapping tighter, the black figure outside. Your heart raced, pounding so hard in your chest you thought it would crack your ribs. You turned toward the door, hands trembling as you reached for the handle, but the vines moved faster now— too fast —wrapping around the doorframe, pulling it shut with a force you couldn’t hope to fight.

The door slammed shut in your face, sending a shock through your body that rattled your bones.

No.

No! 

Your heart pounded, panic surging through you. You pushed at the door, your hands slick with cold sweat, but it wouldn’t budge. The vines hissed, their tendrils slithering across the wood like snakes, twisting and gnashing. And then, from behind you, the blood— it was moving —as though the room was alive. The dark liquid seemed to swirl, pulling toward the center, forming shapes. Distorted, twitching shapes.

And then, just as you thought you might drown in it, the shape of a hand emerged from the blood. Thin, skeletal fingers reaching toward you.

The whispering came again, and this time it wasn’t soft.

It was loud , suffocating, tearing through your mind. They were everywhere now , inside you, filling your ears, crawling through your skin, making you feel them in your very bones.

Come closer. Join us. 

The shadows outside the window grew darker, their shapes stretching toward you, thick and hungry, clawing at the glass, trying to get inside. The figure in the wilderness moved, a sharp motion like a predator.

It’s waiting for you. 

It wasn’t just a voice now. The earth was speaking, too. The trees outside, the floor beneath your feet—they were all alive , murmuring in a language you didn’t understand, pulling at the threads of your sanity, urging you to listen.

The blood was growing, spilling over the sides of the bed now, rushing across the floor in a thick, pulsing wave. You stumbled backward, slipping on the slick surface, barely catching yourself before you hit the wall. The whispers pressed in on you, suffocating, and the darkness in the room deepened.

A scream built in your throat, but it wouldn’t come. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Your eyes were wide, locked on the bloody shape moving toward you on the floor.

And then—the door behind you creaked. Slowly, agonizingly slow, as though it had been waiting for you to turn.

No… Your brain screamed at you to move, to run, but you couldn’t.

It was already too late.

The shadow outside the window— it moved toward you .

You felt a sudden chill, the kind that went all the way down to your soul. The thing outside wasn’t waiting anymore. It was coming. It was going to get you .

They had you.

The blood seemed to pulse, the shadows seemed to twist with a life of their own, and every inch of you screamed to flee. Agatha . You had to get to her. She was the only thing between you and this madness, the only thing that might save you from whatever was happening in this house.

Your legs trembled, barely able to support you, but you didn’t care. You slammed your hands against the door, pushing against the vines that had wrapped around it, pulling them back with more force than you thought you could muster. They hissed and screeched like living things, fighting against your grip. Your fingers burned with cold, the feeling of them crawling under your skin, but you didn’t stop. You yanked, pulled, slammed the door until the vines snapped under your strength.

You burst into the hallway, gasping for air, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears as you staggered down the hall. The walls felt like they were closing in, the floor beneath your feet like it was shifting, trying to pull you into the darkness below. The temperature in the house had dropped, an icy chill seeping into your bones. You could almost feel the breath of something cold on the back of your neck, but you didn’t dare look behind you.

You couldn’t.

Agatha’s voice echoed in your mind. Get to Agatha . It was the only thing that mattered now.

The stairs were a blur beneath you as you stumbled and sprinted down them, barely avoiding tripping over the wooden steps. Every corner of the house seemed to be alive now, groaning, whispering—like the house itself was waiting, watching, hunting you.

You hit the bottom of the stairs, breathing in sharp gasps, your eyes darting around the darkened living room. The fire that had been burning earlier was now reduced to dying embers, casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to stretch and twist unnaturally. Every shadow seemed to stretch too long. Every corner of the house seemed darker than it should be. You rounded the corner into the living room— And stumbled to a halt.

There, sprawled casually across the green couch, laptop balanced on her knees, was Agatha. She had one hand curled lazily around a glass of wine, her glasses sliding slightly down her nose as she scrolled through something on the screen. She looked up at you slowly. Raised an eyebrow.

"Midnight jog?" she asked dryly.

You stood there, panting, trembling, still half expecting something monstrous to come tearing through the windows after you. Agatha clicked her laptop shut and set it aside, studying you more closely now.

Your shaking hands. Your wild eyes. Your heaving chest.

Her amusement slipped a little. Not gone. But... muted. "Hey," she said, voice softer now. She set the wine glass down carefully on the coffee table. "Come here."

You hesitated.

Another whisper curled through your mind. Something tugging at your ribs, pulling wrong. You stumbled forward anyway, unable to stop yourself.

Agatha caught your wrist gently when you got close enough, tugging you down onto the couch beside her. You collapsed more than sat. "Talk," she ordered.

You opened your mouth—but nothing came out except a broken breath. Agatha shifted closer, her hands surprisingly warm against your wrist and the small of your back, grounding you.

You clenched your fists. "The window," you rasped finally. "There was... tapping. And vines. And whispers."

Agatha’s face darkened immediately. She didn’t scoff this time. Didn’t mock. "Where?" she asked, already standing. You pointed vaguely upstairs, the muscles in your arm trembling.

"Guest room window," you whispered.

Agatha didn’t hesitate. She moved across the room in two strides, grabbed something off the mantle—something small and silver—and tucked it into her sleeve.

You didn’t ask. You weren’t sure you wanted to know.

"Stay here," she said, her voice edged with something unfamiliar. Not anger. Not fear.

Resolve. 

You stayed rooted to the couch as she disappeared up the stairs, your heart pounding painfully. You heard her footsteps. The creak of the guest room door. Silence.

And then—

A low, thudding noise against the walls. Something heavy dragging. You flinched back instinctively, curling tighter into yourself. Another thud.

Then a hiss—like steam escaping, only wetter. Thicker.

Agatha's voice, low and sharp, barking something you couldn't understand. The air vibrated. The floor under your feet hummed. You squeezed your eyes shut.

The memory of the vines snaking up the window, the feeling of the black veins in your side pulsing, the voice whispering your name in a dozen wrong languages at once—

It all slammed into you. You pressed your hands over your ears, trying to block it out.

You didn't know how long you stayed there. Minutes? Hours? The clock on the wall ticked steadily, oblivious to your spiraling panic.

When you finally heard footsteps coming back down the stairs, you nearly cried in relief. Agatha appeared, looking slightly... rumpled.

Her sleeves were rolled up now. Her hair was a little messier. And there was a faint streak of something—dust? ash?—on her forearm. She crossed the room and crouched in front of you. "You okay?" she asked, and for once, there was no sarcasm. No teasing. Just concern.

You nodded shakily, though you didn’t feel okay at all. Agatha studied you for a moment longer, then sighed, scrubbing a hand over her face. "It wasn’t real," she said finally. "The vines. The whispers. Whatever you saw."

You blinked at her, confused. "What?"

 Agatha tapped your side lightly—right over where the black veins were etched under your skin. "It’s your wound," she said. "It’s... leaking. For lack of a better word." You stared at her blankly. Agatha pressed her lips into a thin line, clearly trying to choose her words carefully.

"The creature you summoned," she said slowly, "its mark is still inside you. It left of piece of itself in you… and  the piece that's left is feeding you fear. Making you see things."

Your stomach twisted painfully. "So... I'm going crazy?"

Agatha gave a small, tired laugh. "No, sweetheart," she said. "You’re just... haunted."

Haunted. 

Like that was somehow supposed to be better. You let your head drop into your hands, breathing hard.

Agatha sat beside you again, close enough that her thigh brushed yours, her body warm and steady against your side. "You’re not alone," she said quietly. You didn’t know if she meant here, in the house—or in the fight still ahead. Maybe both.

You let yourself lean into her just a little. Just enough to feel the solidness of her against you. For tonight, at least, you could pretend that was enough. You stayed curled against the arm of the couch for a while, breathing slowly, letting the tremor in your chest settle.

Agatha didn’t hover, which somehow made it easier. She stayed seated at the other end, her wine glass dangling between two fingers, half-watching you, half-watching the windows. The storm outside—or whatever you wanted to call it—had calmed. No vines. No tapping. Just a chilly, restless night.

After a minute, you pushed yourself upright, heart still pounding but not wild anymore, and crossed to the nearest window. You stood there for a second, arms crossed, staring out into the garden.

Nothing but darkness and the faint outline of trees. "You expecting to see something?" Agatha’s voice was dry behind you, but there was a warmth to it too. Something lighter.

You shrugged. "Just making sure the house isn’t about to get... eaten, or something." You heard the faint clink of glass as she tipped her wine to her lips again. "You’re very dramatic, you know that?"

You huffed a little, giving the garden one last suspicious glance before turning back to her. "Forgive me for not being totally chill after hallucinating demon vines."

Agatha made a tsk sound under her breath, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. You flopped back onto the couch, breathing out hard. She sipped from her glass again, lazy, slow, like she had all the time in the world.

You watched her for a moment. Then—without thinking—you blurted "Can I have some?"

Agatha arched a brow, swirling the wine in her glass. "I don’t think mixing whatever black plague you’ve got with alcohol is a doctor approved plan," she said dryly.

You rolled your eyes. "I’m fine. It's one glass."

She kept swirling the wine. The corners of her mouth curved upward. "And," she added, "are you even old enough, pet?"

You sputtered, sitting up straighter. "I’m twenty four!" Agatha laughed— actually laughed—a low, throaty sound that warmed your skin faster than the fire in the hearth.

"Alright, alright," she said, pushing herself off the couch. She moved a little slower than usual, which was the first real sign that the wine was hitting her harder than she was letting on.

You watched her go to the kitchen, grab another glass—something smaller, less fancy—and pour you a careful half glass of wine. She brought it back and handed it to you with a little flourish.

"There. One scandalous drink," she said. "Try not to die on my couch." You stuck your tongue out at her and took a sip. It was better than you expected—warm and rich, the taste blooming across your tongue. Agatha reclaimed her spot next to you, sitting sideways on the couch, one leg bent up, glass cradled loosely in her hand.

The room felt softer now. Dimmer. Like the night had shrunk down to just the two of you. You took another sip, feeling the tension in your chest ease a little more.

"So," you said, trying for casual and probably failing miserably, "what do you do all day? Besides feed injured historians and critique their posture?"

Agatha tilted her head, considering. "Would you believe me if I said gardening?"

You blinked. "...Honestly? No."

Agatha laughed again, leaning her head against the back of the couch. "Smart girl," she murmured. "Gardening’s more of a side hobby."

You sipped your wine, emboldened by the warmth spreading through your veins. "Okay, then. What’s your main hobby? Mysterious woman of Hollow Wood?"

Agatha smiled slowly, lazily, like she was weighing how much she wanted to say. "I collect things," she said finally. You raised an eyebrow. "Books?" you guessed, thinking of the study.

She nodded, taking another long drink. "And artifacts," she added. "Oddities. Stories people forget about."

You tilted your head. "That’s... actually kind of cool."

Agatha chuckled under her breath, looking at you over the rim of her glass. "I thought you’d approve. Little miss history major." You blushed, fiddling with the stem of your glass.

"I’m writing about the witch trials," you muttered, like she didn’t already know. Agatha’s eyes gleamed in the low light. "I know." You grumbled. Of course she knew she just help you with it earlier today! You about faceplamed but you fear that would've just been worse.

There was a beat of silence, and for a moment, you just watched each other. Then you cleared your throat, desperate for something— anything —to break the tension curling between you.

"Alright," you said, sitting up a little straighter. "What else do you do? Any hobbies that don’t make you sound like a haunted museum curator?"

Agatha grinned, lazy and slow. "I can cook."

You gave her a look. "Grilled cheese doesn’t count."

"It does if you make it right," she shot back, mock offended. You laughed into your glass, warmth blooming in your chest. God, this was... nice. Weird. But nice.

"You’re not what I expected," you said before you could stop yourself. Agatha tilted her head. "Oh? And what exactly were you expecting?" 

You shrugged, cheeks burning. "I don’t know… some recluse scary writer, I guess."

Agatha smiled, slow and sharp. "You think I’m not scary?" You opened your mouth. Closed it. Took another drink. She laughed, low and smug, and set her glass down on the coffee table. You stared at her for a second, the words slipping out before you could catch them. "I think you’re... complicated."

Agatha’s smile faltered for just a second. Not gone. Just... softer. She leaned back, studying you like you were a puzzle she hadn’t decided whether to solve or leave broken. "You’re not wrong," she said finally, voice quieter now.

You sipped your wine, heart pounding a little harder than before. "You’re complicated too," Agatha added after a beat, and somehow it sounded like a compliment.

You smiled, tucking your knees up against your chest. Another minute of silence stretched between you—comfortable now, somehow. The wine was buzzing pleasantly under your skin, loosening the stiffness from your muscles, from your tongue.

You fiddled with the rim of your glass, feeling the warmth spread lower, sinking into your chest, your thighs. The edges of the room went soft and golden, like a painting you couldn't quite look at directly.

"You’re staring," Agatha said lazily.

You blinked, realizing you were, in fact, staring at her—at the slope of her neck, the careless way her sweater slipped off one shoulder, the slow, languid twirl of wine in her glass.

You coughed into your hand, mortified.

"I think you’re a bit drunk, Ms. Harkness," you muttered, trying to sound braver than you felt.

Agatha tilted her head, a wicked glint in her eye.

"Don't call me that," she said, voice dropping into something low and dangerous.

Your breath caught.

"It makes me feel old," she added, sipping her wine like she wasn’t slowly skinning you alive with her words. You tucked your knees closer, trying to hide the way your thighs pressed together, the way a sudden throb deep in your core made your breath stutter. There it was again—that pull. The heat. The ache.

You looked at her through your lashes, your voice a little smaller now.

"...Should I call you Agatha, then?" You joke softly.

The way she smiled made your skin prickle. "Agatha's fine," she said, swirling her wine lazily. "Unless you want to call me something else." You choked on your drink, coughing violently into your sleeve. Agatha just laughed, the sound low and teasing. God, she was dangerous. Absolutely, mind numbingly dangerous.

"You’re evil," you said hoarsely, setting your glass down before you could embarrass yourself further.

She just smiled wider, looking so goddamn smug. "You’re not the first to accuse me of that," she said, voice syrupy.

You pressed your hand to your forehead, groaning dramatically. "I’m too drunk for this."

"You’re barely tipsy," Agatha teased. She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees, glass dangling from her fingers.

Her eyes found yours again. Caught. Held. "You’re cute when you’re flustered," she said, almost conversationally, like it was just a fact. Heat flooded your face—and lower. Your cunt clenched again, desperate and aching, as if your body wanted to betray you completely.

You hated it.

You loved it.

You looked away, trying to pretend you weren’t seconds from losing your mind. "You’re mean," you muttered.

"I’m honest," Agatha corrected, sitting back against the couch, looking terribly pleased with herself. You exhaled slowly, trying to steady your racing heart.

"Seriously though," you said after a moment, voice still a little shaky. "How old are you?"

Agatha tilted her head again, considering you like she might eat you whole. "Older than you’d think," she said finally, voice smooth as silk.

You narrowed your eyes, pushing back, emboldened by the wine. "That’s not an answer."

Agatha’s smile grew wider, almost fond. Almost dangerous.

"It’s the only answer you’re getting," she said, taking a slow sip from her glass, eyes never leaving yours.

You stared at her.

You weren't imagining it.The way she spoke. The way she moved.  The way she always seemed slightly out of time, like she belonged to another era entirely.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of the wet heat pooling in your underwear. Agatha’s gaze flickered down—barely noticeable—then back up. You swallowed hard. The tension crackled between you, thin and sharp and so damn close to snapping.

"You’re not... like, a hundred, are you?" you asked, voice lighter than you felt.

Agatha laughed, low and dark. "Would it bother you if I was?" she asked, tilting her head to the side, eyes gleaming.

Your mouth opened. Closed. You had no idea what to say. She laughed again, softer this time, and reached for the bottle, topping off both your glasses without asking. You took yours with shaking fingers. Agatha clinked her glass lightly against yours, the touch lingering for half a second too long.

"To curiosity," she said, voice dipped in velvet.

You swallowed and echoed her.

"To curiosity."

You both drank. The air between you buzzing now— live wire tight. Agatha leaned back again, stretching like a cat, sweater riding up just enough to flash a strip of bare stomach.

You swallowed so hard it hurt.

"So," Agatha said, studying you with that lazy, predatory amusement. "You’re staying for three more days, hm?"

You nodded, trying not to look directly at the bare skin she wasn't even trying to hide. "That was the plan."

Agatha hummed, tapping her glass against her knee. "Shame," she said, almost idly. "You’re just starting to get interesting."

You blinked, your brain short-circuiting.

"I've been interesting," you said, too quickly, too defensively.

Agatha laughed, eyes sparkling. "Mm. Debatable," she said, but there was no bite in it.

Only... fondness. 

You stared at her, your chest tightening, your thighs clenching together again. Your whole body screamed for her—wanted her—so badly it hurt.And Agatha...

She knew. 

She had to know. She watched you like she could read every secret, every pulse under your skin. Her smile softened a fraction, and for a second, you saw it. The loneliness. The weight she carried beneath all the smirks and sarcasm. You wanted to touch her. You ached to.

But you stayed where you were, hands clutched around your wine glass like a lifeline. Agatha shifted forward, setting her empty glass down. She was closer now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to ruin you.

She held your gaze, steady and unblinking, the firelight dancing in her dark hair. And when she spoke, it was barely a whisper "Careful, little historian."

You shivered, the words skating down your spine.

"You keep looking at me like that," Agatha murmured, her voice rich and low, "and I might get ideas." You opened your mouth—to say what, you didn’t know. But nothing came out.

Nothing but the rapid, shallow sound of your breathing. You were one wrong move away from falling headfirst into something you couldn't undo. And god help you— You wanted to. You swallowed hard, the heat in your body climbing higher, pooling low in your belly.

You couldn’t look away from her. You didn’t want to. You gripped your wine glass tighter, heart pounding against your ribs, and before you could chicken out, before you could think better of it, you heard yourself say— "Maybe I like some of your ideas." Your voice was soft, a little shaky, but you didn’t take it back.

Agatha’s eyes darkened immediately. That slow, almost lazy amusement on her face tightened into something sharper. Hungrier.

You watched her carefully set her glass down on the coffee table. Deliberate. Smooth. You could barely breathe. For a long second, neither of you moved. You just watched each other. The fire crackled in the hearth. The air between you throbbed, heavy, electric.

Then—

Slowly, carefully, Agatha shifted closer. The couch dipped under her weight. Your thighs brushed. You sucked in a shaky breath, feeling the heat of her even through your clothes. Agatha’s hand came up, fingers ghosting lightly along the side of your face—so soft it made you tremble. She paused there.

Waiting.

Giving you the chance to pull away. To change your mind.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You tilted your face up to her, just slightly—enough. That was all she needed.

Her mouth met yours.

Soft at first. Testing. Tasting. Her lips were warm, plush, and you could taste the wine on her tongue—sweet and sharp and intoxicating. You whimpered into her mouth, and that was it.

The dam broke.

Agatha’s hand slid into your hair, tugging you closer, deepening the kiss. You gasped against her lips, and she swallowed it down, kissed you harder—hungrier—like she was starving and you were the only thing that could satisfy her.

You clutched at her sweater, desperate, needy, pulling her against you. You could feel her smile against your mouth, wicked and greedy, and god—you wanted more. You needed more.

The heat between your legs throbbed violently, your cunt clenching with every messy brush of her tongue against yours. You moaned into her mouth, your thighs pressing together helplessly.

Agatha groaned low in her throat, like the sound of you was the best thing she’d ever tasted. Her hands slid lower, gripping your hips, tugging you closer until you were half in her lap. You gasped again, dizzy, drunk on her, drunk on the wine, drunk on the way she kissed you like she owned you—like you’d belonged to her long before this moment.

Her mouth slanted over yours again and again, deeper each time, her teeth nipping lightly at your bottom lip, making you whine. You arched into her without thinking, hands sliding up her chest, fingers tangling in the soft fabric of her sweater.

You could feel her heartbeat hammering just as fast as yours. Could feel her body tense and trembling under your hands.

She wanted you. You could feel it.

And god—

You wanted her, too.

You kissed her harder, mouth opening wider, letting her in, letting her have you, your hands clawing at her, trying to pull her closer, closer, closer. Agatha’s hands roamed your body—your waist, your ribs, the curve of your ass—until you were shivering under her touch, helpless, completely undone. When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, her forehead rested against yours.

Her breath was ragged.

Her lips were swollen and red.

Her hand was still tangled in your hair. You stayed there for a long second, breathing each other in. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The world had shrunk down to just this.

Just her.

Just you.

And the taste of wine still lingering between your teeth. You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was her.

But one second you were catching your breath— and the next you were crashing back together, mouths colliding, teeth knocking clumsily. A desperate, needy kind of kiss.

Messy.

Hot.

Your fingers found the hem of her sweater, curling into it, dragging her closer until your chest pressed against hers, until you could feel every frantic beat of her heart against your ribs. Agatha groaned into your mouth, her hands slipping under your thighs, pulling you fully into her lap without a hint of effort. You gasped at the sudden closeness, at the way your body molded against hers, perfectly, like you'd been made to fit.

Her hands ran up your sides, slow at first, almost taunting, and you whimpered into her mouth, your hips shifting helplessly against her. You couldn’t help it. You needed more. Your hands slid up—over her ribs, across her shoulders—until they tangled into her dark, messy hair, tugging gently, and she moaned low into your mouth, deep and rough and absolutely devastating.

You felt it all the way to your toes. You kissed her harder, letting your wine fogged bravery push you further. You tore your mouth from hers and kissed along her jaw, trailing sloppy, open mouthed kisses down the elegant line of her neck.

Agatha’s breath hitched— and then, to your utter, drunk delight—

A sound slipped out of her. Small. Ragged.

Choked.

Barely there.

But enough.

Enough to make your core clench painfully, enough to make heat flood between your thighs until you were practically trembling in her lap. You kissed her neck again— harder this time—sucking lightly just under her jaw. Agatha’s hands tightened on your hips, dragging you even closer, grinding you down against the firm, strong line of her thigh.

You moaned helplessly, gasping against her skin, desperate to get closer, to be closer, to disappear into her entirely. "Fuck," you breathed against her throat.

Agatha laughed low and breathless, one hand sliding up your back, fingers digging into the curve of your spine. "You're trouble," she murmured, voice wrecked and thick with wine and heat.

You kissed along her throat again, more shameless now, your body rocking against hers without even thinking. "You're worse," you muttered back, dragging your teeth lightly over her pulse point.

Agatha’s hand slid up into your hair, tugging your head back just slightly, just enough to make your lips part with a soft gasp. Her eyes locked onto yours—dark, glazed, starving. "You have no idea," she whispered.

And then she was kissing you again— harder, deeper, teeth scraping against your bottom lip, her tongue pushing into your mouth like she needed to own every inch of you.

You melted against her, your whole body on fire, your thighs shaking with need. You could feel the dampness soaking through your underwear, could feel your cunt throbbing for her, desperate and aching.

Her hands roamed everywhere now—your back, your hips, the underside of your thighs—pressing you down harder against her lap, grinding you against her until you were whimpering into her mouth, clutching at her like you’d fall apart if you let go.

You didn’t know where you ended and she began. Didn’t care. You only wanted more. More of her mouth. More of her hands. More of her. Always more. And when you pulled back just enough to breathe, panting against her lips, her forehead resting against yours, her hands still locked around your waist— Agatha smiled. A slow, wicked, possessive kind of smile. And you realized with a shiver—

You were already hers.

You just hadn’t said it out loud yet.

your nails dug into her shoulders, dragging her closer, desperate to keep your mouth on hers, to keep feeling her—tasting her. You were dizzy with it, drunk on her— on the wine— on the heat and hunger simmering between you.

But then— Something shifted. It was like falling through ice.

Your body jerked against hers— and then you were elsewhere. 

FLASH.

The forest.

But not just any forest.

This one knew you.

The trees stretched up like twisted hands clawing the sky, gnarled and black, draped in heavy curtains of moss.

The air was thick with smoke.

The mist clung to your skin like a second layer.

Antlers gleamed through the fog— towering, grotesque shapes worn by figures in dark robes.

Their faces hidden behind bone masks.

Their chants low, guttural, old.

"Venite ad nos..." 

The words rippled through the trees, vibrating the ground beneath your bare feet.

You stood barefoot in a circle scorched into the earth.

Symbols carved deep, pulsing with faint purple light.

You could feel the magic in your bones.

It throbbed under your skin, ancient and aching.

Latin spilled from your mouth without thinking— words you didn’t understand but spoke as if you'd known them forever.

"Dominus noctis, audi me." 

The robed figures bowed lower, their antlers dipping toward the earth.

And across the clearing—

Agatha.

Not dressed like now.

She wore no modern clothes.

Just a long black cloak thrown over simple linens, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders.

And her eyes— God, her eyes—

Violet.

Unholy.

Beautiful.

They locked onto yours, and something inside you remembered. 

You loved her.

You belonged to her.

In that life.

In this one.

Forever.

She stepped forward, the mist parting around her like it feared to touch her. She reached for you— and you met her halfway, falling into her arms without hesitation. The chanting rose louder, frenzied now, a fever pitch that rattled your teeth.

Above you, something vast and ancient stirred in the darkness—something watching.

Agatha pressed her forehead to yours. "You were always meant for more," she whispered, voice breaking like she was trying to save you— or maybe damn you.

The world burned purple around you.

FLASH.

Back to the present— but you weren’t fully back yet.

Your fingers were still clutching Agatha’s sweater, your lips still pressed to hers— but your body seized, convulsing once, twice.

Pain ripped through your skull. And then— you felt it—

Warm and wet against your upper lip. Agatha pulled back instantly, hands clamping your wrists, forcing you still. "Hey," she rasped, voice rough and terrified for once. "Hey, look at me—"

You blinked, disoriented. Your vision swam— the firelight spun around the room in dizzy gold streaks.

Agatha’s hand cupped your jaw, firm but trembling. Your breath hitched when you saw her thumb brush your upper lip— coming away slick with thick, black blood.

The same tar dark gunk you'd thrown up days ago. "No, no—" you whimpered, trying to pull back, heart hammering wildly in your ribs, but Agatha held you steady.

"Shh," she whispered, voice low and almost fierce. "You're alright. Just breathe. You're alright." You gasped against her palm, your chest heaving, your mind still reeling from the vision. The black blood dripped slow and viscous down your chin, staining your shirt, smearing her hand.

Agatha's eyes were huge, dark pools, scanning your face like she could will you back into your body. You tried to say something—tried to apologize, to explain— but all that came out was a broken, shuddering sob. Your nails were still dug into her shoulders—hard enough to bruise—but she didn’t pull away.

She didn’t even flinch. She just gathered you against her, pressing your forehead to hers, breathing with you.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

"You’re alright," she murmured again. "I've got you. I've got you." You clutched at her sweater, gasping, trembling, the black blood still weeping from your nose. And behind your eyes— Still there, burning — the image of the woods. The antlers. The chanting. Agatha’s violet eyes across the mist.

The raw, undeniable certainty— You hadn’t just studied witches.

You had been one. 

You had loved her once. And somehow, impossibly— some part of you still did. You shuddered violently, your face pressing harder into Agatha’s neck. She rocked you gently, one hand cradling the back of your head. Neither of you spoke.

Not yet.

The only sound was your ragged breathing— the faint crackle of the fire behind you— and the slow, steady thud of Agatha’s heart against your chest.

Holding you here. Holding you together. For now.

You were trembling in her arms. Still tasting blood. Still feeling the ghost of the woods pressing into your skin. Still dizzy with the memory of a life you couldn't possibly have lived. Agatha held you tighter, the rough knit of her sweater scratching your cheek.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Just breathing. Just surviving.

But the longer you sat there, the hotter it burned. Confusion. Fear.

The ache.

You jerked back finally, tearing yourself out of her hold. Agatha let you go instantly, her hands falling away like you’d burned her. You stumbled a step back, wiping at your mouth, at the black sludge still oozing sluggishly down your chin. "What the hell is happening to me?" you whispered.

Agatha didn’t answer. Her hands clenched at her sides. You shook your head, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs. Your throat clogged with grief. With fear you couldn’t name.

You pointed a shaky finger at her, voice cracking. "Is this you?" you demanded. "Are you—" Your breath hitched. "Are you doing this to me?"

Agatha flinched. Actually flinched. And something in your chest twisted at the sight. She looked— not angry. Not defensive.

Just... stricken.

"I’m not—" she started, voice rough, but she stopped herself. You laughed, a broken, bitter sound. The wine still buzzed under your skin, making everything feel too close, too bright, too raw .

"I don't know anything anymore," you said, voice shaking. "I don’t know what's real. I don’t know who the hell I am. I see things—feel things—every time I get near you. And now I'm puking up black tar and speaking Latin and—" Your breath stuttered. "—and I don't even know if I'm losing my mind or if you’ve been lying to me this whole time."

Agatha was silent. Watching you. Still. Too still.

It made you want to scream.

"Say something!" you snapped, voice breaking completely now. Agatha’s mouth twitched like she was about to— but then she just shook her head.

Like it wasn’t that simple. Like no answer she could give would fix what was breaking open between you. "You're not crazy," she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. "And I'm not hurting you."

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. Tears stung the corners of your eyes—hot and fast and unwanted. "But you're not telling me everything either," you said, voice trembling. "You know something. You know why this is happening to me."

Agatha's jaw worked—tightening, relaxing, tightening again. She looked away first. Looked at the fire instead of you. "I know enough," she said quietly. "To be scared for you."

The words gut punched you harder than anything else she could have said. You wiped your mouth again with the back of your hand, feeling the sting of embarrassment, anger, grief swirl under your skin.

Agatha said nothing. And that silence— that infuriating, suffocating silence— was somehow worse than any lie she could have told.

Your chest heaved. Your side ached with every breath. The black veins pulsed painfully under your skin, screaming that something inside you was wrong, broken, unraveling.

And she was just— standing there. Silent. Stone faced.

Safe.

While you felt like you were falling apart piece by piece. "Of course you won’t say anything," you choked out, taking a staggering step backward. "Because that’s what you do, isn’t it?"

Agatha’s eyes flickered, but she didn’t move. "You lie," you hissed, your voice rising. "You dodge. You deflect. You hide in this stupid house like the world’s already ended!"

"Stop," Agatha said quietly. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

"You act like you’re so above it all—so clever, so fucking untouchable—but you’re just scared," you spat. "Too scared to tell the truth. Too scared to even face it!"

The words were pouring out now, too fast, too raw to stop. "And you know me," you shouted, your voice cracking apart at the edges. "I know you do. Because I’m having these—" You clawed a hand through your hair, trembling so hard you could barely breathe. "These visions ! And you’re in every single one of them!"

Your voice broke on the last word. "You’re always there," you whispered hoarsely. "Staring back at me. Like you remember." Agatha didn’t deny it. She didn’t even flinch. She just stood there, her face carved in stone, her hands curled into fists at her sides.

The fire cracked sharply in the hearth, the only sound between you. "I can’t do this," you muttered, backing up another step toward the hallway. "I can’t stay here."

"You’re not leaving," Agatha said immediately—too fast, too sharp. You barked out a humorless laugh, swallowing down the bitter taste of bile and wine and rage.

"You don’t get to tell me what to do," you snapped, shoving past the couch. Agatha moved to block you without hesitation, her body between you and the door like a wall.

"You don’t understand," she said, voice low, nearly shaking with something you couldn't name. "It’s not safe for you out there."

"I don't care!" you shouted, the words ripping out of you like claws. "I don't care if it's not safe! I can't breathe in here! I can't think—"

"You think the beast is gone?" she cut you off sharply, stepping closer.

You stumbled a step back but kept your chin high, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard it hurt.

"You think it isn't waiting for you?" Agatha said, her voice cold and cutting now. "You summoned it. It's tied to you. You walk out that door, it’ll rip you apart before you even make it to the street."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because you didn’t have an answer for that. Your body shook with exhaustion, your side throbbed in time with your heartbeat, but the anger was still burning too bright to stop. "You think I don’t know fear?" you whispered, your voice ragged. "You think you get to be the only one who's scared?"

Agatha said nothing. The silence stretched again, taut as wire. "I trusted you," you said, voice breaking. "I don't even know why. I don’t even know you."

Agatha’s mouth opened. Closed. Like the words were too big, too dangerous, to say aloud. And maybe they were. But you didn’t wait around to hear them. You shoved past her again, your shoulder slamming into hers harder than you meant, sending a sharp ache jolting through your wounded side.

You didn’t care.

You stormed down the hall, your bare feet slapping against the hardwood, the whole house seeming to shrink and twist around you with every step. Behind you— "Don’t," Agatha said, voice low, dangerous.

You ignored her. Reached for the front door. Fumbled with the lock. Your fingers were shaking so hard you could barely turn it.

The door creaked open— And then you were yanked back, spun around so fast the world blurred. Your back hit the wall with a dull thud, the breath punched out of your lungs. Agatha pinned you there, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your wrist so tightly it made your whole arm throb.

You gasped, heart crashing against your ribs, blinking up at her— And froze. Because her face was inches from yours. Her eyes boring into you. And for a second— just a second— you saw it. A flicker. A flash of something not quite blue. Not quite human.

Violet.

Burning.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your pulse hammering wildly. But when you blinked again, it was gone. Trick of the light. Wine. Fear. You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. "You can’t leave," Agatha hissed, her voice raw, like it was being torn from somewhere deep inside her. "I won’t let you."

You struggled, half hearrted, more out of instinct than any real intent to fight her off. "Let go," you rasped, chest heaving.

"No," she snarled. The hand by your head slammed flat against the wall, the sound echoing through the foyer like a gunshot.

You flinched. "You don’t understand," Agatha said, low and feral. "You walk out that door, and it’ll tear you apart. I can’t —" Her voice broke. She leaned in closer. So close you could feel the heat rolling off her skin. So close you could taste the wine on her breath.

"I can't lose you again," she whispered. You stared at her, your heart thundering in your ears. Again.

Again?

The word rattled around in your skull like a bullet, leaving everything else in its wake shattered and senseless. You swallowed hard, the fight bleeding out of your limbs, leaving you shaking with something else now. Something hotter.

Something hungrier .

Agatha’s hand loosened on your wrist—but didn’t let go. Her eyes searched your face— wild, desperate, furious. Waiting. Daring.

Your breathing was a mess. So was hers. Your bodies, still pressed too close, radiated heat. The kind that crackled. The kind that burned.

For one terrifying, electric moment— you thought she was going to kiss you again. Right there. Right against the goddamn door.

You wanted her to.

You hated yourself for it.

You loved yourself for it.

Your hand twitched against her chest, caught between shoving her away and pulling her closer.

She saw it. You knew she did. Because her lips parted—just slightly—like she was about to say something. Something that would wreck you. But she didn’t. She just stood there, pinning you to the wall, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping her alive. And you— You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare blink. Didn’t dare do anything except feel your whole body thrum with the knowledge that whatever existed between you was bigger than both of you.

Older. Hungrier. And it wasn’t finished yet. Not even close. You hated her. You hated her for lying. You hated her for knowing things you didn’t. You hated her for looking at you like that— for standing so close—

for daring to care .

Your body was trembling, your side ached, your lip was still wet with the aftermath of that cursed black blood— And you still wanted her. Maybe that was what broke you.

Maybe it was the fear. The confusion. The anger twisting hot and wild through your veins. Or maybe it was just her. Standing there, breathing just as raggedly as you. Not moving.

Waiting.

You surged up before you could think about it—before you could stop yourself—and slammed your mouth onto hers. Agatha jerked back half a step, stunned. Her hand slid from your wrist to your hip, gripping hard. You kissed her like you were drowning. Like you hated her for every secret she kept. Like you wanted to devour her just to finally get to the truth. Agatha made a soft, startled sound against your mouth—half gasp, half growl.

You felt her hesitate. Felt the split second war inside her. Then she snapped. Her hand fisted into your shirt, yanking you closer, and she kissed you back like she could burn the fight out of you. You groaned against her lips—frustrated, furious, needing more—and she swallowed it down like it was something precious.

Your fingers tangled into her hair, tugging hard enough to make her gasp against your teeth. And still— even as her hands slid hungrily down your back, even as her mouth moved over yours like a woman starved— you were muttering against her skin.

"I hate—" You gasped as her teeth grazed your lower lip. "I hate that you never explain anything—"

Another kiss, harder now, bruising.

"I hate that you always just look at me like—like you know —" Her mouth was on your jaw, your throat, her breath hot and desperate. "And you never—" You gasped when her fingers dug into your hips. "Never fucking tell me—"

She growled low in her throat, dragging you flush against her body, and the feel of her—solid, wild, real —made your head spin. Your nails scraped across her shoulders, clutching, grounding yourself against her.

Agatha’s left, veiny hand slid up under your shirt, not quite touching skin yet, but close—so close you could feel the heat of her palm burning through the thin fabric. You shuddered under her touch.

You hated her.

You needed her.

You hated needing her.

You moaned softly, biting down hard on your lip to keep from saying more, but she caught your chin, tilting your face up to hers, forcing you to look at her. Her pupils were blown wide, her cheeks flushed, strands of dark hair falling loose around her face.

"You think you’re the only one who hates it?" she rasped, voice wrecked and low. You stared at her, chest heaving. Her hand trembled slightly against your jaw.

"You think this is easy for me?" she whispered, her thumb brushing your cheekbone, almost tenderly. You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to breathe around it. So you kissed her again.

Harder.

Messier.

Drunker on her than you were on the wine. She met you halfway, groaning low in her throat as she pushed you back against the wall, her body caging yours in completely. Detaching Herself from your lips, her head moving down as her mouth was on your throat now, teeth scraping lightly at the sensitive skin there, and you gasped, your hands flying up to clutch at her shoulders again.

You could still taste the wine on her tongue when her mouth claimed yours again. Bitter and sweet and dizzying. You didn’t care. You wanted more. You raked your fingers through her hair, tugging, desperate. Agatha’s hands slid down to your thighs, gripping tight, dragging you up so you could wrap your legs around her waist—and you did, clinging to her like she was the only solid thing in a world made of shifting, lying shadows.

You could feel the vibration of her moan against your chest when you sucked lightly at the corner of her mouth. And she— She kissed you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

Like you were a promise she was too broken to keep but couldn’t bear to let go of. And even through the haze of it— even through the anger and the hurt and the raw aching want— you knew:

This wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Not until she told you everything. Not until the lies were burned down to ash between you.

But for now— You clung to her. You clawed at her sweater, desperate for more skin, more heat, more proof she was real. Agatha’s mouth never left yours—not for a second—as she fumbled the hem of her sweater, ripping it over her head in one swift, impatient motion.

You pulled from the kiss, your hands flying up to touch her—bare skin, warm and flushed, the faintest marks of age and strength under your fingertips. Your nails scraped across her ribs and she growled , low and dangerous, pinning you harder against the door, grinding into you like she wanted to leave bruises, reminders, warnings.

You kissed her back just as feral, just as desperate. "I hope you choke on all your fucking lies," you gasped against her mouth, the words ripping free before you could think better of it.

Agatha froze. For one heartbeat—one crackling, unbearable heartbeat—her whole body went rigid. And then— You felt her smile against your lips, slow and razor sharp.

"You," she rasped, voice rough with the threat of breaking, "have a smart fucking mouth." You were panting, glaring up at her, your thighs tightening around her waist like you were daring her to do something about it.

"And enough of that—" She ducked lower, her mouth grazing the edge of your jaw, the thudding pulse in your throat, the tender slope of your collarbone, hot breath making you tremble. " For now. " You shuddered when she said it, her voice wrecked with restraint she was seconds from losing.

Her mouth dragged lower, teeth grazing your skin, leaving ghost bites down your neck. Your head hit the door with a soft thud, fingers twisted tight in her hair. You felt her exhale against your collarbone. Felt her lips barely brush the hollow of your throat. And then—hot, guttural, like it cost her something to say "I know you."

Your breath hitched. Her mouth moved lower, dragging down your chest, across your sternum. "Just not this body."

It punched the air from your lungs. A broken noise slipped out of you—somewhere between a sob and a moan—as you clutched her tighter, feeling like you might drown in her, in the wine and the heat and the impossible weight of her words.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because deep down—you knew it was true.

You knew it in your marrow. You knew it from the way your body answered hers like a prayer half remembered. You knew it from the way she kissed you like she was trying to put centuries of grief back inside your mouth. You gasped her name, raw and aching, and Agatha’s hands slid up under your shirt, mapping your ribs, memorizing you like she hadn't done it a hundred times before in other lives, other centuries.

You were dizzy.

Drunk.

Devastated.

And then—

You saw it again Just for a second. Her eyes flashed— violet —deep and blinding like the visions that haunted your sleep. You gasped, clutching at her bare shoulders. Agatha’s hand slid up—fast—catching your face in a rough, almost tender grip.

You barely had time to see her fingers coming—pressing two of them against your temple— Before the world tilted sideways. A shudder racked your body, your limbs going boneless, slumping against the doorframe. The last thing you saw before the darkness dragged you under was Agatha’s face— her flushed cheeks, wild hair, bitten lips— and something like regret burning behind her storm cloud eyes.

"Shh," she whispered, almost broken. "I'll fix it."  Then— Nothing.

Black.

Weightless.

Silent.

Like sinking to the bottom of a lake you’d never surface from.

And Agatha’s voice—the memory of it—following you down into the dark.

.

.

.

.

.

Authors note- How do you guys like the longer chapters compared to the usual 4-6k?

[comesatimecomesashadow]

frayed synapses *ೃ༄

ׂ╰┈➤ . . . you're reading part ii.

pairing *ೃ༄ simon "ghost" riley / fem therapist reader

cw *ೃ༄ mentions of injury, depictions of social anxiety

summary *ೃ༄ with the burden of job-related stress weighing on your back, you decide to unwind at a local pub. yet instead of relaxation, you find out that your neighbor is none other than Simon RIley, a member of the military. after making the decision to clumsily ask him to have tea with you after an embarrassing first impression, you find that underneath Simon Riley's hardened, stone-cold façade, is a man who desperately seeks an end to the turmoil that plagues him.

note *ೃ༄ uploading this after sleep token's release of damocles obliterated me, enjoy ! ( comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist ! )

masterlist *ೃ༄ | series masterlist *ೃ༄ | prev . . next *ೃ༄

You were never much of a sleeper.  

Subtle blue rays of early sunlight peeked in through the blinds on the sliding doors near your bed. The mattress was comfortable but nothing could save you from the habit of rising at the crack of dawn. After staying in your bed with your eyes closed, waiting to get the motivation to fully wake up, you got up and trudged towards the balcony. The metal of the sliding doors felt icy, the mahogany floorboards felt even colder under the bare skin of your feet. 

Despite this, the wind felt fresh on your face as soon as you stepped out onto the balcony and bathed in the rays of the rising sun. You stretched your arms over your head and let out a content sigh. London was full of tall buildings and while it wasn’t all lit up since it was still very early in the morning, the blue tinted scenery was still nice to look at. It was a Saturday today which meant you wouldn’t have work today, thankfully. Now that you remembered, your boss had asked you to take about two weeks off after what happened. 

You should probably re-bandage your arm now that you’re thinking about it. 

Anyway, you retreated inside your home and began your day. The water droplets that fell from the showerhead were more than soothing, despite that, it still stung when the water washed over the wound on your arm. 

It was a stupid mistake to be blindsided by a client in that way, you should’ve known better; should’ve seen the signs. 

With a heavy sigh, you made your way out of the shower and into the kitchen after getting dressed. You were going to make yourself a cup of coffee but decided instead to go to the local cafe down the street. After all, you had way more time on your hands than you knew to do with. With your keys in your pocket and your small box of toothpicks in your coat pocket, you ventured out of the door. As you locked it, your vision drifted to the door next to yours. 

Your neighbor's door. 

It suddenly hit you that you had made quite the impression the day before. “Should i..” you muttered to yourself, wondering if you should treat the man to a cup of coffee as a sort of apology for last night. As soon as the lock on your door clicked, you slowly walked up to his door. It felt rather intimidating but you’d already made your mind up — He’d probably end up declining anyway, you reasoned. Just as you were about to deliver a firm knock on his door, it swung open, making your hand freeze in mid-air. 

   You could see your neighbor’s creased eyebrows and the confused look in his eyes, the surgical mask he wore hid the rest of his face though. He was taller than he seemed last night, you guessed that maybe it was because you’d only seen him from afar that time. You stepped back from the front of the door, realizing that you’d somehow managed to make it awkward yet again. All these years and yet you still had problems with simple social interaction. 

It almost made you feel pathetic. Almost.

“Good morning,” You began after clearing your throat, “-Uhm, I’m _____, I live next door. I know I probably caused you some trouble last night so.. I was wondering if you’d like to have a cup of coffee or tea — whatever you prefer — as an apology for last night?” A sheepish smile graced your lips as a silence settled between the two of you. You offered your hand for a handshake, which he returned after a few seconds. His hand was large ang calloused, definitely not the work of an office job. 

The crease in between his eyebrows was gone, more relaxed from what you could tell — but he had yet to say a word. Finally, after what felt like a grueling pair of seconds, your neighbor spoke. “Simon. As for last night, you don’t need to do tha’.” His accent was thick, his response clipped. 

“Are you sure?” You smiled, satisfied that you were right about him declining your offer. It was probably selfish of you but you weren’t prepared for the anxiety of going out today anyway. On top of that, what if you ended up being awkward as hell — as you usually were — in front of him? He’d probably think you were weird and then you’d never be able to show your face again. 

He seemed to be considering your offer for a moment — which frankly made you a tad nervous because what if he accepted your offer? A sigh came from his lips before he replied, “I’m busy today. Wha’ about this Friday?” 

Your heart stopped. 

If you said ‘no’ it’d make it complicated and you’d probably look like an ass for it, but if you said ‘yes’ you’d have the displeasure of not knowing what to say to him or even how to start a conversation with him. . .  The anxiety was eating you alive in those three mere seconds. “Sure. What time?” The words were rushed, you were surprised you didn’t trip over your own tongue. You tended to do that when your mind ran faster than your mouth could keep up with. 

“Does 2pm work for you?” 

“Yeah.” you answered with a slow nod. “That would be great.” 

With that, Simon gave you a curt nod. You bid him farewell and continued on your way to the local cafe, the memory of the interaction replaying in your mind at least a hundred times until you entered the warm ambience of the cafe. The glossy floorboards and aroma of coffee beans in the air brought you a sense of comfort — which you needed after that awkward interaction. You already had a toothpick in your mouth by the time it was your turn to order. 

“The usual caramel latte, Miss ______?” 

“What?” You looked at the young man confusedly, as if he’d grown two heads. 

The young man at the register, his name-tag read ‘Eliah’, only chuckled and offered a smile to you. “Sorry, it’s just- you always order the same thing. Sorry if that was weird..” he sheepishly apologized. Did you make him feel like that? Oh lord. 

You shook your head, “Oh, it’s not weird at all, don’t worry. I was just lost in thought so it caught me off guard.” 

“So.. A Caramel Latte?” Eliah smirked. Your social nervousness seemed to amuse him, not that you cared all that much. It was just something embarrassing you couldn’t fix about yourself. No amount of trying in your thirty-five years of life would fix that. 

“Yeah, please.” you dug into your pocket and slipped your debit card from your wallet, fidgeting with it before swiping it through the card reader and punching in your pin number. It was only the start of the day and yet you already felt drained. Human interaction shouldn’t be this stressful — or troublesome, as you like to call it. It was almost ironic since your expertise involved reading people and analyzing them through their behavior. 

But you digress. 

As you went to sit at your usual table near the window, you pulled up the calendar app on your phone and made a reminder for this coming Friday. As you sat there waiting for your coffee, the interaction played in your head like a movie. Simon was a tall and built man; he was also dressed in active wear when he had opened the door. You concluded that he liked to stay fit — as most men do. The mask made you come up with the notion that he was either sick or he was hiding his face — the lower part anyway. 

You relentlessly searched for anything that would give you something to talk about when you met him this Friday. If you just sat with him in silence, you swore you were going to feel like crawling into a hole and never coming out. The anxiety alone would eat you alive. You had the ability to make it seem like you were calm when you were freaking out underneath the surface — it didn’t make your social anxiety go away but it sure as hell lessened the added stress of making a situation awkward when you acted like you had no anxiety at all. 

Your thoughts drifted from your neighbor to the new bandages around your arm. It would probably take about two to three weeks for it to heal properly, it still had stitches which helped but didn’t keep it from hurting. The injury would probably leave a scar. The only good thing was that it would also serve as a reminder to never underestimate the creativity of a criminal — especially one with an antisocial personality disorder.

“Caramel Latte for .. _____?” 

Your train of thought derailed as soon as your name was called. You retrieved your coffee from the counter and thanked the barista before leaving. 

Work was off the table these next two weeks but you had an inkling that it would still be an eventful couple of days. 

taglist *ೃ༄ . . . @dwkfan . . @savannahsomething . . @thatghostlykid . .  

© 2025 comesatimecomesashadow

[maedhrus]

what are your favorite malving tropes?

OHHHHH we could be here all day!! i’m now going to hit you with a series of headcanons and tropes both because these two make me insane

obviously, i imagine that john and malcolm are each other’s first love. they met each other when they were around 16 and immediately clicked and fell into place. while malcolm had a lot of friends growing up, john was more lonely. they're both also friendly with kingston, but they know that what they feel for each other is very different than that relationship with kingston

they used to go off alone on the belvidera and could spend hours in discussion over christian theology and the organisation of the church of scotland. while they're both chrisitian evangelists, malcolm is of a Slightly more liberal persuasion, mainly as rebellion against his fundamentalist father, who he is not close to

i see john and malcolm both as gay men though of course they never put a name to this. john is more aware than malcolm that he lusts after other men, whereas malcolm is more aware than john that he's in love with him. i also see, of the two, john more likely to find love with another man whereas malcolm is more likely to wind up in a lavender marriage with a very good female friend

when john lived in australia, he spent so much of his time thinking about malcolm there with him, about them making a life with each other where no one could challenge them. in his most pathetic moments, he imagines being a wife to malcolm in every way that counts, and wonders what their children would look like

john brought malcolm’s letters with him on the expedition, brilliantly portrayed in if not, the next and only your dear individual self which i strongly recommend to anyone. john re-reads the letters frequently and they are his biggest source of comfort, greater even than his bible and it shames him to admit it, so much so that he refuses to think about it, but it's still true

i loovvveeeee the idea that john was the one to give malcolm the nickname "elphie" and he remains the only one who calls him this. malcolm loves it less so for the name itself, but because john created it and it's something just the two of them share

the necklace that john can be seen wearing in ep 8 was a gift from malcolm, who was the one to carve it. it's one of john's most treasured possessions, and he never takes it off

my fc for malcolm is ben lloyd-hughes, but the important things for malcolm's look for me is that he should have dark hair and dark eyes and this is because i enjoy unrequited nedving where john looks at edward little and sees the ghost of another dark-eyed man that he loved

historically, malcolm went on to marry, first all to a woman named mary douglas who died after giving birth to their daughter, and then another woman called charlotte melville, who died a few years before him. my hc is that he married mary because he was getting older and it was the socially expected thing to do (and at this stage the franklin expedition is basically confirmed dead) and then when she died he thought his daughter would need a mother. because i'm evil, i hc that he saw aspects in john in both of his wives, and that's why he married them; mary being pious and shy, charlotte having green eyes and being really good with maths

in a survival au john Has to come home, with malcolm waiting on the docks for him. john ends up retiring from the navy and moving to burnfoot with malcolm where they are the strange bachelor uncles to john's nieces and nephews. john dies first (being older and also having lingering health complications from the arctic) and malcolm lasts no more than a year after. he requests that they be buried in the same grave

[oatsynalliums]

Okay, some present drunz/p because why not

[sweetestflow3rs]

sitting with myself thinking about kyle… yeah i think it’d be funny to give her a haunting npc game mechanic,

[readwritealldayallnight]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who from the moment he laid eyes on you, has only ever referred to you as his wife

You, this sweet little thing, running through the halls on base one day when you turn a corner and nearly run headfirst into the Lieutenant, who’s walking alongside Soap

“Oh! Sorry about that, sir.” You told him, never slowing down in your hurried pace as you snuck around his large frame and continued down towards whatever you were evidently late for

The only reason his gaze had followed your retreating form, was that unlike everyone else, you had met his eyes when you spoke, even smiled warmly up at him

That one smile and he was done for

“Who was tha’?” The sergeant had questioned, seeing Ghost’s attention still fixated on you.

“Think that was my wife.”

“Yer what?!”

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who makes it a point to let everyone know that you are in fact his wife

Well, everyone apart from you apparently

He would certainly never abuse his position as a Lieutenant, but some new recruit had the audacity to whistle at you as you walked by? Well 100 laps around the base don’t exactly run themselves

Another soldier saved you a seat next to him in a briefing? He can enjoy scrubbing toilet seats for the next week in that case

Someone actually had the bollocks to ask you for your phone number? Perfect, he needed a volunteer for demonstrating hand to hand combat to the recruits, medics on standby of course

By the time he properly introduces himself to you for the first time, it’s understood by everyone else around that you are, for all intents and purposes, Mrs Riley

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who listens to you tell him your name in a voice that resembles music to his ears, hardly bothering to remember your last name, seeing as it’ll be changing soon enough anyway

“You can call me anythin’ you want, love.” His deep, gravelly voice had sent shivers down your spine, cheeky smirk widening beneath his mask. “So long as you call me, that is.”

By the end of your first date, (you were sitting alone in the dining hall and he wordlessly joined you what do you mean this isn’t a date) he’s wondering if you’ll insist on a ceremony or if he can sweep you away to the nearest courthouse and make this official, slipping a ring onto you finger and himself into you

You had laughed when he put his number into your phone and named himself ‘Husband’, certain that the man was only messing with you, some kind of hazing that you apparently weren’t aware Lieutenants played on the new communications hire, but it was only fair seeing as he’d saved your contact under ‘Wife’

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who is over the moon every time you play along, even if he knows you believe you’re only playing

“Ach, thanks Lt. Just what I needed.” Soap said, seeing Ghost’s approaching form enter the common room, holding a steaming cup of tea in each hand

“S’for my wife. Get your own.” The older man gruffly replied, sliding the mug onto the side table next to where you’re curled up on the couch, reading a book

“Aw, thank you honey.” You giggled, smiling up as him with an expression he thinks would taste even sweeter than honey if he were to run his tongue across your upturned lips

“Happy wife, happy life, sergeant.” Ghost shrugged, ignoring the other man’s pout, landing next to you and reaching an arm behind you across the back of the couch

“God, maybe I really should keep you.” You’d laughed, reaching a leg out to dig your socked toes into his muscled thigh, teasing him

Grasping your foot into his large, strong hands, he began massaging it, uncaring that you were only two of the many people in the common room, not when you looked at him like that, smiling together as though you truly were nothing more than a married couple

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who surprised you one day, insisting he needed your help with something crucial off base, and drove you to a local shopping outlet to look at none other than dresses

“Is there some sort of party happening?” You’d questioned, confused out of your mind

“Suppose you could consider it a party.” He’d answered, leading you through the many racks of dresses, you noticed were all, very conveniently, white

“Now while you’re lookin’ through dress sizes,” he’d added, taking your left hand in both of his. “You know your ring size? Got my own shoppin’ to do ‘round here.”

Series masterlist

[specialgradefckr]

Satoru Gojo who thinks you're only with him for the money.

He's pretty insufferable, after all. And a shitty boyfriend to boot - always bailing on dates, showing up at weird times, telling you vague stories about his work that don't make sense.

Honestly he's surprised you've stuck around this long.

That you still read every message he spams you when he's bored and lonely fighting special grade curses.

(after all, he always has to go on those missions alone. there's no one who can go with him.)

You still text him back. Open the door to let him in. Smile when you see him, like it's the very first time and he can tell you're just so star-struck by his eyes as he tugs down his blindfold with a grin, "Do I look blind to you?" "Blindingly handsome!"

He'd laughed at that. You're shocked by his appearance, but you're earnest, and so obviously smitten, and he loves a woman with a little humor.

Satoru Gojo who didn't expect you to text him back after the first night, but you did.

cutie pie: omg, those look so good! what flavor? satoru: my favorite, the edamame and cream~ cutie pie: bring some for me next time you visit <3 i'll feed them to you ;)

On a lesser man, that might have sounded presumptuous. To Satoru, it's the perfect come-on. Casual, flirty, and easy to do - all the makings of a great hookup.

He hadn't expected to spend half the night on his knees like a dog, licking at your fingers. Watering over a thumb pressed down against his tongue while you drooled your mochi-sweet saliva straight into his open mouth.

Unexpected, but amazing! Satoru knew then that you were going to be a treat worth savoring.

It was just a shame that he could only enjoy you for one night.

Not even that much, really. He'd been called away in bed; one arm wrapped around your darling naked form, holding you pressed against him.

Left while you were asleep without a word. He'd texted you on the way, a blase little "sowwyyyyy smth came up! u were gr8 last night." and no real expectations of a return.

If you were (reasonably) upset with him, he'd block you - his one act of kindness to a woman he couldn't treat right.

Instead he gets "thanks! you weren't so bad yourself haha" and your enthusiasm is obviously a bit defused, but he can work with this.

He lays it out to you, next chance he gets. Tries to text you often enough to make sure you don't think he's ghosted you.

"I know this might sound like the kind of thing married men say," He says with a big, sardonic smile, "But I have a very demanding job. I don't have time for a relationship. And for personal reasons, I can't agree to be exclusive, either."

There's a look you give him that makes him wonder what exactly you think of his job. Satoru vaguely wonders if you think he's a sex worker.

He hopes you try to find him on porn websites later. Maybe he should film himself jerking off real quick sometime so you can watch it.

"That makes sense," Is what you say, instead of any of the ridiculous thinks he'd imagined.

You don't seem thrilled about it, but you don't look immeasurably disappointed, either. You're a smart girl. You'd probably already figured he couldn't commit.

"But!" He chirps, "I am very very interested in seeing you again. Multiple agains. And I'd like to come to an arrangement that makes that easier for you, since my schedule is so tight..."

For a moment, you stay quiet, and Satoru wonders if he should just offer you cash upfront. But you're receptive, and things go well.

Worryingly well, to be honest. What type of girl are you, exactly? Naughty thing. Get money from a lot of men, do you?

You laugh when he tries to bring it up in bed, "You're one to talk, Mr. can't-promise-exclusivity," you tease, running a hand through his hair while you smile at him.

He likes it when you do that. He likes a lot of things you do.

The real wonder is - although he is absolutely spectacular in bed of course - how much do you like it?

The whole relationship has to happen on his shitty, inconsistent schedule. He can't commit to a relationship or tell you about his job - you're better off that way. Even if you don't know.

Satoru Gojo who pretends to go on dates with other girls sometimes just so that no one watching him thinks he's serious about you. He can't have the Higher Ups thinking of you as a tool to use against him.

He can't even offer you exclusivity. Even if he wants to. Even if he struggles to get it up with those girls - his heart just isn't it in - when he's making sure everyone who's watching him knows you're just one of several people he's having sex with.

After all, the only thing that could be worse than people thinking you were the strongest sorcerer's weakness, was if they thought you might be pregnant with the strongest sorcerer's child.

But if he's fucking around, if he's the whore his so-called superiors make him out to be - then you're safe. Just another girl.

And god, does he take advantage of it.

Texting you late at night. Early in the morning. Times don't mean a lot to him these days.

The most sleep he ever gets is the rare night he spends with you, maybe once or twice a month, five hours in your arms before he pulls himself away and slinks out of bed while you're still asleep like a guilty dog.

He doesn't deserve your warmth or your bed. But he'll take it while you're offering. Eat it all up and beg shamelessly for seconds.

He makes up for it with money, or tries to. Leaves you treats and sweets and other gifts. Spam texts you and facetimes you constantly - when he can.

To be perfectly honest, he's kind of expecting to be dumped any day. He'll take whatever he can get.

If paying your rent or buying you a house makes you feel guilty enough to stay a few days longer with him, that's a good use of his money.

He arranges for you to receive an offer for a remote job, something flexible that will let you meet him whenever he comes calling.

His gifts get more lavish. He's always generous in bed, makes sure you have a good time.

He has a reputation to uphold, after all.

Sometimes he just stares at you when you're asleep. It feels like a waste to spend his precious few hours with you sleeping.

Look at you. All peaceful in his arms. Cuddling up to him.

He can admit, in the dead of night, with no witnesses but himself; the sight makes his heart tug.

If he could, he'd stay. Wake up next to you in the morning. Make breakfast, flirt, joke, maybe even take a little ~morning shower~ and have some fun in there.

It's so clear in his head. How you'd joke back. Smile and giggle and playfully bump against him. Give him a little kiss, a little hug before he leaves for work.

You would kiss his forehead when he got migraines. Hug him when he talks about his difficulties at work.

Your soft smile, your warm lips, your tight hug. It's all so vivid in his head. How you'd look in the morning light, staring at him while you think he's asleep.

Would you stare? What would show on your face, then?

He tries, very hard, not to imagine what your face must look like when you wake up alone every time you sleep with him.

What you think about when he's not there.

Do you wonder if he's with other women? Do you see his flirty texts - "sorry kitten daddy's gotta work late" "babygirl you're not my dad, he goes to bed at 9." - and wonder if he's said that to a hundred other girls?

Because he has. And that's what hurts, really. He could message a hundred girls and get a hundred vapid responses, all those notifications could build up in his phone and he wouldn't care.

But when it's you messaging him?

When you tell him about your day, or text him a picture, or pick up on the rare phone call he gets to make - Satoru's heart skips a beat.

What about you? He thinks about you checking your phone constantly to see anything from him, and it hurts.

You don't show any unhappiness about the arrangement. Every gift, every little arrangement or donation he makes, you accept it all with grace. Everything money can buy is yours, he makes that clear.

As long as you're with him, he'll spoil you rotten. And you were starstruck in the beginning, he could tell.

Expensive hotels, exclusive restaurants. First class flights everywhere, even a private jet if you want it. He brings you custom made jewelry worth more than people make in a year, pulls it out of his pocket and clasps it around your wrist like a passing trinket.

You get used to the constant spa days, the shopping trips. Ordering food for every meal. Living in a city center in a beautiful penthouse with brilliant fixtures. And you're happy like that. At least you look like you are.

But every time he sees you, you're with him. He can't tell if you miss him, if you're sad when he's not there.

He... he sort of doesn't want to know.

Satoru Gojo who loves you. And he hopes to god you don't love him back.

After all, if you did, then you'd want things from him he can't give. Shouldn't give.

But if all you love is his money? He's got tons of it. You can have as much as you want. He can make you happy. He can buy the love he can't afford to earn. He'll never run out of funds.

As long as it's only his money you love, he can have you forever.

[logaenhowlett]

SOMETHING HAPPENS AND I'M HEAD OVER HEELS - L.H.

Summary: What starts off as a simple favour to watch Laura’s cat sends Logan into a spiral as you continue to make your way into his life.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Pure fluff - Logan is 100% whipped, Wade

A/N: 4.4k - my longest fic yet! Worst!Logan has my entire soul, I'd give anything just for that pretty smile. Title creds to Tears For Fears. Enjoy!

MASTERLIST

The familiar burn of whiskey stings the back of his throat. Logan rests his head against the couch, second-guessing his decision to babysit Laura's cat while she's enjoying her night out. Her tireless attempts of pestering him at last working in her favour so he can finally meet his 'copy-kitten' - her words.

A quick glance at the time reveals he should probably head out now. Logan rises, groaning as his muscles protest after weeks of just slumping around the apartment. Even Al had pointed out how lazy he'd become lately. And that unsolicited observation gave him half the mind to consider finding new roommates. But who was he kidding? As much as he also barely tolerated that one incredibly maddening little prick's incessant jibber-jabber, he wasn't going to find anything for what he's currently paying.

Soon enough, he weaves his way through the crowds, swerving past the shoulders of, frankly, one too many people absorbed by their devices to step aside for his large frame. Luckily, Laura's place isn't too far and he really appreciates that detail as the sound of thunder rumbles overhead. A faint ding emerges from his pocket and he retrieves his phone, reading the screen with a slight squint.

His boots soak the welcome mat as he fumbles with the door trim, locating the key according to Laura's text - making a mental note to remind her of personal safety later. Shivering, he shrugs the wet jacket off, tossing it over the armchair. His eyes dart around the room, looking for the damn cat, and for a moment, Logan wonders whether he's being pranked.

The pitter-patter of paws against the hardwood floor has him snapping his head to the little creature in question. The cat, or Leopold Alexis Elijah Walker Thomas Gareth Mountbatten - Leo, for short - he learns begrudgingly after Wade shoved pictures upon pictures to his face one particular day, stares at him with indifference.

Understanding the need to be left alone, Logan trudges towards the kitchen, swinging the fridge open. A small post-it stuck over a box of leftovers, reads "Knew you'd be hungry", has him scoffing, mildly amused that Laura had predicted his actions.

Minutes later, he sinks onto the couch, making brief eye contact with Leo, who's nonchalantly licking his paws. He's halfway through the bowl of pasta when the cat suddenly leaps onto the cushion next to him. Logan watches curiously, he's not terribly experienced around pets, hardly spending any time with Mary Puppins herself despite living under the same roof.

"Alright, here's the deal." He murmurs, "You stay outta my way and I stay outta yours."

Leo replies with a meow to which Logan nods, satisfied by the response. He hopes to god this cat has the same temperament as Dogpool and allows him to simply coexist till Laura returns. Intrigued by the smell, Leo slowly inches forward, gently nudging his head against the bowl.

"Don't think you can eat this, bub."

Leo seems to understand the implication and meows in defiance. With a sigh, Logan gingerly flexes his hand, stroking the cat's head. The act immediately has Leo purring in content, the desire to investigate the food long forgotten. And no one's there to witness the ghost of a smile that teases his lips.

The calm attitude only lasts an hour before Logan's biting back a string of profanities, frustrated by Leo's refusal to take his medication. He's thankful for his healing factor, for otherwise, he'd be covered in a litter of scars. How the hell Laura deals with this devil-of-a-cat is beyond comprehension.

There's no use in trying again. Leo clearly wants nothing to do with him or what he's hiding in his hand. The thought of seeking help crosses his mind, perhaps one of the neighbours is especially skilled in feeding pills to literal hellspawns. Logan tunes his hearing to the apartments on the floor. Old lady already asleep to her TV - no. A family of six attempting to eat dinner in peace - no. Two people about to - fuck no. Now he really wants a word with Laura about her living situation.

Just when he's about to give up, a recognisable melody reaches his ears - one he's unwilling heard Wade jam out to in the shower. This person swaying along to music seems far more approachable than anyone else in this building, and so he steps out, knocking on the apartment across from Laura's.

The door cracks open slightly, you peek your head out giving him a questioning look, “Um… hi? Can I help you?”

“Hey, sorry to bother you. But, uh… I’m watching Laura’s - your neighbour’s cat.” Embarrassment creeps into his cheeks as he points behind him, “He’s not takin’ his meds and uh do you… can you help me? Please?”

The look of absolute defeat paired with the remnants of red scratch marks on his arms has your heart clenching for this poor man, “Of course.”

When the door fully opens, Logan’s eyes widen reflexively at the state of your undress. There’s nothing evocative about it, yet he feels as though he’s intruding on an intimate side of you. One he’s definitely not privy to.

Your sheepish smile sends a wave of something indescribable through his body. He clears his throat, turning on his heel to lead you inside. Leo flicks his head up at the sound of footsteps, purring as if he hasn’t been driving Logan insane for the past hour.

You knew Laura had rescued the little guy a while ago, having run into her in the hallway the night she brought him home. Every interaction you’ve had presents him as the sweetest kitten in the world, so watching the distinct mark of dread on this stranger’s face has you stifling a laugh.

“What?” Logan asks, feeling a little self-conscious about the whole situation.

“Nothing. It’s just - Leo’s very friendly. Or at least, I thought so… what the hell did you do to piss him off?” You chuckle, kneeling a foot away.

“Piss him off? I was just tryin’ to give him the damn pills. Had no problem with me before that.” Logan’s fingers twitch as you approach the cat, wanting to protect you from the sharp claws the demon would surely attack you with.

Yet, to his astonishment, Leo innocently crawls into your outstretched arms. And Logan swears he saw a flicker of mockery come across the cat’s eyes as he peers at him, relishing your comforting embrace.

“See? He’s a sweetheart.”

The fondness in your tone almost has him believing your words. In no time, Leo’s fully cooperating with your gentle requests, happily taking the medication as if it’s the tastiest thing in the world.

Logan learns three things that night. One, your name. Two, that you have some innate ability to charm everyone around you - human or otherwise. Three, he absolutely couldn’t wait to see you again.

Logan tries to drain out the shouting match between his two roommates, ducking calmly as Al’s miscalculated spatula throw flies in his direction. Laura giggles next to him, entertained by the whole ordeal - Wade had accidentally left his cock ring plugged in the bathroom again, nearly short-circuiting the apartment.

“Hey! Kink shaming is very frowned upon, Althea.”

“You motherfucker! I almost got electrocuted by the toaster this morning!”

Logan grumbles to himself, knowing there’ll never be a quiet, normal day in this household. He turns to Laura, “Kid, you wanna grab some food later?”

“Can’t. I’m going out.”

He nods, not giving it a second thought. But as the memory of you flashes across his mind, he stops bouncing his leg, heart beating a little faster. It had been a whopping seven days since that interaction, yet every little detail has stuck with him since. In fact, he spent many hours pacing in his room planning some way to magically run into you.

“… What about the cat?” He asks, and when she raises her eyebrow, “Who’s watchin’ him?”

She replies with a shrug, “I’ll figure it out.”

The solution to his problem falls perfectly onto his lap. Oh, how his pulse quickens at the thought. And as if to not seem suspiciously enthusiastic, he pauses before speaking, “I can do it.” 

“Why?”

“Better than this shit.”

Laura considers him for a moment then agrees casually - she knows exactly why he offered. You had bumped into her a couple of days ago, offhandedly mentioning meeting Logan that night as you recounted the details of your week. It took mere seconds to put two and two together and realise he was incredibly smitten.

Logan spends a good fifteen minutes messing with his hair. Fuck, did it always spike up like that? The one tiny mirror in his room supposedly taunting him with each look over. A low tsk breaks the flood of self-criticism as he slams the door shut behind him, roughly brushing past Wade.

"Ooh, is that cologne I smell or are you just horny to see me?"

His teasing spirit immediately drops when Logan shoots him a glare, precisely throwing Al's spatula straight at his crotch.

"God - not the home office, peanut! Jim and Pam need protection!"

The walk to Laura's seems a lot shorter this time, some sort of nervous, giddy energy surging through his chest with each step. Logan bites the insides of his cheeks, feeling childish by the stupid smile daring to grace his lips just at the sheer thought of you. He can't remember the last time someone had drawn these kind of emotions from him. A part of him wants to cower in fear of rejection and self-doubt, and other? Oh, it's got your name written all over.

As soon as he reaches the hallway, all his senses are directed to your apartment. Confused by the silence he finds instead, Logan strains his hearing harder than ever. Hm, it's barely seven-thirty, maybe you're not home yet? Disappointment twirls around his mind, he sighs before opening Laura's door, convincing himself it's probably for the better.

To his surprise, Leo behaves quite well this time around - eating his food, taking his medication, and sticking with minimal efforts to annoy him. The black and white movie he randomly chose keeps his thoughts from drifting to you for the most part, though he can't help but wonder where you are at - he checks his watch - 10:38 pm on a Thursday?

Whatever hope he held onto paints him a fool as time slips by. He couldn't blame you, you didn't owe him anything. Logan runs a hand down his face, and despite his wavering relationship with Leo, he's at least grateful for the cat's company on this rather lonely night.

"Was a dumb idea, huh?" He mumbles, gently scratching Leo's ear.

Not ten minutes later, the jingle of something hitting the floor has him sitting up, intrigued. Logan pads over to look through the peephole, his heart fluttering at the sight of you. It doesn't take a genius to note your drunken state with the way you're cursing and fumbling with the keys. His hand rests against the doorknob, a flash of hesitation creeping in. Do you even want to see him right now?

Before he can psych himself out, his instincts make the decision for him. Logan's unsure of how to announce his presence, wanting to avoid any chances of scaring you. In hindsight, that task should’ve been deemed impossible when you flinch suddenly anyway.

"Logan! Shit - did I wake you up?"

He chuckles at that and before he can even respond, you fire off another question, "Wait, what're you doing here?"

"Laura's out. I'm on babysitting duty." Leo purrs from somewhere behind him in confirmation. Logan watches as you nod slowly, the keys once again sliding from your grasp, "Here, let me help you."

The two of you reach down, fingertips barely grazing as he reacts faster than you. He realises he's much closer than he anticipated when your perfume crowds his senses. Logan buries the urge to meet your eyes deep, deep down, instead unlocking the door with a clenched jaw.

He's very appreciative of the fact that you're too out of it to observe his actions. He wanders into the kitchen to fetch some water, a laugh nearly spilling out of him as you collapse onto the couch, "Hey, easy."

"I'm not that drunk."

"I believe you." He lifts the glass to your lips, words ever so soft, "But... how about we get you to bed hm? Doesn't that sound better than this couch?" When you blink at him tiredly, Logan knows it's so over for him - every shred of denial he held within now shattered by your very hands.

"Okay... "

He maintains some distance, assuming you'd stubbornly dismiss his attempts to guide you to the bedroom. Leaning by the doorframe, he doesn't try to hide the fondness in his expression as you settle under the covers.

"Night, Logan."

He hears you murmur beneath the blanket. It's almost natural how quickly he replies as if you've had this exchange hundreds of times before, "Good night, sweetheart."

A groan leaves you as the sunlight eventually breaches the comfort of your dark room. Rubbing your eyes, you blindly reach for the bedside table, hoping to find your phone. Instead, your hand retrieves a piece of paper while knocking over a bottle of Advil that definitely wasn't there earlier.

'Not that drunk' my ass. - L

The party hat lays tilted on his head. Logan hooks his finger onto the string, momentarily stopping it from cutting into his chin. On any other occasion, he wouldn't have been caught dead wearing the stupid thing, but it was Laura's birthday and once she pulled out the dangerous puppy eyes, there was no way he could refuse without being an asshole.

He's been leaning against the wall, thumb lightly tracing the rim of the beer bottle in his hand as he blankly stares around the room. Throughout the night, Logan's eyes impulsively shift in your direction, tuning into the conversations you're having with - what feels like - everyone but him.

Mary Puppins zooms by, stepping on his boots in the process. She must've caught a whiff of whatever Al's cooking. He bends down to pick up the stuffed Wolverine chew toy she dropped along the way, mildly concerned by the amount of slobber coating it.

"Nice hat."

Logan hears you chuckle behind him. He quickly turns around, tossing the toy somewhere far, far away before you could notice. And despite wishing all night for the opportunity to talk to you, he finds himself tongue-tied now that you're actually in front of him, awaiting his response with an amused expression. Get it together, dumbass.

"This thing? Well... it made the kid happy." He says, incapable of suppressing the smile that never fails to make an appearance whenever you're around.

The way your features soften releases a storm of arrows to his poor, old heart. Whatever anxiety he felt earlier increases tenfold, Logan takes a swig of his drink only to realise it's empty. With nothing to divert his energy to, he grips the bottle tighter, hoping the integrity of the glass is enough to withstand the force of his nerves.

"Thank you, by the way."

His eyebrows raise in confusion, "For what?"

"Few weeks ago. When I got home totally wasted." As your cheeks turn a little red at the memory, Logan wants to relive that moment over and over again.

"Oh... yeah." He huffs lightly, gaining a smidge of confidence from your flustered state. It gives him just enough courage to throw in a cheeky comment, "At your service."

He's mighty pleased when you giggle, biting his lip to control the proud smile aching to take over. Logan studies you briefly, and if he didn't know any better, you almost seemed nervous too? That possibility sends his mind reeling in excitement. Perhaps you also feel something here?

The shrieking sound of a party blower has him wincing, the plastic hits his cheek as Wade sneaks up right next to him with a wide grin, "Sugar bear! Don't mind me, I overheard you tell Yukio about your date tomorrow. Now, spill. Who is this mystery man and does he have a twin by any chance? Brother or sister - daddy's not picky."

Logan's initial reaction to harshly shove the man aside dies in an instant when you laugh rather bashfully at the question. He prays to god it's another one of Wade's fucking jokes. However, that hope flies out the window as you hesitantly ramble on about this guy. Excusing himself, he leaves the apartment, ripping the party hat off in agony - not witnessing the guilt eclipsing your emotions.

Droplets of sweat linger at the ends of his hair as he places the last of Laura's cardboard boxes on the floor of her new apartment. After weeks of mulling it over, she decided to move a little further away, complaining about how rent was becoming too crazy. Logan offered to support her financially till she was good on her own, yet she strongly refused just as he expected.

Since she was no longer your neighbour, the chances of running into you dwindled over time. He saw you in passing last month when he came over to help Laura with apartment hunting. The logical part of his brain convinced him to not stick around, desperately clinging to the idea that you're not interested. But catching your expression fall as he dismissed your presence nearly made him run back to wrangle you into his arms, to whisper apologies and beg for forgiveness.

After an especially tiring day, Logan returns home, crashing onto the couch with a sort of emptiness as he stares at the ceiling. Both his roommates are muttering in the corner, afraid to call out his incredibly irritable mood of late - instead, walking on eggshells whenever he's around. It seems that Wade loses the hushed argument, settling a good arm's length away from him.

"Peanut." He drags, slowly, "Al and I are... worried about you. As much as this brooding, tough guy act is really doing wonders for my sexual wellbeing, I just can't let you Debbie-Down-Pour all over this parade."

"The fuck you want me to do?"

"You need a one-way ticket to pound town-" He chirps, and when Logan grunts angrily, Wade shrieks, shielding himself from any incoming attacks, "Don't hurt me!"

The aroma of coffee tingles his senses as he takes an exaggerated sip, ignoring the need to continue such an aimless, one-sided conversation. Across the table is one of Vanessa's acquaintances, Karen or Kira - he can't remember - mindlessly explaining why her previous dates didn't work out. Logan forces a nod here and there, humming in pretend acknowledgement while he concocts some plan to seriously bash Wade's head against the nearest wall.

In all honesty, he didn't know how the hell that bastard persuaded him to entertain this woman for the night, making a note to check his alcohol for any suspicious substances later. What he did know was that this was going as terribly as he thought. And while he might be awfully rusty in terms of dating, Logan's certainly not oblivious to basic body language cues. Deciding twenty minutes of this torture is enough, she hastily rushes out the building and that's the last of Karen he ever sees.

The grocery bags feel like cinder blocks in your hands as you walk down the street. Mentally scolding yourself for postponing this chore till the last minute, you huff in exhaustion, adjusting your grip every few seconds. A woman nearly bumps into you on her way out, you stagger backwards, watching her storm off. Startled by her rashness, you turn to glance at where she came from, gasping when you spot a familiar face.

“Logan?”

He snaps up, recognising that particular voice - your name leaves his lips softly. Mixed emotions swirl around his mind, yet, he can't help the way his heart jumps as you fill his senses, “Wha - what’re you doin' here?”

“I was just passing by... saw you through the window.” Your gaze drops to the half-finished cup of coffee opposite him, “Were you on a date?”

“Uh Wade - he...” Logan stutters for a moment, dumbfounded that you're even talking to him after his childish behaviour the last few weeks. He nods lightly as the unmistakable bullet of regret pierces his insides.

“It’s her loss anyway.”

God, he wants to apologise so badly. Your friendly attitude only serves to make him feel worse, but Logan thanks his lucky stars that you don't hate him. He definitely wouldn't have been able to handle any sign of resentment on your part - no matter how much he deserves it.

“What’s with the eggs?”

You laugh, looking down at the several cartons peeking through your bags, “I’m stress-baking.”

He's so lost in your eyes that it takes him a second to register your reply, nose scrunching in amusement, “Stress-baking?”

“Yes, it’s a perfectly valid activity.”

That draws a chuckle out of him. He raises his hands in defense, “I ain’t judgin’, doll.”

A comfortable silence takes over and Logan realises just how happy he is to see you again - how much he's missed you all this time. He opens his mouth to spill something out of pure impulse when you beat him to the punch.

“Why don’t you join me?”

It doesn't take much convincing and he's already fallen into a steady pace as you walk together - his fingers effortlessly hooking onto all the grocery bags. His chest threatens to explode when you lean towards him, moving aside for people brushing by. Logan wills his entire strength to not drape his arm across your shoulders in an effort to keep you safe.

Time becomes irrelevant when you're around. The frequency of his own laughter shocks him at first, but he's not really thrown off by the joy you bring out of him because - well, of course, you do. It's safe to say that Logan can't bake to save his life, though he doesn't mind this particular weakness as you giggle at his dreadful attempts to mix the cookie dough. Shamelessly, he watches you come closer, breaking into a tangent about proper kneading techniques - if you ask him to repeat any of it, he'd be stumbling over his words like a fool.

Eventually, he makes something that somewhat resembles your example. He dips his finger into the dough and lifts a small piece in your direction, "How's this?"

When you gently grasp his hand to lick the sweet mixture straight off, he thinks he's trapped in some wild daydream. Logan stares at you in surprise, cheeks turning into a telltale shade of red. Your hums of approval fall onto deaf ears as he remains frozen, wondering how you're so quick to move on from that bold gesture.

Every little thing you do stains his mind - from the way you dance around to soft music playing in the background, the way you focus all your attention on him whenever he speaks, even the way you warn him about the oven as if he could get burned.

His expression must've turned serious by how you suddenly pause, peering at him in concern. Bearing a rush of emotions, the words pour out of his mouth without hesitation, "I am so sorry."

"I was an idiot and I... avoided you 'cause I couldn't deal with these damn feelings-"

He stops.

He's revealed way too much. And judging by your face, that was definitely a mistake. Logan shuts his mouth, jaw hardening as he fights something heavy crawling up his throat. His eyes land on the door and all he wants is to escape from this shrinking room.

A whisper of his name fractures the glass cage he's built up around his heart. His boots seem to be cemented to the floor, unwilling to break free even as you still in front of him - a mere breath away. Your hands rest against his cheeks, slowly turning his head so he's compelled to meet your tender gaze.

Not a single sound slips out of him before your lips are on his. His heart pounds in his chest, burning at sensation. Logan leans into the kiss, hands settling on your waist, holding you as close as he can. Relief washes over him, he tilts his head slightly to deepen his movements - his breath nearly giving out when you whimper softly.

The loud ding from the oven has you pulling back with a faint chuckle. Logan smiles too, letting out a sigh as he lays his forehead against your shoulder. He presses his lips to your collarbone, whispering against your skin, "Does that mean what I think it means?"

"The cookies... or us?"

He gently pokes your side at that comment, mirroring your dazed look. Between the quiet exchanges of laughter, he knows exactly what this means - what you mean to each other.

His muscles feel looser with each stride, embracing the breeze tangling with the warmth pooling inside from your touch moments ago. Logan makes his way home with a kind of ease he hasn't felt in forever, chewing on a cookie you insisted he taste.

As he walks through the door, Wade rests his chin on his hands, “So… how did it go? I see you’re enjoying the post-bang baked goods.”

Logan rolls his eyes, not wanting his mood to be spoiled. He grumbles under his breath, your name accidentally slipping out.

"You ran into angel-reincarnate?" Wade gasps, "Oh. Finally putting that horse cock to good use." Clapping excitedly, he follows after Logan, "Wait a second, this fic is tagged fluff. There'll be no fucking on my watch, partner!"

Logan slams the door to his bedroom behind him, blocking out Wade's muffled chattering.

"She had you cosplay as Paul Hollywood all night? Goodness! The power she possesses. I must gain all her secrets."

"Fuck off."

Wade grins to himself, quickly pulling his phone out to shoot off a text.

Wade: Project-Wolvie-Gets-Pussy is a go!

Laura: We are NOT calling it that.

[coffee-and-geto]

JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY - SATORU GOJO

“Bet you can’t even handle it,” he dares to murmur so close to your mouth. “I can play the game,” you accept, wrapping your hand around his wrist to free your frowned-face, eyes gleaming with a burning desire to smash his cocky face.

pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader

summary: he wasn’t supposed to be here. not a the soirée organized by your friends at their home. he was busy — as always, and wasn’t it the right reason you broke up with him months ago? so what the hell is he doing here after months of break up?

warnings: +18 MDNI, nsfw, smut, exes to lovers, suguru, shoko and nanami make an appearance, sex pollen, aphrodisiac chocolates, sex (p in v), fingering (f! receiving), nipple playing, deepthroat, rough sex, swearing, oral (m! + f! receiving), a lot of tension and teasing, doggy-style, fanart by @/knr_Illust on X.

wc: 4,335

“You will lose.”

“I don’t think so, sweetie,” he whispers back, blowing words on your lips as a tempting move to make you lose.

What you were doing was so wrong.

But how not to take the bet up?

All of this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Just an enjoyable soirée at your friends’ place. Drink a few glasses, chat and laugh until midnight, and sleep before returning to work.

But absolutely not straddling your ex on your friend’s couch in the dimly lit room while everyone is sleeping.

You weren’t expecting Satoru to come. Nanami and Suguru were here as expected, but Shoko didn’t mention your ex. So what a surprise when, in the middle of chatting with your friends and snacking on some appetizers, you hear someone knock at the door.

“Sorry, a lot of traffic, you know.”

You freeze in the middle of your conversation with Nanami, wring your neck at the doorstep, and widen your eyes until they almost pop out of their orbits.

What—

“Good evening, everyone,” the bastard grins, a cocky smile letting the start of his perfectly aligned teeth flash to everyone except you.

His ocean-blue eyes drop immediately on you — under his eternal blindfold — and unlike your staggered face, he smirks at you.

“Well, I see that you all started without me?”

So the whole evening consisted of ignoring him, opting for the strategy of avoidance so as not to have to look at your ex or hear him cackling with laughter with Shoko or Suguru from time to time — poor Nanami remaining the most polite with you by doing all the talking with you even when it was your turn to respond.

And that your eyes took the liberty of sneaking glances at Satoru and his cursed blindfold.

During dinner, you forced yourself to join in the general laughter, answering and going one further on a few points without ever addressing a single word to your ex.

Need the saltshaker near Satoru, you were going to disturb Suguru who was further away.

Water?

Shoko.

To clear away the dishes?

Nanami.

The whole evening’s been spent laughing at a ghost whose presence you’re blissfully unaware of.

Without once stopping to wonder who invited him.

Who dared spoil your evening to invite this little prick?

After much discussion, laughter and reminiscing about the nostalgic old days, as the hour grew late, Suguru suggested we all go to bed, indicating the guest rooms for each of us and the freedom to use the couch as everyone saw fit.

But from tossing and turning in your mattress with sheets freshly washed for you by your friend, the silence of the apartment is far too deafening for your brain.

Satoru.

Your ex.

Here.

In the next room, probably sleeping soundly while you ruminate on his presence in your bed, ruining not only your evening with friends by his presence, but also your sleep by daring to tell Suguru that he’s agreed to stay the night.

You should have refused your friend’s offer and gone home, you ponder, pouting as your turn on your side for the umpteenth time, staring at the wall in front of you in the indistinctness of the room plunged into darkness.

You grab your cushion and toss it across the room, letting it crash pathetically against the wall and then fall to the floor with a soft poof.

You sit up on your feet, taking a deep breath. If sleep doesn't come, you might as well induce it until you're exhausted.

Opening your bedroom door with the utmost slowness, discretion and care, you first poke your head out to scan the corridor and make sure no one's there. All doors are closed and no sound is emitted from anywhere.

At a leisurely pace, you slip into the kitchen, closing the door without pushing it all the way open, then allowing yourself to huff and puff and turn on the light.

Perhaps a midnight snack?

Suguru’s always in the habit of having some in his cupboards.

So you don’t feel ashamed to rummage through his closets, pushing through the many unopened bottles of soda and alcohol, to see if he hasn’t got a packet of sweets or whatever already open, just waiting to be opened and gobbled up by your stomach still rumbling from the meagre dinner you gave him — appetite suppressed by the arrival of your ex, of course.

At the very back of one of the cupboards overflowing with snacks as sweet as they are salty, and even bitter, you stand on tiptoe and reach for the intriguing black box with its gold metal embellishments.

Once in your hands, you turn it over between your fingers, noting that it’s brand new.

...Will Suguru mind?

You shrug, opening the box from its black packaging to discover squares of chocolates as simple as cheap ones.

“Hmph...”

You frown your lips, slightly disappointed by the content of the beautiful packaging that made you dream about a better late-snack than poor squares of chocolate.

However, the box gives off a curious, intoxicating scent, now that you put your nose closer to it. Indeed, it's almost as if it's not calling out to you to—

“Chocolates? And you're not even thinking of offering me some?”

A low, warm voice, like drizzled molasses muttered right in your ear, makes you jump high enough to send the chocolate box flying further away.

You refrain yourself from screaming and rather drop at your feet, cringing yourself to contain your hammering heart against your ribs and threaten them to break.

“Fuck you,” you spit out harshly.

“I take the offer, sweetie,” Satoru responds with a grin in his voice — the bastard proud of what he had done.

After a few calming breaths, you straighten up, ignoring the wild strands of hair hanging in front of your nose.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

He shrugs, playing with the box of chocolates he caught in the air during your jumpscare. “Heard noises in the kitchen and saw your door half-open.” He pauses, treading a finger under his blindfold to tug it down and freeing his cerulean eyes to lower on your form. “Missed me?”

You scoff. “Not even in your dreams.”

“What a shame.”

He turns the box upside down without taking his eyes off you.

“You wan’ it back?” He smirks.

You squint. “I won’t earn it.”

He smiles drops. “You’re not funny, jeez.”

And instead of giving up and returning to his bedroom, he steps forward, shortening the distance between you two before taking a square of chocolate under your nose.

“Smell it? It’s an aphrodisiac,” he mouths, his breath grazing your flushed cheek.

You take a step back? “A-And? Can’t I eat whatever I want? Or will you impose yourself again?”

“Aw, you didn’t know it was an aphrodisiac?” he coos, this time trapping you against the wall behind you with the chocolate between his fingers as he puts away the box. He rips open the plastic wrapping, snapping it in half. “As much as you didn't know I was coming?” His index finger lifts your chin to look straight into your defiant, wary eyes.

The aroma of the aphrodisiac chocolate swirls between the two of you, enveloping you as closely as it can so that you give in to the tension. Every breath is a soft arousing stroke on each other's skin, like the devil whispering sins in your ear.

“Bet you can’t even handle it,” he dares to murmur so close to your mouth.

“I can play the game,” you accept, wrapping your hand around his wrist to free your frowned-face, eyes gleaming with a burning desire to smash his cocky face.

“That’s my girl.”

The words hit you like an electric current, sliding from your chest to your stomach to end up in your core, which is just warming up despite the little pyjama shorts you're wearing. No, you won't let it happen.

So, with slow, deliberate, provocative movements, Satoru breaks the chocolate square in half and takes the first half to your mouth. Without flinching, you part your lips and sink your teeth into the square before folding your lips around the rest of it — a piece of Satoru’s thumb in the process, causing him to swallow so hard that his Adam's apple wobbles.

The chocolate in your mouth melts almost immediately: a velvety sweetness of bittersweet cocoa with a hint of sugar invades your palate, almost making you roll your eyes — but you hold back with all your might. As it flows down your gullet, the heat rises in the opposite direction. For now, the taste is good and you’re warm.

In turn, your heart beating slightly faster, you take the other half of the chocolate square and hold it out to Satoru’s half-open mouth.

He bites into the chocolate unhurriedly, leaving enough time for his lips to wrap around it — enough to suck on the tip of your index finger in the process. When the whole morsel disappears into his mouth, he swallows as quickly as you do.

Finally, he pulls his face away from yours, impassive, and holds out his hand.

“Let’s get comfortable, shall we?”

~~~~

If you’d known that listening to Satoru’s offer to get comfortable on the sofa in the semi-darkness of the living room would lead you to straddle him in spite of your principles, you’d have held back.

After a few words of polite exchange, occasionally spikes and provocations, your body heat having increased in the process, the tension allowed you to find yourself sitting on Satoru’s lap — more specifically on his crotch, where his growing bulge is crashed under your throbbing core.

Is this how an aphrodisiac is supposed to work?

Your breaths are heavy, measured, begging to be let go.

Satoru sits just as comfortably as you on his knees — back pressed against the sofa, legs spread a little to make room for you and let his bulge rub against you.

You’re slightly above him — much to your delight.

Under your pyjama top, you’re not wearing any underwear, and Satoru is determined to make you notice.

“Not wearing underwear? I can feel how wet you are, how your nipples are red and perking — you’re going to lose, sweetheart,” he breathes in your neck, hands digging into your waist and hips until bruising and rubbing the tip of his nose on your torso as much as he can. He takes his time to inhale your intoxicating and arousing scent — or was it the aphrodisiac? He exhales heavily, closing his eyes when the bridge of his nose gently pushes under the swell of your breast through the fabric of your tank top.

He can feel how the movement made you tighten your arms around his shoulders, nails scratching his perfect, snowy undercut. How every heartbeat inside of your chest pounds against his face.

He is going insane, at his rate.

“I won’t lose, Toru,” you sigh, closing your eyes a sec too. “I’m just enjoying myself.”

And God, he could cum in his pants right now only with you uttering his name. “You do? Because I can make it better, you know?” He looks up at you, fluttering his eyes open to meet yours, his face pressed between your breasts. “Remember how I used to eat you out, hmm?” He cocks his head. “Used to play with those beautiful tits? Shut you up with my dick?” And then he allows his big hands to run along your sides, sliding from your hips to your waist to your breasts and then slowly back down again.

You clench your teeth, ignoring how hard your walls are clenching around nothing and only pulsing against Satoru’s bulge to make your break — and it doesn’t get any better when he himself twitches against you, hardening even more.

“Like when I used to suck you off?” you whisper back, lowering your mouth to let him feel your burning breath. “Ride you like no tomorrow? Of course I remember, Toru. How you used to fill me up so full of your cum until it was spurting out of me,” you purr in his ear, rubbing his cheek against yours and as hot.

And he believes he will burst now, having you trapping him in this arousing cage of your body.

He’s about to give up, because how good will it feel to fuck you? To claim you and shut down that attitude of yours?

“Foreplay isn’t in the bet, is it?” he mouths, parting his lips to wrap them so lightly around your perking, sensitive nipple through the fabric that you’re almost whimpering in his ear. “Is it?”

Foreplay didn’t kill anyone, did it?

“N-No, I think it’s safe—” And Satoru doesn’t even pay any attention about what you can say more, because he’s already tugging hard, sucking at your nipple with fabric like a mad man.

“Fuck, you’re so sensitive,” he groans, his hands roaming on your body to find the hem of your tank top. When he finds it, he lifts it above your chest, letting him freely play with you. 

His warm, soft and big hands mold your breasts, squeezing and tugging them roughly before wrapping each of them in his hands, only letting your nipples free so he can lick them, gently nibbling the sensitive buds times to times until you’re gasping for air, mumbling his name because moaning it would wake up your friends.

“S-Satoru—”

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he mutters, squeezing your mounds before sucking your buds one last time, not caring if there’s a thread of saliva connecting his lips with your chest.

Down here, it’s even worse. Your shorts, damp with your wetness of arousal were the only thing separating his cock of his fingers from making you cum. And how much you need to…

Shaking slightly from the adrenaline, you kneel between Satoru’s legs and undo his belt, the clicking sound threatening to wake your friends. So Satoru lends you a hand and removes his clothes more quietly, letting his aching cock spring free.

The girth is gorgeous and has not changed since last time, you think, hypnotized by all the veins coursing up his lengths until the reddish tip leaking with pre. It was only waiting for you to take care of.

And without losing any time, you chastely kiss his tip, Satoru wincing and hissing in pleasure as you wrap your pretty red lips around the sensitive tip. You spit a bit of saliva, wetting him enough to suck him until his aching balls will spill every drop of their seed.

Satoru threads his fingers into your hair, fiery cheeks coloring his pale skin. He is dumbfounded on how fast you need him as bad as he does.

You part your lips wider, eager to take more of his lengthy cock until the tip kisses the back of your throat. You stroke what you can’t take and bob slowly your head back and forth. You hum with a small smile; his taste hasn’t changed since last time. Satoru is salty — not oversalted, nor tasteless. Just the perfect taste to make you want to swallow all his semen.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he moans lowly, fluttering his eyes closed as you sucked more of his dick. “I won’t last like this…”

And you nod with his girth still deep down your throat, hollowing your cheek to make him cum faster. You slowly pull him out of your mouth and toy with his balls, enjoying how they react to your touch.

“Cum for me, pretty boy?” you chirp, a bright smile flowering at your lips when you stroke his length from the base to the tip. And he nods wordlessly, tightening his grip around your hair that he’s wrapping around his fist.

You put the tip back around your lips, spitting more saliva on his already soaked cock — as soaked as your pussy, feeling a drop trickling down between your thighs. You repeat the motion, taking him deeper, sucking harder as you run your tongue along the underside of his cock, feeling him twitch in your mouth.

And when he’s about to cum — him throbbing in your hands — you take him back deep in your throat, hollowing your cheeks once more as he explodes, filling up your mouth. Satoru bites down his lower lip, suppressing a loud groan that could wake up everyone.

You swallow slowly, sticking out your tongue to show him that you have drunk everything he has given you.

“That’s my girl,” he sighs, releasing your hair as you get up from your knees.

You take off your shirt and shorts, tossing them on the floor with a rustling sound. All naked and pretty for him, Satoru waits for you to come closer so he can lift you in his arms and lay you down on the couch, settling between your legs when you spread your legs for him.

“Good girl,” he mumbles, bringing two fingers in his mouth that he covers with his own saliva before parting your drench folds. “So pretty for me and all wet.” He looks up at your flushed and embarrassed face. “Does sucking me off still arouse you, sweetheart?” And he can only chuckle when you wrap your thighs around his neck to suffocate him, but it makes him do worse.

He brings his face closer and presses a firm hiss on your puffy, hardened clit. He hums, closing his eyes again and darts out his tongue to lick a long strip between your folds and feel your fleshy core.

“Taste sweeter than ever,” he comments, sinking his two fingers into you as you cover your mouth with your palm to muffle your sweet sounds. “C’mon,” Satoru teases. “Let them hear how good your ex is gonna fuck you.” A low chuckle shakes his chest when your eyes widen.

“And the b-bet?” you gasp with his fingers finger-fucking you open and deliciously.

“To hell with the bet.” He rolls his eyes, wrapping your clit with his pink lips to suck it teasingly and make you squirm under him. “Focus on how good it feels, now,” he mutters, his breath hot against your own warm flesh. “I know you miss me as much as I do.”

His digits hit your sweet spot as fast as he finishes his sentence and you can only clench around him, walls throbbing as they never do in months; even with your fingers when you were in your bed for your alone time. Each stroke swollen your walls, making you close to cum around his fingers.

Knuckles deep, you dig your nails into Satoru’s forearm, babbling how close you are and how good it feels. “F-Feels good,” you pant, biting your fist to contain your moans, “missed that…”

“Did you, pretty girl? Now cum on my fingers, would ya?” he chuckles, thrusting faster his digits into you in a pace that will make you scream — noticing how he missed you in this state — messy hair, swollen lips and rosy cheeks striated with dried up thread of tears.

The moment after, you are cumming hard on his fingers, walls clenching hard and sucking at everything they can grip.

With kitten-licks, Satoru kisses one last time your clit before caressing your trembling inner thigh, drawing soothing circles as you come down from your high.

“That’s it baby,” he purrs. You cover your face with both hands and inhale and exhale slowly. “Breath for me, okay?”

Once he is assured he can safely pull out his fingers, he chuckles for himself and tastes your juices on his tongue. And fuck, your sweetness was enough to make him hard again.

Pulling off both his shirt and blindfold around his neck, Satoru settles this time with his cock aligned between your legs, tapping gently the tip of his thick length against your cute still-twitching clit.

“Want me how?” he asks as if he was preparing a herbal tea and needed to know if you prefer it with or without sugar.

You take a long breath in and sit up. “Fast and rough. Doggy.”

He raises a playful eyebrow. “Eh? Ma’am doesn’t want it gentle anymore?” he chuckles. “I think I can do that.”

He towers you, hands gripping both sides of your hips before flipping you over like you were a pillow. 

You have forgotten how strong he is…

With a real pillow this time, you take one between your arms that you hug and bury your face in, in case you would be too loud.

Back on your hips, Satoru’s hands dig into your skin enough to leave bruises and marks as he is always used to do on you.

Claiming you.

One of his hands snakes up on your soft, supple skin before stopping right on one of your ass-cheeks. He can’t resist smacking it — too loud that you’re gasping.

“They’ll hear us!” you whisper like a scold.

He shrugs, rubbing the sore skin before parting your cheeks to reveal your swollen lips — clenching around nothing and only waiting for him to fill up and leave no room in your sweet, tight pussy.

“Let ‘em hear. They know you’re mine, right?” He presses himself against your entrance, and does it with his broad chest against your back. “You’re mine, right?” he blows in your ear, sending a strong shiver running down your spine.

You nod obediently, pushing back your hips so his tip is pressed against your entrance and screams to be sucked by your cunt.

“Eager, are we?” he laughs softly, pushing his hips too and letting his mushroom tip drag a hiss out of him. “F-Fuck, you’re still tight, sweetheart. We’re gonna make a mess.”

“Just fuck me already,” you pout, slightly annoyed by his too much talk habits.

“I’m going to, princess, don’t worry,” he grins in your ear again, nibbling your earlobe. “Be patient, I want to take my time with you. We missed each other, didn't we?” He thrusts his hips deeper, but not fully, savoring your muffled whimpers as you nod. “Then take this cock, okay? Like a good girl.”

The praise sends a string of arousal straight down your core, tightening your walls around Satoru’s cock while he’s pushing deeper and deeper until he splits your open, and you pant his name like a mantra.

“Too big, Toru, s’big,” you cry, biting the pillow when his tip kisses your cervix.

“Too big, you’re sayin’? Oh, it’s been a while you haven’t been fucked by my big cock, that’s why,” he coos softly in your ear, kissing your burning cheeks. He can hear the squelching sounds of your wet pussy sucking his dick even though it was too much for you, yet.

“But I’m gonna making it fit again, and mold it so it can only take my dick,” he snorts as you babble words he can understand and not at the same time, before you sob and he grabs both your wrists and straightens up to thrust his hips into you with a hard, raw, steady rhythm. 

With one hand, he cuffs your wrists behind your back to pin you down enough so that you can only scream into the cushion as his cock pounds into you.

“Ah, Toru, please,” you cry out, face buried in the pillow as he continues to rut his hips hard and fast into you, each stroke punctuating with the sounds of his clapping full-balls against your sensitive clit.

“Please?” he chuckles, “c’mon, tell me how close you already are.” His free hand grabs your hips and slides up to your ass-cheeks and smacks it loudly. You whine in response, tightening around his thick dick. “That’s it, cum baby.” He smacks the other cheek and thrusts his hips at a frenetic pace.

This time his cock throbs into you, ready to cum with you.

“Cu-Cummin’, Toru,” you whine, clenching hard again around him with the same earlier sensation of a pit in your stomach exploding in you with a delicious release.

“Cummin’ too,” he urges, thrusting harder and faster until he moans loudly with no shame of waking up his friends who are still sleeping. He bursts in your pussy and spurt all the cum that were held in his balls — filling you up like he always used to do.

He breathes out heavily, wiping with the back of his hands the beads of sweat pearling around his face.

“Phew.” He lowers his ocean-blue eyes to your trembling form and doesn’t pull back immediately, leaving you to recover a little after this intense session.

At least the aphrodisiac is working.

“Is everything okay?” he whispers from behind, his long arms wrapping around your torso in a spoon hug. He rests his burning cheek on your clammy back to sooth your trembling.

“M’ good,” you mutter back, inhaling deeply before pulling away your face from the pillow and turning your head to the side, eyes fluttering closed. “Jus’ tired now…”

“You sure you don’t want to finish at my place?” he offers softly, his hands drawing slow patterns on your back. “I have some aphrodisiacs too, you know.”

“You still have Cinnamoroll on your bed?” you ask, opening your eyes suddenly.

His chest shakes through his laugh. “Never touched it. It’s still yours, pretty girl.” His lips stretch in a rascally smile at your interest only for the plushie. “You’ve missed it and not me? So my jealousy was meant for nothing?” He draws a small heart on your shoulder.

“Jealousy?”

“You’ve talked almost all night with Nanami,” he pouts, clinging his face to your face to bug you now. “I was jealous.”

“Aww, poor man,” you snicker, and Satoru’s hurt flutters at the sound of your laugh.

Satoru presses a kiss on your cheek. “C’mon. Come back home.”

You’re about to say yes when a voice low, groggy and sleepy voice coming from the doorstep of the living-room asks:

“What the fuck are you guys doing on my couch?”

a/n: hello dear readers! 😚 it’s been weeks since i haven’t post anything i’m sorry! i was busy with studies and life, but now i can finally chill out haha. i wrote this when i felt a peak of ovulating so yeah… basically i needed to write this hehe. hope you guys enjoyed it and see you soon <333

tags: @ssetsuka @zara-zara11 @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @lymsfm @mutsu422 @drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t @wawuwe @catrizzz @sanemistar @monokaix

[charlietheepicwriter7]

Despite Danny's best efforts, no matter how much time past, Amity Park refused to see Phantom as a hero.

Sure, there were pockets of support, particularly among teens, but most of the town blames Phantom for the property damage, saying if he didn't fight the ghosts then it wouldn't be so bad, to that time he got mind controlled by Freakshow and "attacked" the mayor. It wears him down. It wears Tucker and Sam down. Jazz can only try to support them all.

Then one day, a member of the Justice League visits. Someone minor, and kinda a jerk... maybe a Wonder Twin? Zan? Whatever. They don't investigate; they don't look deeper. They listen to the town folks and declare the ghost hunters, Red Huntress and the Fentons, to be the official heroes of the town.

Worse? Danny Phantom is officially considered a villain to the Justice League. Tuck hacks into the Watchtower and confirms that they have a file (a heavily inaccurate file) about how to defeat Phantom.

Danny doesn't think he can do this anymore.

A few weeks later, a young villain escapes into Amity and demands (begs) that Danny help them escape from the hero after them. No idea who, I can't find a lot of info on teen villains in DC, so let's fudge some ages and make it Kyd Wyckyd from the Teen Titans cartoon. Danny agrees, because to hell with the Justice Losers, and they defeat the hero, becoming friends in the process. Kyd confesses that they became a villain after being ostracized bc of how they look, and they've been trying to avoid villain organizations because HIVE was abusive, but it's really hard to be a villain alone bc of all the heroes.

Sam gets an idea. Tucker agrees with the idea. Jazz is just happy they'll end up making friends.

The next day, the Teen Villain Alliance is formed, ready to assist with any teenage illegal shenanigans their allies might get into.

Some notes:

It's created to be a healthier option for teen "villains" to connect with others and support each other.

It's more important that this is for Teens rather than Villains. They're tired of adult villains taking advantage of them. The TVA would rather ally with a teen vigilante than with an adult villain.

Again, no idea who the teen villains are, but Klarion is definitely here. He leaves the Light for the chaos of the TVA. Maybe Ember is there too?

Timeline wise, this is around when Tim is still Robin, but Damien has arrived at Wayne Manor.

This is because, when it comes time to try to infiltrate the TVA, they'll have a convenient child-assassin who has none of the monitors of a teen hero that Phantom immediately picks up on.

Damien, who at this point has been abandoned by his mother, dismissed and scolded by his father, and has had no success at carving his own place in the family, jumps at the chance. He is then surrounded by peers who don't insult him or try to change his behavior (too much; jazz is trying to help him find healthier methods of expressing himself). He... might not want to continue being a spy.

Danny, Sam, Tuck, and Jazz are the founding members.

Danny reinvents himself as the High Prince of the Infinite, Prince Phantom Dark. He got kingship from fighting Pariah Dark, but since he's still alive, he's only a prince. He steals the last name Dark as an intimidation tatic against those in the know; only Danny would have the balls to claim family with Pariah.

Sam works as a powerless villain, but she might no be powerless? Either way, Danny gives her a bunch of repurposed Fenton tech, and she buys the rest with her parents credit card. She does NOT care if that's traced back to the Mansons. She would choose something goth, maybe something spider related or even bat?

I love Pharaoh Tucker, so I think he should get magic powers? Since pharaohs of old were considered the balance between the real and the divine. He's still a tech guy, now he's a tech and magic guy.

Jazz isn't really a villain, more of a team mom who's planning on using everyone's psyche's as her thesis paper. You know what, that's her callsign, she's Psyche. Sometimes she flirts with Nightwing.

[writersdrug]

no thoughts just waitress!reader showing up for shifts like nothings wrong after the date situation

just keeping it calm and professional. working her shifts efficiently and no longer bantering/flirting with ghost, who would rather reader melt down and tear into him than putting up the walls around herself hehe

Ok I'm combining some asks here that had some different ideas - I got so many of you guys demanding reparation for making reader cry 😭 here's the comfort chapter! (Still a tad angsty at the beginning)

Ghost had finished your tips for you that night. He had half a mind to slide a hundred in your payout folder as an apology for ruining your date... but what good would that do? That would make you quit for good, if you hadn't already.

He lays in his bed, eyes stuck to the ceiling, still in his jeans and black shirt. He wishes he could snuff out the guilt that sits heavily in his gut. He wonders what you're doing - probably crying, possibly making a half-assed voodoo doll of himself and stabbing his chest with a dull steak knife, because that's all he feels right now.

He gets up early the next day after a rough three hours of sleep. He lumbers down the stairs to the office - Price is there, sorting out cash and working on the next supply order. He looks at Simon, who's rubbing his eyes and looking worse for wear.

"Mornin'." Price says, turning back to the monitor. Ghost grunts in response, dropping himself onto the couch behind Price. His head aches from the lack of sleep, thoughts circling in his mind about how to apologize to you. He can imagine you won't want to talk to him - or, if you do, it'll most likely be profanities wedged between insults. He'd love for you to berate him right now, and make him feel like he got what he deserved.

Price sighs. "You sleep alright?"

"I've had better."

"Nightmare?"

"... yea, somethin' like that."

Price huffs. "I'm workin' front of house today." He says, grabbing the bag of tips and standing up. "Goin' down to drop these in the safe, then I'll help you stock up."

Simon opens his eyes, looking at Price with confusion. "You?"

Price nods. "Dove called out sick. Sounded like she's got the lurgy."

That delivers the final blow to Simon. He knows you're not sick - you're avoiding him now. All plans to apologize are now out the window, and the more time passes, the harder it'll be to do it.

"You've only got yourself to blame, Simon." Price says, heading down to the restaurant floor.

He curses under his breath as Price leaves. How he heard about what happened - he could only assume it had been from Soap. He drops his arm over his face and groans. He wants to call out himself, but then they might as well shut down the entire pub for the day.

Should he try phoning you? Would you answer, let alone allow him to get more than five words out? What would he say? "Sorry I ruined your date, I was jealous tha' ya got a life outside of the pub." There is no variation of an apology that feels like it would be enough. He made you cry, for fucks sake. That was a punishment in and of itself, but he still had to own up to what he'd done.

He sighs loudly; his body feels heavy as he drags himself off the couch, trudging down the stairs. He still has a bar to run.

It had to have been the longest shift of Simon's life, and he even wrapped things up a bit earlier than usual. He didn't have the gift of your incessant chatting or being able to tease you to make the time pass. Price was a solid companion in front of house, but there was hardly a conversation to be held - even with the usual bar crowd. The patrons had a look of confusion for the majority of the night, wondering why Soap wasn't popping his head out of the kitchen to chat every once in a while - and why the hell the owner was serving tables, and not the chipper, spunky waitress.

When Simon had locked up for the night, he noticed your bike was no longer in the alley. Johnny must have dropped it off on the way back to his place.

Today isn't much different - at least, not for Simon. He's still suffering from a lack of sleep, he's irritable (he had a spat with Johnny in the morning, over something he can't even remember), and his work ethic is suffering. He's not worried about slicing bar fruit; it'll give him something to do later, when he needs it. Maybe the rush will kick him back into shape.

He stares at the dishes on the edge of the bar - they're all in need of a good polish, but he finds himself stuck on staring at the bar fridge. There's nothing else he needs to stock up on - it's packed completely full with wine, champagne, and cans of beer. He gently kicks the side of it with his boot. He should be checking the to-go boxes, helping Soap with setting up the condiments and soups, making sure the tables all had full salt and pepper shakers. That's what you would be doing. But, you're not here, and neither is Price. He can only hope tonight isn't as busy as the previous night, otherwise he'll have to close some tables. Which would make customers mad. Which would make Price mad. Which would-

Suddenly, he hears three loud bangs against the back door. He freezes, the sound triggering a Pavlovian response. He immediately looks up to the kitchen window - Soap opens the door, and you come jogging inside. You greet him with a smile. He asks how you're feeling, and you say "much better".

He doesn't know what to do with himself, but he just stands there like an idiot as you hang your bag and jacket on a hook. Stands there as you push your way into the restaurant, barely sparing him a glance as you scurry by him. Stands there as you run up the stairs, two at a time, diving nose-first into your chores so you can avoid Simon.

He can't speak. Should he? What can he say? "I'm sorry," for starters, but it isn't that simple. He thought you might have quit, and was preparing his heart for the worst. But now, here you are, running back and forth through the pub and setting up your tables - and it feels like you've never been farther away from him.

In all honesty, you can't bring yourself to talk to him either. You're feeling just as ashamed with your behavior two nights ago as he is about his own. Why the fuck would you expect someone - let alone your boss - to do your chores so that you could run off and have fun on a date? Not only that, but you'd made a scene; you felt like you had half-assed the ice bins in your scramble to get them cleaned, and then you sobbed in the middle of the restaurant. The cherry on top, however, was when you called Price yesterday and told him you had a cold, calling out of your shift. It was a cowardly thing to do, and you could tell he wasn't buying your story.

But: bills need to be paid, rent is due, and you can't lose this job. So you sucked it up and came in today - Simon is easy enough to ignore, separated from you by the bar.

At first, the quiet bartender was relieved that you had showed up for your shift - he wouldn't have searched for a new waitress if you had quit, instead choosing to deal with the consequences of his actions. But he's quickly getting more and more irritated with the silent treatment you're serving. You only talk to him when necessary: a simple "thanks" when you grab your drinks and run them to your tables. You busy yourself between rolling silverware, (over)stocking napkins and condiments, and even going so far as to spray the menus down and scrub them with a rag. You spend more time in the kitchen with Soap; each peal of laughter shared between the two of you is another arrow in Simon's chest. He's stuck behind the bar, listening to woes spilling from drunken lips, forced to watch you flit around and pretend he doesn't exist.

You can't keep this up forever.

Still, you do for most of the night. Even when your shift is coming to an end, the kitchen closed while you close the tabs for your remaining tables, you don't cave and sit at the bar with Simon. You sit at the farthest table from him, the farthest chair, in fact, skimming over your tip receipts - and talking to Soap (who was only able to sit with you since you had helped him knock out his tasks).

Simon's never been as angry with Soap as he is now - and the worst part is he knows it's not justified. He's watching from behind the bar, polishing glasses so hard they might wane into cups. He wants to talk to you. He will talk to you before the night is over. He doesn't expect forgiveness, but he expects that you'll at least let him offer an apology.

One of the regulars at the bar looks to whatever Simon is glaring at, chuckling quietly when he sees you. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Stuff it, Mike." Simon grumbles.

Meanwhile, you walk back from closing out your last table, plopping back in the booth with Soap. "What are you doing after this?"

"Sleepin'." he replies instantly, tossing back an onion ring. "Been dealin' with a grumpy bawbag since early this mornin', and I'm beat."

You glance over at the bar; Simon's back is facing you as he organizes the beer glasses. You really should apologize to him... you just couldn't figure out when the right time would be. He'd still be working by the time your shift ends, and you don't even know if he wants to speak to you at this point.

"Is he mad at me?" you ask, tapping your pen on the table.

Soap sighs. "I'm not goin' t' be the middle man, Bonnie." he says, looking at you intently. "If ye feel like somethin' needs to be said, go talk to 'im."

You groan, leaning back against the seat. "It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"It just isn't! He's already pissed at me, and he probably thinks I'm a slacker. What good is an apology?"

"Ye won't know 'til ye talk to 'im, hmm?"

"What if he fires me?"

Johnny barks with laughter, and you frown. "I'm being serious."

"He'd never fire ye." he says, getting up out of the booth. He stretches both arms above his head and lets out a grunt. "In fact, he was throwin' a fit yesterday n' today 'fore ye came in. Bitch took it out on me."

You winced. "I'm sorry-"

"Save it fer 'im." Soap interjected. He left you at the booth with the onion rings and your tips, disappearing into the kitchen. You huff, hunching back over your tips and scribbling through them.

Deep down, you know Soap is right. If anything, you could just apologize to Simon. If he chooses to be grumpy about it, so be it. You've got tough skin... still, you can't stand the thought of him being upset with you - not because of your work ethic, but because you liked him. A lot. And you wanted him to like you back, even if it was in the most platonic way.

But that didn't change anything. An apology was due, and you were going to give him one before you left tonight.

You grabbed an onion ring and popped it in your mouth, grimacing when you realized they were cold. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Simon making his was across the floor to your booth.

Great. Guess the apology is coming now.

He stops at the edge of the table, wiping his hands in a rag. You pretend to punch numbers into your phone's calculator, but they're all random - you just want to look like you're busy.

"May I sit?" he asks, tucking the rag into his back pocket.

You mumble out a "sure", still not looking at him. You hear his large frame slide into the seat across from you, polyester squeaking underneath his weight. You continue to do random equations on your calculator, letting a thick blanket of tension settle between the two of you. You can feel his stare burning into your head, his arms folded over his chest... and you notice that his mask is in his hand. You finally look up at him.

It's not the first time you've seen his face - you've caught glimpses of it when he smokes in the alley, or when he eats whatever Soap throws under the warmer for you and Simon. But this time, he's not taking it off to be convenient. And, dear god, you're just now paying attention to how scarred, rugged, and handsome he is - but now's not the time for those kinds of thoughts. You feel like he's reaching out an olive branch, showing a possible vulnerable side to himself. So, you place your pen on the table and lean back.

He stays quiet for a moment longer, trying to figure out how to start this. He wants to make sure that you know he's here to apologize, not to ask for forgiveness. From his silence, you assume he's waiting for you to go first.

"I'm sorry about Tuesday night." you say, eyes dropping to the table. Simon's astounded that you're the one apologizing, but you continue. "I shouldn't have reacted the way I did, and I'm sorry for trying to dump my job on you."

He feels worse, now. Was that even possible? He was expecting anger, insults - a detailed, frustrated explanation of what you did last night since you did not go on that date. But you're the one saying sorry? You think you're to blame for all of this unspoken aggression? Oh, you really do confuse him, sometimes...

"You don't need t' be sorry, luv." he says, gazing at you with a softness you'd never seen before, not in his brown eyes, at least.

"No, I do." you say, nearly pleading with him to let you be apologetic. "I was being a brat, and whether you usually do the ice bins or not, I shouldn't have expected you would do them without asking." You push your pen on the table, doing your best to convey your feelings. "And yeah, I was late for my date, but... well, he sounded like a dick, anyways."

Simon chuckles, watching you stare at the table. "Well, I owe you an apology, too. I jus'..." he sighed heavily, running a hand down his jaw. "I don' even know. Guess I was bein' lazy, or... I got jealous tha' you've got a life outside of this pub. Feels like you belong here."

He immediately regrets saying that - it sounds way too possessive and... just straight up weird. But you smile, taking comfort in the fact that he still wants you here. That this was the whole reason behind the mess.

"Soap called you a bitch. Said you were an asshole all day."

Simon scoffs. "Yea... 'm pretty sure Price would tell ya the same. And he wants ya back, too. Couldn't stand waitin' on tables, he was tryin' t' trade places with me all night."

You laugh. The world seems alright again - not perfect, but good enough. It might take a night of sleeping the tension away before you're fully back to your normal self, but this is a leap in the right direction. You look at Simon, into his brown, steady eyes, as they stare right back at you.

He breaks the silence. "I really am sorry for ruinin' your date."

You smile softly. "Thank you, Simon. I forgive you."

And just like that, the weight of his guilt is lifted away. The lingering sourness remains, a reminder that he had made you cry. But you had forgiven him, which was more than he was hoping to get tonight.

"Are we better?" you ask timidly.

He nods once. "Better."

You smile - you slowly slide your stack of receipts to him, biting your lip. "Cool - can I have my money?"

Just like that, his smirk drops - but you know it's all in good humor. He huffs, snatching the stack from the table and scoots his way out of the booth. "Always got money on the mind, eh?"

"I've always got rent on my mind." you retort, following after him with the bowl of onion rings. You plant yourself at your usual spot on the end of the bar, right near the POS where Simon cashes out your tips. He tries to hurry up, assuming you want to dip and go home after such an intense conversation. He slides the mask back over his face and punches his code in, trying to edit your tips into the system as quickly as he can.

"Simon?"

"Hm?" his response is instant, turning around to look back at you. You've got your phone on the bartop, and your back and jacket on the unoccupied seat next to you.

"Can I stay for a drink?"

He's melting on the inside, only held together by his own skin. He sets your receipts down and opts to do them later, right before whenever you decide to leave. He won't miss on an opportunity to have you stay longer.

"Course, luv. What's it gonna be?"

"You know how to make a cosmo?"

He chuckles, grabbing a glass from the shelf behind him. "Sure do."

[moody-alcoholic]

Part 2 as promised.

Part 1

CW: Dead dove don’t eat, assault, mentions of SA, torture, suicidal thoughts, hurt/comfort.

_____________________

Ghost flicks the ash off his cigarette. 

“Do we know who we’re looking for?" Gaz asks. It's a pointless question. They know who they’re looking for. You’ve been mentioning a guy at work who has been getting a little too handsy. 

You were going to confront him in the new year with your boss. You didn’t want to ruin anyone's Christmas, now yours is ruined. 

People are starting to leave the office building now, it’s just past midnight. They watch in silence concealed in the darkness down an alleyway a few buildings from your workplace. Maybe this was the alley you were found down. It’s dark and cold, the businesses are all closed, it would have been easy to coerce you down, it makes his stomach drop. Someone hurt you, he hurt you. 

“Should have taken care of this sooner.” Gaz says. Ghost just hums watching as the lights in the buildings go off. The last few people are filtering out the building. Ghost straightens up flicking his cigarette but to the floor. 

“That’s him.” Ghost says, blowing out the smoke before reaching up to pull the familiar balaclava down over his face. 

_____________________

When the police arrive you feel somewhat sober. Your body is sore, your head throbbing. Seeing them walk in with all their gear makes you nervous. All of a sudden you feel like you’ve done something wrong. 

Johnny never leaves your side, he holds your hand stroking it with his thumb while the female officer asks you questions you don’t know how to answer. You still can’t remember what happened. You can piece it together though, you can tell by the hushed voices and the somber looks from people. 

The worst is the pain, the ache in your body every time you move, the bruises hurt the most.  Sometimes Johnny runs his fingers over them, his eyes going dark and he lets out a sigh. John stands at the end of the bed still, his gaze never leaves you unless someone enters the room. You just want to go home. 

The most embarrassing part is when they have to take pictures of your injuries. Your swollen eye is now turning black and blue. There’s bruises around your neck, talking hurts, swallowing’s worse. The nurse gives you more painkillers but it just makes you feel sick. 

John talks with the officers and the nurse after they’re done. Johnny tries to keep your attention on him. You feel embarrassed, the nurse said they did a rape kit, you don’t even remember that, the police need to take it for evidence. That makes silent tears come, you can’t stop them. 

“C’mon, none of that love.” Johnny says reaching up to brush them away. 

“I want to go home,” you sob. 

“We’ll be home soon, promise,” he smiles. You want a shower, you want to scrub your body clean. You feel dirty, your stomach is turning as your mind wanders to the unthinkable. You hope you never remember what happened, you fear you won’t be so lucky.

_____________________

Ghost’s fist meets his cheek, his nose is broken, his jaw will be next. Not now though, now they need him to talk. 

“Price says he’s on his way.” Gaz says as he walks back over to him. “Asked you not to kill him.” Ghost just grunts. 

Ryan, that's his name. You never mentioned that to them, you didn’t mention much just that he was making you uncomfortable. Gaz was right they should have dealt with this sooner. They shouldn’t have let you go to the party alone. Even before you left you had reservations. 

Ryan hasn’t said much. He was very drunk when they picked him up. He seems pretty sober now, he’s scared. 

Good, he should be.

Ghost wonders if you were scared, when you were assaulted. It doesn’t seem like you remember much, for your sake he hopes it stays that way. 

The door to the secluded warehouse opens, the sound of slamming metal echoes in the space. John bought this place a few months ago, used to store scrap metal. The place still smells of rust, but it’s outside the city center, it’s quiet and that's all they need. 

Price walks over coming out of the darkness. He doesn’t say a word, just takes in the scene. Ryan looks up, his eyes glued on the new person walking up to him. Price grabs the back of a chair and places it in front of him before sitting down. 

“Ryan, right?” He asks. The man nods. “Had a good night? He doesn’t move. 

“Do you like your job?” He nods again. Price leans forward. “So, let's have a chat about what happened tonight.” 

“Nothing happened tonight,” he says, swallowing hard. Price smiles at him for a second before sitting back up.

“Let’s try that again. What happened at the party?” Ryan looks confused for a second. Blood is still dripping from his nose, Price sighs this is going to be a long night. 

“Wait, is this all about her?” He asks looking up past Price at Ghost. “Look I don’t know what you think happened but she came onto me.” 

Price hums his hands gripping his thighs before getting up and moving the chair away. “Thing is, I just don’t believe you.” Ghost steps back over to him. 

“I’m telling the truth.” He pleads. 

“Nope, try again.” Price says. Ghost’s fist crashes into Ryans face. His head snaps uncomfortably, he spits blood coughing. 

“So what happened at the party?” Price asks again. 

“Who the fuck even are you!?” He shouts looking round at the 3 men standing in front of him.  

“That doesn’t matter.” Price says, Ryan scoffs spitting again. 

“Why do you care?” He asks, looking around at everyone. 

“It’s a simple question.” Price says bending down so his head is level with his face. “We can be here all night. Or you can be honest with us.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He says, there’s a shake in his voice. The adrenaline and alcohol pumping through his system is filling him with confidence. They have to break that first. Price sighs moving back to stand with Gaz. 

This time Ghost’s fist slams into his stomach. He buckles over in pain, crying out as he pants. Price doesn’t wait, striding over to him grabbing his hair, pulling his head back. 

“Okay, okay. But she was drunk!” He shouts, trying to fight Price’s grip. His arms and legs are tied to the chair. Price doesn’t let go of his head holding it back as far as it will go. 

“No. Try again.” Price says through gritted teeth. 

“I didn't do anything!” He says between breaths. Price looks up at Ghost and nods, Ghost unfolds his arms going back over to the car. 

“We can make this very uncomfortable for you. All we need is the truth.” Price says, pulling his head again. 

“I don’t know anything.” There’s a whimper in his voice, a crack in his confidence. They're getting there. Price forces his head straight as Ghost comes back over to them twirling the knife in his hand. Ryans eyes go wide, his arms and legs pulling on the restraints. Price keeps his grip firm on his head forcing him to look at Ghost’s hulking figure moving towards him. 

“Last chance.” Price says. Ryan doesn’t say anything, his eyes still locked onto Ghost. 

“I-I didn't-” He sucks in a breath of air swallowing. “She was drunk!” 

Price sighs, shaking his head. He looks up at Ghost, he can see the disgust behind his lieutenants eyes. 

Ghost plunges the knife into his thigh. Price lets go of Rhyn’s head as he screams.

_____________________

John left almost an hour ago. Johnny recommended a bath instead of a shower, so you could soak and warm up. He gets in the bath with you pulling your back up against his chest as you sit between his legs. The bath was a good idea, the water is almost too hot but you don’t mind. 

It feels good to be in Johnny’s arms. He helps you rub soap over your body. He’s gentle, pressing kisses on your shoulders avoiding your neck. You sigh, relaxing back into him. Your head is still stuffy, it feels like you’ve been run over by a truck. 

“Where is everyone?” You ask. 

“Out, they’ll be back soon don’t worry.” He says his voice is warm in your ear. His arms squeeze you closer to him. The memories of the night seem to be just out of reach, you remember a face though. 

“I know who it was,” you say your voice catches in your throat. 

“Shh, we don’t have to talk about it.” His hand comes to push hair behind your ear. You smile, you don’t want to talk about it but maybe it will help. 

“I have work tomorrow.” Your stomach sinks. The thought of going back to that place with him there. Having to spend the days avoiding him, brushing off his hands as they squeeze your ass or his fingers press against your breasts. You were going to talk to your boss about him in the new year. 

“No you don’t, don’t worry about anything.” He says kissing your shoulder again. You shiver, the water has lost its heat. Johnny shifts pushing you forward. 

“C’mon let’s get you into bed. You’ll feel better after a good sleep.” You don’t know if you believe him but he gets out the bath leaving you alone and cold. You feel dirty, used. You feel panic rising in your chest. As soon as you hear the door to the room open you lay down in the tub closing your eyes and holding your breath. 

Your mind goes back to the alley, it’s like flashes in your vision, the dump trash bin you’re uncomfortably bent over. A hand over your mouth then round your neck. The pain, the pain is unbelievable. You don’t remember how it happened, how you ended up there, the next thing you remember is a party of drunk women finding you. Then the paramedics showed up. 

Your lungs burn but you don’t care. You deserve the pain. Hands grip your arms pulling you up out of the water. 

“Christ love,” Johnny says, holding you against him as you pant sucking in breaths of air. The panting turns to sobbing. He reaches, pulling the plug out the bath and picking you up in his arms. 

“I know, love I know.” He takes you into the bedroom putting you down on the bed. You pull your legs up to your chest. Johnny dries you, rubbing you down while you sob. He brings pyjamas over, he helps you change, pulling the fresh clothes on you. You still feel dirty, maybe it will always be like this. You don’t want it to be like this.

“It hurts.” You say as he climbs into bed behind you. His arms wrap around you pulling your back against his chest. 

“You’re okay lass, you’re safe.” He kisses the top of your head. It’s not, it's not going to be okay. You just hope whatever the others are doing they’re safe. You miss them, you want to see them again. You want everything to go back to normal 

…

Simon crawls into the bed with you and Johnny. You’re asleep on Johnny’s chest. He shuffles up against your back wrapping his arm around you both. His hair is still wet from the shower. He kisses the top of your head. Johnny stirs feeling a hand grip his hip. 

“Did you get him?” Johnny asks, his voice still sleepy. 

“Yeah, we got him.” 

_____________________

[shanastoryteller]

Dean’s minding his own business, sipping on a beer and leering at the bartender, when a guy that admittedly has about four inches and a good twenty pounds of muscle on him storms over and shoves him in the arm.

He tenses, getting to his feet and preparing for a fight even as he’s wondering what he did to piss him off. Maybe the bartender’s his girl? Jesus, Dean was just looking, he can’t get mad at just looking when his girl look likes that.

“Dude, what the hell?” the guy demands. “I know you’re pissed at me right now, but just leaving me back there – do you know how many bars it took to find you? You’re a jackass.”

He’s not taking a swing, instead standing with crossed arms – fuck, this guy is huge, he’d really like to avoid a fight here – and scowling at him, his long hair falling into his eyes as he looks down at him. Dean wishes he had any idea what was going on right now. “Look, man, relax.” The guy’s eyes narrow, his shoulders lifting and expanding as he takes in a deep breath, as if he needs any help to look bigger. Before he can say anything, Dean adds, “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Fuck off.” He presses his lips together, somehow appearing smaller in the next moment without actually moving. “Look, I know you’re mad about heaven, you’ve made that pretty fucking clear, but you can’t just walk off and turn off your phone. I figured you were just being an ass, but something could have happened to you. If you’re ignoring me, at least let me know you’re ignoring me.”

The guy doesn’t look like he’s tweaking, or suffering some sort of head injury. His eyes are clear and his voice is steady. But Dean has no idea what he’s talking about. “Dude, you’ve really got me confused with someone else.”

“Dean!” he snaps, which woah, okay, he wasn’t expecting that. “This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing,” he says. “How do you know my name?”

He stares at him, uncertainty entering his eyes for the first time. “Are you feeling okay? You didn’t come across Zachariah or a witch or something in the past couple hours?”

He doesn’t know who Zachariah is, but the casual mention of witches makes him frown. Is this guy a hunter or something? He figures he’d remember meeting him, but maybe not.

“Everything okay over here?” Dad’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder, and Dean shifts enough to see him giving the guy a hard stare that has sent more than one man running in the other direction.

Dean almost rolls his eyes – he’s thirty one years old, he doesn’t need his dad coming over to save him – but he makes the effort so rarely that Dean can’t help but be warmed by it.

The guy pales, mouth dropping open as he stares at Dad like he’s seen a ghost. “You – Christo.”

Okay, definitely a hunter. Dad raises an eyebrow. “I’m not a demon.”

The guy grabs for Dean, yanking on his hand. Dean jerks back, but he’s already gotten his long fingers around his ring. He pulls it off and Dean is about to break his jaw to get it back, but he tosses it to Dad, who catches it on instinct. Dean doesn’t get it until he does. His ring is silver. He’s checking if Dad is a shifter, which okay, that’s one thing. Dean’s more concerned about how he knows his ring is silver. The guy’s voice cracks when he says, “Dad?”

Dad raises an eyebrow. “I think you’re a little confused.”

“Dean, what’s going on?” he asks, grabbing onto the sleeve of his jacket. Dean should push him off. “What,” his gaze drops down, and if possible he goes even paler. “Oh. Oh, fuck.”

Dean looks down, sees the guy’s eyes stuck on his amulet. “What?”

“I don’t understand,” he says, biting on his lower lip. “Is this some sort of – but you’re still hunters. Is Mom alive?”

Dean flinches.

“Okay,” Dad says. “That’s enough. You walk this off or whatever, but you do it somewhere else–”

“Dad, it’s me,” he says plaintively. “It’s Sam. Your son.”

Dean doesn’t remember moving, only that the next moment his hands are fisted in the front of this asshole’s shirt, his blood thrumming under his skin. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up.”

He puts his hands on Dean’s wrists, stupid earnest and soft and Dean’s going to kick his ass. “Dean. It’s me. I have to exist in this world, right? The demon was after me, if I wasn’t here then there wouldn’t have ben a fire, Mom wouldn’t have died, you guys wouldn’t be hunters. I have to be around somewhere.”

Dean tries to shove him away, but he won’t let go of his hands. “Shut up! You don’t – don’t talk about my family.”

The worst thing he ever did, his biggest failure. Sometimes the weight of it gets to be so heavy that it feels like it should be cracking his ribs, pressing his heart until it bursts. Sometimes he wishes it would.

He swallows before letting go with one hand and reaching into his pocket to pull something out. It takes Dean a moment to see it’s his amulet, the one he’s worn since he was twelve years old, back when Bobby still talked to them. “My name is Samuel Winchester. I was named after my mother’s father. I was born on May 2, 1983. When I was eight years old, Bobby gave me this amulet. He said it was a protection charm. I was originally planning to give it to Dad for Christmas, but he didn’t show up. Another in a long line of disappointments, right? So I gave it to you instead. Because even when you’re being a jerk, you’ve never let me down.”

Dean’s eyes are burning. He tries to shake off his grip, but he won’t let go. Why is Dad just standing there? “Stop! Stop. I don’t know what game you’re playing–”

“No game,” he says, gentle voice a counterpoint to the grip that’s absolutely going to bruise. “I need you to believe me, Dean, please–”

“My brother died when he was six months old,” he cuts him off. “Samuel Winchester is dead. He’s been dead for twenty six years.”

His fault, his fault, all his fault. If he’d just listened to Dad –

“Not where I’m from,” he says, and it’s crazy, it’s all crazy. “Please. Ask me anything. I’ll prove it. Hell, let’s go to a clinic, we can take a DNA test. I’m Sam. I’m your brother. And I need your help.”

“You mentioned a demon,” Dad says quietly.

The guy, who’s not Sam, who can’t be Sam, tears his eyes away from Dean to look at Dad. “Yeah. Azazel. The yellow eyed demon.”

Dad rubs a hand over his mouth. “I never told anyone about that.”

Dean snaps his head towards Dad. “What? You said you didn’t know what killed Mom! That we were searching for it!”

“We are,” Dad says. “It never resurfaced again. I’ve been looking for the signs.”

The guy frowns. “He started up again when I was twenty two.”

“Not here,” Dad says, looking him up and down, something hungry in his eyes.

Dad believes him. Dad thinks that this is Sammy.

“Let’s discuss this back at the room,” Dad says. “Come on.”

He heads towards the door, sure that he’s going to be followed. The – Sam, maybe Sam, he rolls his eyes, but goes after him. He only stops when his grip on Dean’s wrist jerks him back, because Dean’s not moving, can’t make himself move. He flushes, letting go of Dean finally, but he takes a step closer. His eyebrows pull together in concern, and now that Dean’s looking, he sort of sees it, sees the planes of Dad’s face and his eyes in this stranger with his brother’s name. “Hey, are you okay?”

No.

“Let’s go,” he says, striding forward, shoulders hunched.

Sam falls into step beside him easily, matching his strides like it’s second nature. Dean swallows around the lump in his throat and tries to pretend it means nothing.

[sistertotheknowitall]

Danny is Some Guy with a not so secret admirer.

Part four? Post #four? I don’t know, none of these are exactly in order. Post one, post two, post three.

——

By the time Tim opened the door, Danny had his coffee made and handed to Mia at the register. He resolutely ignored her smug face and went back to making the other orders.

Tim had been a regular long before Danny had started at the coffee shop but it was three days into Danny’s third week when Tim had stumbled in at eight a.m. and did a double take upon seeing Danny. A very obvious double take followed by intense staring before Mia had cleared her throat. The blush that lit up Tim’s face was only rivaled by the one on Danny’s.

He had never had anyone openly stare at him before.

Mia had been insufferable ever since.

It also didn’t help that shortly after their first meeting Tim had started taking his breaks at the little coffee shop. It’s been three weeks, nearly a month and Wayne Enterprise’s CEO went from a bi-weekly regular to an everyday one. (Danny wondered if he should be concerned for the man’s caffeine intake but he only had the one cup every time so probably not.)

Originally, Danny had no plans to talk to Tim. It seemed obvious the guy had a crush on Danny if the constant looks over his laptop were anything to go by and Danny didn’t want to encourage it. Danny barely had time to make new friends let alone start a relationship.

There was also the added problem of what was quickly becoming his bat stalkers. How do you explain to someone that you were being watched by Gotham’s vigilante’s for no reason? (Or worse because he had made a poorly timed sleep-deprived comment.) Danny didn’t think you could without seeming suspicious.

Incidentally though, Danny’s plan went out the window when on a slow afternoon as he was cleaning tables and passed behind Tim. Once he saw the article the other man was reading he snorted.

Bruce Wayne and The Batman? Could This Be A New Romance For Gothams Most Beloved Billionaire?

It was one of those gossip rags that printed things like: Elvis: alive and well and Superman: a mild mannered farm boy? It was all nonsense.

Danny asked Tim why he bothered with the site and Tim responded that he found it amusing to read and that his family had a group chat where they sent the articles to each other.

“Okay. But Batman? Really? Your dad could do so much better.”

“You don’t like Batman?” Tim asked. Danny had slid into the chair next to him and shrugged. “I respect what he does but for as intimidating as he is, he also seems a little silly.”

Tim had given him an incredulous look and Danny hadn’t given him time to ask for an explanation, “and his kids can be just as rude. Like that flying monkey one.” Tim choked on air and Danny politely waited for him to calm down. “Kids? Wait - flying monkey one? Which one -?”

“The one always doing back flips with the blue bird symbol. He’s also a dick that gives hypocritical lectures about fighting.” Danny wouldn’t say he hated the guy but he wasn’t sure how many more lectures he could endure before going ghost and fighting him.

Tim had turned to Danny completely and was watching him with a look of disbelief, “you mean Nightwing?”

“Is that his name? Imma call him Dickwing.”

Tim had started choking again, this time Danny patted his back hoping to help. Yet it was all for not once he kept talking, “I think I’ve only had positive interactions with the one who looks like a walking red flag.”

“Red flag? Do you men hood-?”

“No, although he is definitely a red flag, I mean the other Red one. I’m sorry, I don’t know all these peoples names yet.”

“Danny!” Mia called.

Danny stood and patted Tim, who looked a little shell-shocked, on the shoulder. “Well work calls, see you later Mr. Drake-Wayne.” As he walked away he heard Tim mutter “it’s just Tim.”

(Tim for his part, placed his head in his hands and thought, well at least I have his name now.)

After that first interaction Tim stopped playing the lurker and started to actually talk to Danny and vise versa. Danny never asked if he still had a crush on him, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Unfortunately, their growing friendship had only encoraged Mia as she happily sang “your boyfriend’s here!”

Danny, very maturely, did not stick his tongue out at her. He did however flip her off under the counter like an adult.

[luxcuriousao3]

Summary: You're Kyle's old friend, and you've had a crush on him for ages. Too bad he has no idea, and leaves you high and dry to fuck some other girl. Thankfully, Price comes to the rescue. Word Count: 2140 Warnings: sfw, emotional hurt/comfort, alcohol, can be read as platonic Price/Reader Notes: This was supposed to be about Gaz showing off his hot gf to the 141 and making them jealous... but he was not cooperating lol. So now we have this. If I ever continue this, it will be a Gaz/Reader/Price love triangle, but who knows if I'll get the inspiration or have the time lol. As it is right now, it's just a moment of Reader being sad and silly and Price being the gentleman we all know he is. (Masterlist)

Gaz hasn't done a modeling gig since before he signed up to join the military, but he keeps in contact with the friends he made during that part of his life. One of whom (you) happens to have had a crush on him for years.

You've never said anything, though, and Kyle either knows and ignores it, or is completely oblivious. Either way, when you meet his team for the first time, you entertain their lingering stares in a way you wouldn't usually, hoping it will make Kyle jealous. Hoping it will make him spontaneously realize that he's been in love with you this whole time.

No such luck.

Kyle is a gentleman, making sure you're safe and comfortable and having a good time, but he doesn't pay you any special sort of attention, playing pool with Soap ("Call me Johnny") and not turning away the girl who sidles up next to him, asking him to teach her.

You maybe, possibly, definitely drink too much to try and soothe the ache in your heart.

Kyle and Pool Girl leave together when you're only two drinks deep and can convincingly act the part of "sober friend who is definitely fine with being abandoned for you to go fuck a stranger, Kyle, absolutely, I'm going home soon anyway." Soap-Call-Me-Johnny slides into the seat across from you and next to Ghost ("If you call me Simon I'll shoot you.") He starts trying to chat you up, and he's at least a lot more personable than his masked teammate, who has been sipping his pint and staring at you unflinchingly for the last half hour while you pine for Kyle from afar. You're not entirely sure why Ghost was observing you so intently, but if you weren't already well on your way to tipsy-town, you'd be severely creeped out. As it is, you figure he's trying to a) decide where he recognizes you from or b) make you so uncomfortable you leave. Or maybe work up the courage to hit on you. Unlikely, given he hasn't said a word to you this whole time since introductions were made, but not entirely impossible. Unfortunately for him, if that's what he's going for, you're not biting. The whole silent and mysterious schtick is so not your thing.

Johnny, on the other hand, is definitely trying to hook up. He is not subtle about it at all, despite his superior officer being right next to him. But he, too, is not your type—charming and handsome, certainly, but too... energetic. You prefer a proper, refined gentleman—it's why you'd fallen for Kyle—and while Ghost is stoically silent, Johnny talks so much you can barely get a word in edgewise.

You think about giving Johnny some friendly advice that he should... not talk less, but perhaps leave openings for other people to respond. But based on the way Ghost is hanging off every one of Johnny's words, you're pretty sure you'd get a knife to the gut for your trouble.

Those two end up heading out together a while later, leaving you alone with Kyle's Captain—Price, you think. It's a bit hard to remember with how fuzzy your head has gotten, and Probably-Price seems to notice how done in you are just from a single look.

"Going to have to have a talk with Kyle about leaving a woman alone and vulnerable like this," he says as he gently loosens the death grip you have on the stem of your empty cocktail glass. You blink sluggishly at him, wondering if he's joking, but he seems genuinely upset on your behalf—lips pursed beneath his mustache, a furrow between his bushy brows, blue eyes flinty. His eyes aren't beautiful like Kyle's—big and deep and brown like a well-steeped cup of tea, or an expensive mahogany table, you can never decide which shade is closer—but you find yourself staring at them anyway.

In the dim lighting of the pub, they're more grey than blue, hooded and adorned with fine wrinkles at the edges, ones you didn't notice earlier but do now that you're up close. You know he's older than Kyle—and thus yourself—by a fair few years, and you feel a bit like a misbehaving child being caught out by their father.

"Sorry," you murmur, looking down at the table as you're suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to cry. You blink again to try and keep the tears at bay, but a sniffle escapes. Embarrassed and dizzy, you lay your head on the table with a groan.

"Didn't— didn't mean to so— to dr— to get so. Drunk," you finally manage to get out, words halting and slurred. Your embarrassment only grows worse at how badly you stumble through a single sentence.

"S'alright, love," Kyle's captain says, laying a comforting hand on your upper back and rubbing slow circles on it. It's grounding, and you focus on his touch, trying to still the spinning in your head. After a moment, he speaks again. "Let's get you home, hmm?"

You nod, peeling yourself off the table and trying to hop down from the raised booth. You realize what a stupid idea that is a second later when your spindly heels fail to hold up your drunken, uncoordinated weight—so much for having a model's grace—and with an undignified yelp, you face plant onto the floor.

Or you would, if Kyle's captain doesn't catch you the second you stumble, his big, warm hands landing on your waist as he redirects you to fall into him instead.

"Easy now," he says, deep voice rumbling in his chest—which is quite broad and solid, but not uncomfortably hard like the male models you usually work with—beneath your ear. You shiver at the feeling of the vibrations traveling across your skin, and it takes you a moment to realize you're turned on by it. You cringe at yourself, taking a deep breath to try and clear your mind so you'll stop acting so sloppy—but instead, you just get a deep whiff of Price's scent. That only makes your situation worse, because he smells good—like some sort of spicy cigar smoke, the top shelf whiskey he'd been sipping on, and good old English oak.

"You smell nice," you tell him, because you're drunk and have zero filter left. The regret is instant when you realize what you've said, but Price doesn't seem to mind, based on the low chuckle that escapes him.

"Thank you, darling," he says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice. At least one of you is having fun.

Kyle's probably having lots of fun with Pool Girl, a voice in your head reminds you none too kindly, and the tears escape before you can stop them this time.

A calloused thumb wipes the salty trails away, and Price grips your chin gently, tilting your face up towards him.

“What’s all this for, then?” He asks, and just like before, he truly seems to care. It’s that that makes you crack, you think. That and the alcohol.

“I— I got all dr-dr-dressed up for— for him and he— he w-went home with P-Pool Girl!” You sob, lips quivering and shoulders shaking. You probably have snot dripping down your face. Good lord, you’re a mess. You’re a mess and you’re probably embarrassing Kyle in front of his Captain—what if Price tells him how sloppy you’d gotten and Kyle never wants to see you again? Suddenly desperate, you clutch onto the man’s sweater-jacket, fingers twisting into the fabric as you stare at him with big, panicked eyes. “P-please don’t— don’t tell him or— or m-make him scrub the— um, the— the loos!”

“Oh, he’ll be on latrine duty for months, alright,” Price says darkly, and you wail. Loudly. Price immediately tucks your face into his neck to muffle the sound, petting your hair as he tries to calm you down. “Shhh, lovie, s'alright. You haven’t done anything wrong. M’gonna take you home now, yeah? Can you tell me where your place is?”

Through your tears, you tell him the address of the little flat you share with your roommate. You’re not well known enough yet in the modelling industry to get paid the big bucks, so you’re stuck with the other girl for now, no matter how nasty she can be.

You don’t remember most of the drive there—you think you must have fallen asleep at some point—but you come back to yourself when Price gently shakes you awake after parking in front of your building. He walks you to the door, putting up with you hanging off his arm like a limpet so you don’t fall again. There’s another blank stretch in your memory, but then you’re lying in bed, still in the outfit you had spent so much time picking out tonight, only for Kyle to barely look at you twice. You groan in embarrassment, pulling your legs up to your chest so you can curl into a ball and hide from the world—or you try to, but you abruptly realize someone is holding onto one of your feet. You shriek in fear, sitting up sharply—and then promptly plop back down when you’re hit over the head with vertigo so bad you almost lose your three (four?) espresso martinis and… however many shots you had. It’s definitely not good that you can’t recall, but at least you don’t have work tomorrow.

You suddenly remember that there is someone in your room and they are holding your foot hostage, so you do the only thing that you can think of in that situation—you try to kick them. From the loud oof you hear, you’re successful, and you feel momentary pride that you’ve wounded your would-be attacker—at least until he speaks.

“S’a strong kick you got there, love. Kyle teach you that?”

“Oh fuck,” you blurt out, because you recognize that voice. It’s Kyle’s captain. The man you’d confessed your crush on his subordinate to, cried all over, and made take you home. And now he’s here, in your room… holding your foot. For some reason. Drunkenly, you ask for clarification. “Why are you trying to steal my foot?”

There’s silence, and then a loud, booming laugh. He lets go of your foot, standing up so you can see the pair of heels he’s holding in his hands. Your heels. That you had been wearing. He was taking them off of you. To steal them.

“Wait, don’t— don’t take those, those are my— my, um. Lou— Loobtons. Loooobtons. Loo-ee-batons? Lubes. Um. My red bottoms… don’t take them. Please?”

“Nice as they are, darling, I’ve no need for high heels,” Price says, still chuckling, and sets the heels down the shoe rack next to your closet. “I’m not takin’ ‘em. Just didn’t want you getting your bed dirty.”

“Oh,” you say, blinking several times in a row, and then nodding. “Right… that— that makes sense. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Price echoes, and his face is kind of blurry because there’s two of him and you’re not sure which one to focus on, but you think he’s smiling. You wish you could see it better—he probably has a really nice smile. The two Prices move closer, leaning over you and turning you on your side.

“Um,” you say, because what else are you supposed to do in this situation? It’s starting to feel like all those anti-rape ads you always see. “Do I need to kick you again?”

Rather than be offended, Price just chuckles again, and you can’t help but calm a little bit at the sound of it. When he pulls a blanket over you rather than climb into bed behind you, you relax fully.

“Oh,” you repeat. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he tells you, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “And if you ever feel afraid like that, trust your gut. Better to overreact and be wrong than underreact and face the consequences.”

Price’s voice is darker now, harder, and you think you’re seeing a glimpse of the man that Kyle must know. It’s a bit intimidating, but also kind of hot, and you nod obediently. It’s good advice, after all.

“Thank you for helping me,” you say quietly. You may be drunk, but you still have manners. “You’re really nice, Mr. Price.”

A beat, and then you giggle at the unintentional rhyme, finding it hilarious in your drunken state.

“Call me John,” Price says, pulling up the blanket a little more when you shiver, so it’s right under your chin.

“Okay, John,” you agree easily, and then close your eyes. You’re exhausted, and heartbroken but trying not to think about it, and still really dizzy. Sleep sounds like exactly what you need right now. “Night night.”

“Goodnight, love,” John answers. You hear his footsteps walking away, but you’re out before he even reaches the door.