#THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THA

[xnalux]

streamergf!vi hcs

part 1

warnings: none, fem!reader

pictures are from pinterest and they're not mine

streamergfvi: before your relationship was oficcially out she made sure to always post pics on her ig to hint she was clearly taken.

@/vistandsforviolence: sucks to be you ;)

@sevikunt: the girl is a paid actor

@vistansforviolence: go suck a dick

but after she actually announced her relationship to her community she made sure to floods her socials with pictures of you two together she took on past dates or just candind pictures of you (she totally made an album titled ''baby'' the first time she met you in person where she kept all the pictures she ever took of you). Everytime she snatch a picture of you, she usually does it when you are in the worst conditions ever, and you ask her to delete it she just pouts at you.

''but you look so cute baby''

In the end she never deletes the picture.

streamergfvi: who plays on streams every indie games you recommend to her. Her followers are sick of it because she always ends up never sticking to her streaming schedule.

''All right guys, i know we were supposed to play resident evil tonight but...''

and the chat goes wild

@/piltegoth: dude not again

@/chadjayce: you are such a loser for pussy is embarassing

@/Ekk0: weakest butch on the internet tbh

streamergfvi: who when she is not streaming she's probably lost tinkering with some gadget or tech. you find her, more often tha not, in her room cross legged on the floor, hands stained with grease and a look of intense focus on her face that's utterly adorable. She doesn’t ever notice you till you stand right in front of her frame hovering over a half opened computer (yes she totally works on the floor).

''babe?''

she raises her head and her eyes totally brighten seeing you in front of her

''baby you're earlier you were supposed to be here at...''

she takes a look at the her wrist clock face (she wears a clock, it's hot) realising you are definitely not early and she totally lost track of time again.

''shit i'm sorry, the little shit was acting up again and…i'll quickly get ready for our date...''

she ramble getting up and you totally don't give a shit that she is late because her hands are covered in grease, and her muscles are in full view, little droplets of sweat glistening her skin, you thanks whoever invented tank top.

she shuts up only when you surprise her with a kiss, her hands comiung up to grab your waist as she pulls you closer to kiss you back.

''what was that for?''

she smirks at you when you pull away a little breathless. your arms around her neck.

''you look hot''

you just smile at her

''oh you think i'm hot all sweaty and covered in grease?’'

she teases you pulling you closer to her by your waist, one of her hand coming up to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear.

''you are gonna get my hair all greasy''

you giggle trying to get out of her grip. It usually ends up with her throwig you on her bed tickling you as you try to block her hands.

''just wait till i wash my hands''

streamergfvi: who has undiagnosed adhd and sometimes when you sleep over she wakes you up in the middle of the night still high on one too many energy drinks because she played a new game during her stream and literally can't wait till morning to show it to you. the only light in the room the one coming from her computer still on on her desk even tho she turned off her stream half an hour ago.

''baby are u asleep?''

You blink the sleep from your eyes and look at her, the picture of confusion and endearment. "What?"

"You've gotta see this! It's like someone took everything I love about games and put it into one amazing package!" she continues, her words tumbling over each other like a rock slide

''love it's 3am''

she gently grabs your wrist to pull you from the sweet cocoon of her bed

"I know pretty, but I just beat the first boss and I can't wait for you to see it!''

you end up cuddled in her lap on her gaming chair as she dives into the game rambling about all the cool stuffs you can do.

streamergfvi: who whenever she's got a new game that allows character customization makes sure to create a second one that looks like you. And it doesn't matter if she is on stream and her chat nags her to hurry the fuck up and just play the fucking game.

@/piltiesniperc: it's been 20 minutes

@/getjinxed: dude it literally looks just like her wtf

@/vistandsforvirgin: start the fucking game and stop being so gay

''just... almost done the lips are bugging me''

streamergfvi: who lets you put all kinds of stickers on her gaming set up and bought matching joystick and matching keychains and matching t-shirt. She literally loves matching shit.

streamergfvi: who thinks it's a good idea to let you cut her hair on stream. you stand there while she waves a pair of cooking scissors in front of the camera because ''scissors are scissors, they are gonna work just fine''.

''hello guys, today my pretty girlfriend is gonna cut my hair''

that's how you end up improvising yourself as an hair-stylist, almost poking one of her eyes out in the process because she can't sit still.

@/piltiesniperc: this is not what a meant when i said i liked lesbians scissoring

@/Ekk0: this is priceless

@/viktorious: omg i love when lesbians:

vi looks at herself in the camera moving her face from side to side, you definitely cut them shorter than expected and it's clear the haircut is uneven.

@/getjinxed: shit you look like a wet racoon, i need to see this irl

@/sevikunt: dumbest butch on the internet

as powder storms in vi room your eyes lingers on vi face and you just ask yourself how is it possible she looks even hotter than before.

''a wet racoon?''

vi asks offendend turning her gaming chair towards powder, who get closer to vi’s face with a little bounce in her walk and flashes her with her phone camera

''omg i need to show vander, you look ridicolous''

vi pouts turning to you

''do I really look like a wet racoon?''

and you can't help but giggle as you pull her from the back of her neck in a little kiss before whispering something in her ear, something that makes her cheeks flush and her lips curl upwards in a little smirks as she get up from her seat lifting you by your waist to get the both of you out of frame. The sounds of kisses and gigglies filling the room as powder quickly get in front of the camera.

''disgusting''

powder groan as she turn off the stream and sprint out of vi's room.

streamergfvi: who comes up with the most random questions. one minute, she'll ask about the plot of a game you’ve played a hundred times; the next, she'll muse on the theoretical physics of a game's universe. Her curiosity knows no bounds, and she's not afraid to dive deep into the rabbit hole of "what ifs" and "but whys" that often lead to the most entertaining conversations.

"Hey babe, do you think aliens would be into streaming games? What do you think their internet setup would look like?"

"If I started a podcast about the history of pencils, would you be my first listener?"

"What would happen if we tried to stream underwater?''

"Do you think I can teach myself to play the guitar while I'm streaming? It'll be fine, I've watched like three YouTube tutorials already."

''would you still love me if i had a third boob in the middle of my forehead?''

and the list could go on forever

streamergfvi: who hates being sick because she needs to stay put and just rest and she hates that but she kinda likes having you as her personal nurse. she wraps you both in a burrito of blankets, her hot skin flushing against yours as she tries to warm up her hands under your shirt.

''I'm gonna die''

she groans in the crook of your neck, her voice gruff due to her aching throat. you pepper small kisses over her head holding her close.

''your temperature is 37.7 baby, you are not gonna die''

you giggle endeared by your girlfriend anticts. she rases her head from your neck and look you dead serious in the eyes.

''i think i'm having auditory hallucinations''

she says and you know she is gonna say something stupid but you can't help yourself from asking anyway

''oh yeah? and what are they telling you?''

she smile playful at you, her hair disheveled and her cheeks flushed because of her fever

''that my only chance of surviving this is hide myself between your tits''

and she tucks her head under your shirt as you burst in a fit of giggles.

streamergfvi: who when you are the one sick drops everything she is doing to come to your house. A bag fulls of medicines and your favorites things which include your fav hoodie of hers because she knows it gives you comfort to wear it. she makes sure you are wrapped in as many blankets as she can finds before going to cook you soup and ends up spoon-feeding you while you watch the office.

''just another one pretty, you are doing so good''

she peppers your face with kissed even tho you remind her she is gonna get sick too

''i don't care, just pass all your sickness to me so you can get well''

and brush your teeth after you've thrown up before drawing you a bath and gently massages you shoulders.

streamergfvi: who’s love language is physical touch. And it's not just about the typical cuddling and kissing.

For her, it's about the little things that often go unnoticed, the constant reassurances of presence and connection.

when she's in the middle of a gaming marathon and you are sitting next to her, her love manifests in a gentle head pat, a playful nudge.

the way she always plays with your hair while you're watching a movie, or the constant need to have some part of her body touching yours while you both lay in bed.

And oh, the way she holds you. It's like she's trying to contain a tornado in her arms, strong, yet gentle.

Her love is the way she squeezes your hand tightly during a suspenseful moment in a game stream, transferring her excitement directly to you.

It's the gentle touch of her fingers tracing patterns on your skin when she's lost in thought, or the firm grip of her hand on your thigh when she's trying to focus and needs you as her grounding force.

It's the subtle brush of her hand against your leg while you sit side by side, the way she grabs yours during a particularly intense plot twist in your favorite show, and the warm pressure of her fingers on your back as she guides you through a crowded room. It's the way she kisses you goodbye, like she's trying to leave a piece of herself behind to keep you company until she returns.

Her love is a bit like her streaming setup, a little messy, a bit haphazard but genuine and raw and you wouldn't have it any other way.

an: I had so much fun writing this so let me know if you would like a part 3. Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read and interact with the part one, i got surprised by all the attention it got <3

I took inspiration from this beautiful art piece for the hair-cut part so credits to @ClaraDeArte on twitter

[oceantornadoo]

two strangers in a bar

ch 1 of the wrong john: masterlist | next

john price x f!reader (johnny's twin)

--

You figure one whiskey in the fancy bar across from your hotel can’t hurt.

Johnny put you up in a nice hotel, considerate with all the travel and logistics it took to get here. Two days of your PTO gone, an almost-argument with the gate agent who lost your luggage, chasing down an AirTag with said luggage, and a very uncomfortable taxi ride. But it was fine. It was for Johnny.

Johnny: the brother, the twin, you hadn’t seen face-to-face in over a year. The one who got in a screaming match with your Catholic family last Christmas over who he can love. Nevermind the sacrifices he makes for the safety of the world, it’s where he puts his dick that matters to them. You told him it was bullshit and thus remained the only family member he contacts. You were worried for a second that he’d group you in with them, would sever your holy twin connection for it, but you should have remembered who you were thinking about. If anything, you’d do that to Johnny before he did it to you, a fact you both pretended did not exist. That scrappy self-awareness that somehow only you had been born with, mistaking protection with isolation. So when he said he had a slow week, said he had a partner (a boyfriend!) he wanted you to meet, you couldn’t say no. That was as good as siding with your family.

The meeting was tomorrow (“1000 sharp, m'eudail. Come t’ base an’ we’ll show ye around. Yer gonna love Simon, ‘es all claws like you.”) For the oddest reason, you were nervous. It wasn’t like Johnny needed his family’s approval, if anything, you needed to meet the approval of his found family. The one he created when he left, the one he was slowly opening to you like a secret garden. One sense of a parasite and the gate would be locked forever. He never said as much, too happy-go-lucky for that, but you could sense the protectiveness behind his words during glitchy monthly phone calls. “Price, Gaz, an’ there’s the L.T. Calls himself Ghost but ‘es more bark tha’ bite. You’ll see, m'eudail.” And so you ordered a whiskey to quell the nerves.

“Miss, a drink for you.” The bartender placed a gin and tonic down that was certainly not what you ordered. “I’m sorry, I wanted a whiskey? You can take this back, I haven’t touched it, I swear.” He shook his head, reaching down to grab a whiskey glass. “‘S from the gentleman on the corner. Told me to say our gin is better than our whiskey, which I disagree with, but whatever pays the tips.” He placed a glass of whiskey (on the rocks) in front of you. “Both are on the house, courtesy of your admirer. Let me know if ya need anything or he bothers you.” You nodded your thanks, glancing around for this mystery man. The bar wasn’t too packed but with a game of football on, there were more single men than not.

Finally, you felt a pair of eyes on you, sticking to the back of your head like honey. You turn and there he is, icy blue eyes and a lumberjack look, bearded in flannel. He’s broad and he knows it, carrying himself with the grace of self-confidence. To add to it, he’s sitting alone in a back corner table, perfect view of all exits (like how Johnny told you to look for one tipsy night eons ago.) When you catch his eyes, he raises a glass, giving you a glimpse of hands you want to examine. Are they soft or worn? What about his beard? You promised yourself a drink to settle you nerves, a bubble bath and lights out before 11, but he’s throwing a wrench into your plans. It feels like foreshadowing, to what you don’t know.

“Bit rude to tell the bartender you don’t like his whiskey. Doesn’t give a good first impression.” Somehow, your feet took you over to his table without your permission. You’re standing while he’s sitting and somehow you’re still tilting your head to meet his eyes. They’re darker than they were on first glance, swimming with something that sends a shiver down your spine. You purposefully take a sip of whiskey, your gin and tonic abandoned at the bar, to will that feeling away.

“Jus’ givin’ some advice to a pretty traveler. Can’t have y’ thinkin’ this part of London has no drinks f’ a woman like you.” You find a gray hair in his beard and track it to the curve of his lips as he speaks, taking in the small details you couldn’t see from the bar. Like the way his eyes crinkle in a world-weary manner or the gruffness of his tone, like he’s used to giving orders rather than initiating conversation. It’s your new mission to unpeel the layers of this man tonight.

“And how did you know I’m a traveler? Could be a local for all you know.” He snorts, and in any other man, the arrogance would put you off, but it’s somehow attractive on him. “Well, sweetheart, everyone’s payin’ attention t’ Arsenal playin’ an’ y’ve barely given ‘em a glance. And any local worth their salt knows the whiskey here is watered down an’ grimy.” You take a sip of your drink, again, to prove a point, biting back a grimace at the taste. You can’t let him win.

“Does that make you a local?” Gracefully, he ignores how you could barely swallow down the last drop in your cup. Instead of answering, he signals the bartender for two gin and tonics, then gestures at you to sit in the other seat at his table. His silent command, and consequential dismal of your question, pulls at a string in your belly you didn’t know existed. Perhaps it’s the whiskey.

“Nah, ‘v been around. Been in London for work a while an’ hav’ learned about whiskey choices the hard way. And you? Not from ‘ere, can tell by the accent.” You write that down in your imaginary notebook, hoping a whiskey enthusiast doesn’t equal a reliance on alcohol. You’re fast to determine red flags, especially with strangers. “From Scotland but haven’t been home in a while so the accent’s a bit over the place. What’s your work?”

He takes a sip of the newly arrived gin and tonic, savoring the taste with his tongue. It darts out to catch a drop the edge of his lip and you’re hit with visions of where else he could put it. God, you don’t even know his name yet. “Security consultant. Protectin’ whatever they pay me to protect. An’ you?” It’s a lie. His eyes don’t stray from your face but your bullshit-o-meter is ringing somewhere. You let him have it, deciding a lie for a lie is the best way to go.

“I’m interviewing with a company around here, so I’m currently in between jobs. But I trade in corporate bullshit.” He chuckles, smooth and low like good whiskey, and it’s enough that you forgive the lie, letting it gather dust in the back of your mind. “My name’s John, sweetheart. An’ yours?” You murmur it sweet and slow, fluttering your lashes to lock in the deal. It’s near 10 now, and you don’t want to be yawning when you meet Johnny tomorrow. You have a feeling the man in front of you could keep you up all night if you let him.

John pulls your chair into his until your thighs are slotted in between each other like puzzle pieces. “Got any plans tonight?” You shake your head no, pressing your leg into his own. The harsh denim of his jeans scrapes against your well-worn ones, reminding you of how rugged he seems. You want to see how untamed he can be, and your panties dampen at the thought.

“Well, John,” you overemphasize the last syllable of his name to make sure he’s paying attention. “My hotel is across the street if you need to expand your London knowledge. Really give you that local aura.” His thumb grazes your knee, stroking against the grain pattern. “Sounds good t’ me, sweetheart. Let’s give it a go.”

–

Few thoughts:

m'eudail - my darling, my dear

The base is on the outskirts of London but the hotel is in the city because I said so.

I don’t know anything about London football, Arsenal was the first team that showed up. Thanks google

This was all build up but the next chapter will have some smut! 

This is more for a plot based audience so here’s my AO3 if you’d like to subscribe

Comment if you want to be tagged 🙂

[xxplastic-cubexx]

thought you'd enjoy this art by ozanpulat on insta.

OH I DO I DO VERY MUCH ENJOY THIS

[theorist-fox]

Paint

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4

Word Count: 5.3k

Summary: You and Simon share a cigarette. He slips up, and shares something more.

18+

CW: smut, not explicit. angst. hurt/comfort. miscommunication. mutual pining. and guess what, my favorite tag, simon ghost riley is bad at feelings.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

“Need to rest?”

You doubt he hasn’t heard you arrive, even if he’s facing the opposite way. It’s true, you could’ve gotten rid of at least the Kevlar vest or taken off your boots—but being in a safehouse doesn’t mean it’s literally safe, and you don’t like taking risks. Plus, there’s no time for getting dressed if there’s an emergency.

That's why you're sure he's heard you: boots thudding against the floor, the bulletproof vest scraping on the cotton of your uniform, the carabiners hanging from your tac belt, or the gun on your hip that clicks when you walk.

Normally, those sounds are muted; muscles and bulk don’t necessarily mean you move like a bull in a china shop. But you know the beast, now dormant, that is sitting on the floor right at your side.

Fucking bat.

He could move exclusively through echolocation, eyes closed shut; who knows? You wouldn’t put it past him.

You think you should start spreading the rumour, just to watch people shit their pants even more when he walks past. It’s already a sight you swear by, the way their faces pale while you stride beside him, dipping your chin to your chest to hide the quiet giggles—why not add some spice to it?

However, your fun thoughts are interrupted by the man himself.

“S’my turn tonight.” He replies listlessly, eyes locked on the door—armoured, triple-bolted, locked handle, and trip wire at the entrance, courtesy of Soap. He wanted to be safe, he said. Sure—being in a safehouse doesn’t necessarily mean you’re safe, you agree, but Simon always likes to take things to the next level. And Price only feeds that urge, twice as paranoid as your not-so-friendly Ghost.

His watch has started three hours ago, and would you look at that? The door is still there. Closed. Bolted shut. Unexploded. Shocking.

You wonder why the five of you are even bothering with rotations when the place is quite literally a bunker a few feet underground, and if someone were to walk in unannounced, their arse would blow up to bits thanks to Johnny’s intricate wire trap.

But oh well. Simon is like that, and Price is even worse, so you’ll give in to their wishes like Kyle and Johnny did and take it the way it comes.

Then again, sleep isn’t apparently in your plans, and four eyes are always better than two, so you plop on the floor next to Simon, legs outstretched in front of you, mimicking his posture.

You nudge his ankle with the tip of your boot, because he’s freakishly tall, and your foot won’t quite reach his. He bends his knee enough to nudge you back.

“I can take over,” you tell him, knocking the back of your head against the wall. “Can’t sleep anyway.”

You feel his eyes on you, lingering like the muzzle of a gun to your temple, but it’s just a threat—you know he won’t shoot. Though hatred is permanently carved in his eyes—some leftovers of a past life—it feels more like a burning weapon poised to pierce your head, one that never quite follows through.

He’s kinder than he looks.

“Nightmares?”

“No.”

“Go on, then.” Simon says, with a jerky nod of his jaw your way.

“Feel a little restless, I guess.” You reply with a shrug, as if this is your daily routine by now. “Not exactly a comfortable place, this one. Plus, cap snores.”

He snorts. You smile.

“Loud engine, tha’ one.” He comments, returning his eyes to the door.

“You do too, y’know? Well, you don’t snore much, but,” you gesture with your finger at your mouth, “you grind your teeth at night.”

“Ain’t snorin’, tha’.”

“Still,” you purse your lips in a cheeky smile, “Annoying—that.”

You watch him give you the side-eye of the century. The blueprint of it. But it lasts a second before he returns his focus to the door, as if afraid it might run away or something.

"No one’s makin’ ya, y’know?" he drawls. "Don’t have to sleep over—could always jog on after you’re done.”

After you’re done, he says—as if it’s a chore.

You hate when he takes ten steps back after he’s taken one forward. One day he’s all up in your business, worrying his mind and his heart, and the next he tells you to go take a hike after you’re done.

It makes your belly churn and melt like he’s pouring acid over it—you’re in too deep, and you know it. But you're too much of a coward to drag yourself out of the muck of this relationship. You’d rather sink into its depths and be swallowed whole than face the thought of never seeing him again. You’ve already come to terms with that truth—it doesn’t get easier at all, though.

Instead of biting back, you roll your head his way and smile, small and genuine.

“I like sleeping with you.”

His shoulders tighten as if he’s startled by the way you replied so transparently, but he keeps his eyes on the door, giving you nothing else to work with.

“You don’t?” You venture.

No feelings, Sarge—you can practically hear him say in the silence that hangs tersely between you. Simon will die on that hill; you’re sure of it. Even if sometimes he slips and cares, says words you’d never think to hear from his mouth, fucks you too slowly for it to be considered just sex, it’s just the way it is, the way he says.

You know he’ll never leave his shell. Where he’s comfortably lonely, where he’s secure and safe. Whether he cares for you or not, the wall’s too high to climb, too thick to blow.

But the awful person here is not him for behaving the way he does; it’s you for putting your heart through the meat grinder knowing fully well it’ll come out like butchered meat.

If you're looking for someone to hate, Simon isn't the one.

“Negative.” He drawls.

You shift uncomfortably next to him, subtly pulling away a few inches from his leg.

But then he adds, “Toss an’ turn too much. Hog the covers.”

You stiffen and scowl. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Well, you could always yank them back,” you reply, sounding a little too petty for your age.

Simon finally turns his head your way, but now it’s you who’s glaring holes into the (shockingly) still unmoving door. His eyes linger on your profile for a second too long, and you’re just about ready to bite back with some snarky comment about him taking a picture so it’ll last longer when he speaks first.

“Don’t have the heart to wake you up.”

You feel something inside you soften and melt. Gingerly, you turn your head his way.

Your eyes lock, and his are creased at the corners—not with a smile, but with tender attention, as if he’s taking in the details of something worth his time, his concentration.

You plaster on a smile that’s both embarrassed and pleased, as your cheeks warm over.

A soft huff to blow out the heat gathered right under your skin, and then you’re nudging his shoulder with your hand. He dramatically lolls sideways.

“That must be the nicest thing you’ve ever told me.”

He nudges you back, and you dramatically flop on your side. He snorts.

“Don’t get used to it.” He says, and gently curls his fingers around your forearm to lift you up.

You’re unexpectedly pulled in until you’re tucked in his side. The team is right behind a thin wall, and the knowledge initially turns your body into stiff marble. While their snores signal that your privacy is safe, you don’t want to repeat past mistakes. No matter how alluring those memories are.

But still—you don’t fight Simon’s hold around you; you don’t dare.

You trust his judgement and progressively melt into him, nestling your cheek on his chest as he drapes his arm over your shoulders. Nice and comfortable, in spite of how hard it is with all this stupid gear strapped on both of you. The Velcro on one of his front pockets scratches your skin, but the rest of you is so cosy that you don’t care. You toss one leg across his, and he doesn’t flinch or pull away.

“Can’t wait for evac to come get us,” you sigh. “I’d kill for a smoke.”

Simon squeezes your shoulder. You decide to take it as a green light to rest; your eyes flutter closed almost automatically, as if he’s pressed a button the moment he pulled you in. Grateful, you bask in this brief show of care—allowing Simon to take that one step forward, fully knowing he’ll just take ten steps back the next chance he gets, because that’s simply how he is.

He doesn’t add anything to your comment, probably registering it as further small talk, and you know he doesn’t care for that. He has a sort of internal threshold about how much mindless chatter he can tolerate in one sitting. You're aware of it, and you don’t mind, instead taking the quiet moment for what it is: a fragment of peace.

His heartbeat is faint to your ear, too many layers between you and his chest for you to hear it clearly. His thumb swipes softly on the fabric of your uniform. And he’s warm, like a furnace rumbling with rekindled fire. Suddenly, sleeping sounds much less of a hassle and more of a treat.

Simon’s chest rises softly under your cheek. The buzzing of the neon lights overhead turns into pleasant white noise, much like the obnoxiously loud snoring coming from the bedroom behind the wall where you and Simon are leaning.

It’s only after a few moments that he shifts—imperceptibly, like the subtle man that he is. But you catch it anyway. Spec Ops and their senses, right?

Yet you trust him, so you don’t bother opening your eyes. You count your blessings, and they are few: Simon holding you to his chest while hostiles run rampant right above your heads is at the top of the list right now, and you won’t let it slip.

But then—a tap on your nose. A featherlight touch of something papery that finely crinkles when it meets your skin. You scrunch your face and force your eyes open to see…

…a cigarette.

You blink yourself awake, though you hadn't fallen deeply enough into sleep for it to be startling.

“For me?” You ask, craning your neck to look up at him, only to find him already gazing down at you.

“If you’re polite ‘bout it.” He replies, tapping the tip of the cigarette on your nose again.

You smile. “Please?”

He hums approvingly and slots it between your lips. Plucks the Zippo lighter from one of the front pockets of his vest. Swiftly flicks it open.

The flame dances before your eyes, blue hues growing into yellows and oranges. You lean closer, allowing the tip of the cigarette to hover right into it, until the white paper burns dark, until it finally glows red.

The first drag you take feels like a warm hug. Not often do you have the chance to sit back and smoke while on the job—the glowing cherry is like a big, fat, neon arrow pointing at your head for eventual snipers. Too dangerous to even try.

But six feet underground (quite literally), inside a windowless, armoured bunker, you’re safe from unwanted scopes and deadly bullets. And your cigarette is your prize right now, so you savour it like you should.

You groan in bliss, smoke leaving your lips in foggy curls.

“Lifesaver,” you murmur, returning your head to his chest.

He squeezes your shoulder. “Easy to please.”

You snuggle closer, and he holds you there in comfortable silence. But he’s incredibly tactile tonight: fingers draw mindless circles on your shoulder, while his other hand has found purchase on your thigh, thumb swiping back and forth along the inner seam of your trousers.

It’s not sexual. You think you’d recognise when Simon’s touch turns into something carnal and covetous. No, now he’s just… touching. Sensing. Testing the softness of the meat of your thigh between his fingers, feeling the curve of your shoulder with his pads. It feels like he’s blowing softly at the cinders of a fire that’s been smothered by the more grievous events of this long operation. It torches your belly; rekindled flames gently lick at your skin, until you feel soft and malleable, warm and weightless.

You smoke peacefully, eyes occasionally fluttering closed. Subtle shivers run through you when his hand travels to your side, right where the bulletproof vest doesn’t cover. 

Three or four drags in, a gloved hand appears before your eyes. He beckons with his fingers.

A breathless chuckle. A fond roll of your eyes. You tap the column of ash off the tip and place the cigarette between them.

Simon uses his thumb to lift the mask off his face until it bunches up on his forehead. You shift enough to sit upright and tilt your head his way.

His cheeks are flushed red, irritated by the continuous rubbing of the balaclava. Slivers of paler skin stretch across his cheekbones and upper lip—knotted scars that have always been there, disrupting the growth of his stubble and the smoothness of his skin. Yet now, after tracing them time and time again, they blend in so seamlessly that you have to focus to even notice them at all. Lost their shock value, they have. Now, they’re just small pieces of a puzzle—insignificant in the grand scheme that is Simon.

He brings the cigarette to his lips. His cheeks hollow as he takes a lungful of smoke. It puffs out of his lips a moment later, as he sighs with the same relief you did moments earlier. Just like that, his apparent tranquillity infuses you with the same peace.

“Don’t finish it.” You murmur, very aware that if he did, you wouldn’t mind.

His mouth twitches, and his pupils swivel down to where you’re nestled in his side. Honey lashes fan his cheekbones, eyelids smeared with black greasepaint that makes the chocolate of his eyes look like the warmest of browns. Dark ripples mottled with gold.

“Learn to share.” He drawls, but contrary to his words, he brings the cigarette to your mouth.

You wrap your lips around the orange filter, brushing briefly with the pads of Simon’s gloved fingers. Another intake of smoke has your shoulders relax, but before you can breathe it out of your system, Simon tilts your chin up with his thumb and leans in dangerously close.

Not that you haven’t been this close before, of course. You’ve had him kissing you silly, mouthing at your skin, or drowning between your legs. But to your poor battered heart, every time feels like the first. A blessing, because you’d never trade this feeling for anything in the world. A curse, because it’s a lonely one.

Smoke billows from your parted lips into tendrils that travel upwards and sting your eyes. You don’t close them, but your eyelids fall a little heavier—though you don’t blame it on the smoke.

He nudges your nose with his, instructing you to tilt your head back.

You do.

His thumb tugs your chin, gently forcing your mouth to part. Your stomach flips and twists, leaving you dizzy and unsure of which way is which. The flames from before are melting you inside out now, burning liquid pooling at your lower belly. It makes you muscles clench, your thighs squeeze.

Simon’s eyes stay on yours as he brings the cigarette to one corner of his lips. He takes a purposeful drag. The burning paper crackles. The sound is ten times louder to your ears.

Your blood pumps madly—you feel it run and collect in the apples of your cheeks, in your head, spinning and spinning, until your thoughts are blurry and disconnected.

The arm coiled around you curves so that he can trace your shoulder, following the outline of your gear, and then his hand settles around the side of your face. He keeps you still, fingers flexed at your jaw and thumb dimpling your cheek. The cold leather of his glove should counterbalance the warmth blooming right under your skin, giving you some sort of comfort, yet it’s such a jarring contrast that it only causes the air to lodge in your throat.

The intensity in his eyes, masked by the usual indolent display, is not lost on you; he makes it impossible, unthinkable, to look away. The air around him is stuffy, almost suffocating, and the haze of the smoke, with its pungent smell, doesn’t help. Yet somehow, it makes him look so unbelievably soft, like everything around him is dimmed and unimportant. Like his eyes are all that matters, or the shape of his lips and the slight crook of his nose.

The hand holding the cigarette goes to rest on your thigh. It tenses under his touch, and he squeezes it until it softens right under his palm.

Smoke leaves his lips, then, billowing right into yours. It travels down your tongue, pungent and hot, even richer in taste after it’s been in his mouth, too.

Something tightens in your belly. Makes your head spin further and your hands tremble, as they lie rigidly at your sides. Tension spreads through your body something fierce, muscles coiled in beautiful anticipation, but the lines in your face are smoothed down when Simon brushes his thumb on your cheek.

You inhale. Nicotine travels down your lungs and inflates them with the earthy notes of tobacco, the subtle hint of mint of a gum he must’ve chewed on before, the humidity of his warm breath.

“Like that,” he breathes hoarsely, abandoning the effort of sounding even remotely unaffected.

You blink slowly, exhaling a fleeting cloud of smoke back into his mouth.

“What?” You ask, so quietly you can’t even hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat.

The cigarette is presented right next to your face, once again. The column of ash at the tip is longer than the portion still available to smoke. As Simon brings it to your lips, you see it crumble onto your trousers in your peripherals. You don’t care.

“Learn to share,” he repeats hoarsely. “Just like that.”

And he nudges your lips open by slotting the filter between them. His gaze falls on them like it’s inevitable, like his eyes are metal and your mouth is a magnet.

You take a slow drag, watching his face with hooded eyes. Simon follows raptly the way your cheeks sink, how your lips curl. He’s lost his subtlety now, more obvious when you notice the heaviness with which his throat bobs.

Gingerly, you raise a hand to hook your fingers at the shoulder straps of his vest, pulling him in. He slowly follows your lead, inching closer once more.

Smoke flows from your mouth to his, a wave of soft grey tendrils that tethers Simon to you. And he breathes it in, breathes you in, closing the gap.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that couldn’t be considered one for how faint it is. But his arm, still curled around your shoulders and holding your face steady, tightens just a fraction.

Simon brushes his nose with yours. His head cocks sideways, and he presses his mouth to you again.

You feel like every nerve ending that’s being touched is set ablaze, synapses overriding in the poor attempt to concoct a thought, a word, a breath. Nothing leaves you, if not a trembling sigh that stings with nicotine.

Simon pulls back. You whine pathetically, and you don’t care, as your eyes flutter open—you hadn’t even noticed you’d closed them at all. You trace a path from his lips upwards, studying intently the lines in his face and the way the camo paint hasn’t managed to settle in the wrinkles around his eyes, in the furrow between his brows.

Pinched, they are. As if that kiss has worried him more than any bit of sex ever could.

Your heart clenches at the thought. Writhes pitifully, as if it could talk him out of his spiral, bring him back to you, burn his lips to yours until they merge into a single fucking entity that’s impossible to tell apart.

But he nods softly, then. Your chest unravels, lightens. You nod back.

The cigarette in his hand falls forgotten on the dark concrete floor. His palm lands on your waist, fingers delicately tugging at the bulletproof vest.

His lips find you again. Softly, like he’s testing waters he’s already more than navigated—conquered, even. Mouths slot perfectly like they’ve been trying to do this thing all this time, all along.

You return his kiss with the same caution, trying to quell that fire ignited in your belly. Soft pecks echo in the quiet room, drowning the sounds of your teammates sleeping just behind the wall, the flicker of the lights overhead. Focusing on Simon’s lips, on his taste, and the slight twitch of his brow pressed to yours.

You busy your other hand by hooking it around one of the front pockets of his vest, where a magazine sits. His chest rises heavily under the press of your palm.

Without ever breaking apart, you shift until you’re on your knees, gaining the rare advantage of height. Simon tilts his head accordingly, resting it back against the wall. Your hands initially settle on his shoulders, then on the slopes of his neck, thumbing gently at each side.

He holds you uncharacteristically tender, a hand on your waist and the other on your thigh, where he pats once, twice, until you’re following silent instructions and end up straddling his lap.

Simon’s kiss never stops, nor does it deepen. He teases your lips with his own, leaving gentle pecks that have your stomach erupt in butterflies, your throat tight and suddenly parched.

You wonder if this is the moment in which he slips one hand under the waistband of your trousers, like he always does. Whether he’ll settle on teasing the blooming wetness on your knickers until he’ll feel merciful enough to travel past the cotton and plunge his fingers into you. Or if he’ll simply skew the gusset of your panties to the side and touch you, formalities set aside.

He does none of that.

Instead, his hand settles at the back of your head, the other one on your waist. You flutter your eyes open, only to find his completely shut—and if Simon Riley dares to look so peaceful, you’ll allow yourself that blessing too.

You lose yourself in him, sharing unhurried kisses only framed by the ripping sound of velcro being unstrapped—his fingers working deftly with your tac vest at your sides. You help him out, lifting your arms so he can take it off.

Simon tosses it behind you. Pulls you back down to him again, with long fingers keeping you still by your nape, while other hungry ones untuck your shirt from your trousers so they can feel your skin. Your stomach ripples when he touches it.

His palm explores, follows the curve of each fold, of each line, tracing a path that warms up under his hand and pitifully freezes when he leaves it unattended. Until the tips of his fingers reach the underline of your bra. You sigh softly in his mouth.

“Yes?” He breathes.

“Yes.” You reply.

It must make something tick in his brain, because his painfully obvious tent pressing up to you twitches under your weight.

Simon kisses you slowly as he palms at your breast right above the cottoned bra, causing your sex to flutter around nothing, yet not in a way that feels unfulfilling.

He spares no more seconds to hook his fingers around the central seam of your bra, pulling down.

He cups one of your breasts as it spills out—feeling its weight in his hand, thumbing softly at the nipple until it hardens, until you feel just enough out of breath.

You think you feel him tremble when he leaves your mouth to travel with featherlight kisses down your jaw, nipping right under the bone, where your flesh is plumper. You shiver and tilt your head to give him more room to work with, offering your neck to satiate his appetite.

His kisses are open and wet, but no less patient, as if he thinks he has all the time in the world to savour you until he’s content. He doesn’t; you know it, but you can’t summon the courage to remind him of where you are, of the possibility of onlookers.

No, because he’s tender, he’s kind, he’s bordering on reverent, as he kisses your neck, as he touches your chest.

His hand follows the indent of your spine, settling at the base of it and toying with the hem of your shirt only to lift it up and brush your skin. Hairs all over your body stand on end. You breathe heavily and slow, steadying yourself with your hands on his shoulders—your fingernails digging in as if that might help you quiet down.

“Y’ taste good," he whispers to your skin.

Your lips twitch in a smile.

“Haven’t showered in days,” you reply just as quietly.

He bites into your neck. Your spine arches in brief shock, and he keeps you from falling backwards with his palm at your back.

“An’ yet,” he drawls, pulling back just to lift those dark eyes at you, “Sweet as a peach.”

The softest grin spreads on your lips almost reflexively.

“Flattery will get you—”

“Anywhere,” he interjects, lifting your shirt to expose your chest until the fabric bunches right above your breasts.

You let him, perhaps proving him right. Even so, you cup his cheeks when he eases in closer, leaving open kisses at your sternum. The paint over his eyes transfers to your skin, leaving darkened streaks of sweat and black grease.

You briefly wonder if your neck looks the same, or if there’s any residue left on your face. If he’s unknowingly marked you in such a spontaneous way, simply because it was meant to happen. The quiver in your chest becomes easier to understand then—a sense of belonging in the shape of messy grease marks left in Simon’s wake.

He murmurs something you can’t quite place, hushed and lost in the haze that has been building in your head, in the thunder of your heartbeat. You hum inquisitively, brushing your hand through his dampened hair.

He repeats himself. You hear him now. You do—quite clearly, actually.

“Missed you,” he says.

The poor thing that’s your heart cracks fiercely. You wish it were a neat fracture, easier to piece back together, but it’s jagged and dangerously sharp instead.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. It’s a plea, because there are only so many lies you can take in exchange for a fuck.

His hands connect with each side of your waist, grasping at the flesh to keep you still. He doesn’t use that grip to grind your hips to his own, he doesn’t use it to relieve the tension of his hardened sex.

He uses them simply because he can. Because he wants to. Wants to feel you, touch you, sense where you are, while his lips explore somewhere else, where your flesh is softer and plumper, more sensitive.

“I did.” He insists breathlessly, careful not to raise his voice. “Fuck—I did.”

You push at his shoulders, but he doesn’t let up.

“You didn’t,” you repeat through gritted teeth. Tears build in your eyes much too rapidly, fuelled by the frantic beat of your heart.

He latches on to your nipple. You choke on a whine as he tugs at it softly, grasping it between his front teeth. His arms come to hold you entirely, wrapped like vines around your middle. Slowly, you surrender, ceasing your futile attempts to push him away. 

But you cry. The sting in your eyes finally finds relief as you allow fat tears to roll down your cheeks. Simon doesn’t look up at you, maybe because your sorrow translates into his guilt. However, he stops tasting you with a weary sigh, gently resting his forehead on your chest as he holds you steady.

“I did,” he croaks. "I do."

You hold him too, encircling your arms around his head and resting your cheek on top of it. His hands go from still to hesitating until he is the one who gives in, this time, and brushes them soothingly down your back.

You stay like that for what feels like hours, but judging by the lack of movements from your teammates behind that thin wall, it’s probably been only a handful of minutes. Regardless, Simon holds you through all of it. Until he feels the soft stutters in your chest quell, the sniffles abate.

Only then does he lift his head. Only then does he cup your face in his hands. Thumbs brushing your cheekbones, collecting dried-up tears. They glide on smoothly, which makes you think that maybe his greasepaint has transferred onto your skin there as well.

It shouldn’t, but your heart flips at the thought anyway.

“I'm not a good man, love.” He murmurs, eyes dark and unusually sad. “But I'm no liar.”

The earnestness in his voice almost makes you choke up again. 

You swallow it down. Inhale.

Recollect yourself. Exhale. Lean your cheek in his hand.

Your eyes are downcast, staring at the dark streaks of camo paint fading and blending on your chest.

“I know,” you croak, unsure but wanting to believe him. Almost needing to.

Simon’s hand leaves your cheek. It’s so much colder now that the air brushes your damp skin, but the ice sublimates suddenly when he taps your chin.

You lift your head and lock his eyes. They shine with something unshed, perhaps tears, perhaps words he can’t place, ones he can’t say.

“No lies.” He subtly shakes his head. “Not to ya, ya hear?”

You nod softly. “No lies.”

"Missed ya," he says again, his voice cracking in a way that makes you think this is harder on him than it is on you. "You gotta understand that. There ain’t a day goes by that I don’t."

You swallow thickly. Throat dry, tongue stuck to your palate. Eyes fixed on him, once again unthinkable to look away, but for different reasons entirely. Perhaps this is more than one step forward; perhaps this is a whole new path from which he can’t backpedal. You don’t raise your expectations, you don’t dare—but hope is as much of a bastard as it is beautiful, and it flickers back to life.

“Okay,” you reply, not feeling like you can say it back, not feeling like it could stand in front of the way he’s said it—so viscerally that it ripped at your heart.

He kisses you again, soft like before. His hands return your bra to its place, your shirt down to your hips.

You kiss for a moment more, saying everything your voices can’t, as touch returns to be the only language you both understand.

He helps you off his lap. No more words are exchanged as he dresses you up—tucking the shirt back in your pants, putting the vest around you again, making sure it fits just right when he tightens the straps at your waist.

Wordlessly, Simon invites you back to where it all started, that night. Next to him, with his arm around your shoulders, your leg across his own, and your head on his chest. His eyes on the door, focused. His watch is not over yet.

You fall asleep, coaxed by the soft brushes of his hand on your shoulder, the rise of his chest each time he breathes.

Your hand in his own, his paint on your cheek.

[horror-sapphic]

thinking about vicky being maternal—how she’d refer to herself as mommy in bed. she’d eat u out until ur crying and then she’d wipe your tears and nurture you 😵‍💫 “shh, baby, you did so good for mommy. i’m so proud of you.”

cw: dub con but not really idk, Rough fingering, overstimulation, cry kink (?), Mommy Vic, breast sucking/lactation kink in the end (a warning is issued before the scene).

She's soooo into being called mommy and babying you like the good mommy she is.

She loves having you spread out on the bed melted into a quivering mess from all the orgasms she's dragged out of you, fucking you into a babbling mess.

"Oh poor baby, I fucked you silly, didn't I? didn't mommy?" she teases with a look of mischief living in her brown eyes, "Mhmm" you'd hum.

Completely spaced out of your mind with your cunt leaking with so much cum, the scrunched bedsheets under you are soaked and sticky.

"More, mommy's gonna make you cum more. Okay baby?" she coos, wiping the tears that has started to slip away from your teary eyes as she started playing with your clit. You were so sensitive your lower half began to shake and jerk under her gentle, slow touches.

"Nuh, please" you whine from exhaustion, bucking away from her enticing hand. "Shhh" she whispers, her thumb beginning to speed up. The soft slicking sounds coming from your leaky pussy just pushes her to want to keep going and pushing you more and more.

More tears begin to spill from you as her fingers begin to move away from your clit to entering your dripping cunt, "No baby, just one more for mommy" she pleads. Using her older hand to pry your legs back open after you tried to pin them together out of soreness.

Adding a second finger to your tired hole made you lose it, balling from a mixture of pleasure and pain in which the two lines became blurred into a line of nothingness. The only thing that was being signaled by your brain was the instruction to cry, which only egged Vic on more.

"Say thank you mommyyy" she teased, going faster and faster. Your squelching tight cunt filling the room along with your cries.

"Th- th- tha- thank you mommy AHH" you finally cried before your body began to erupt in shakes as the 5th intense orgasm washed out you, forcing you to squeeze your legs even tighter around her wrist making her slow your motions down.

Your tight hole squeezing in a hypnotic rhythm around her digits, milking them before she gently pulls them out, with help from your gooey pussy.

lactation stuff below...

She pulls your head into her lap, cradling you before pulling her milky breast out for you to suck on to calm down. She wipes the runny tears slowly running down your cheeks, trying desperately not to get started again after feeling your warm and inviting lips wrap around her brown nipple, slowly sucking down the milk from them.

"Mmm" you groan out at this intimate feeling, hearing you hum down her milk. "Such a good baby" she whispers in your ear.

"Such a gooood baby"

[peasant-player]

I watched the war of the rohirrim!

And I have thoughts spoilers under the cut + some crappy doodles ❤️

Man that Oliphant was nightmare fuel.

I never thought I would be scared of elephants but here I am.

The watcher was kinda adorable!

Here some doodles xD

Wulf is now forever a raccoonTM in my head.

What a pathetic man.

Whoever said Hera is a Mary sue needs to check their brain OR the definition of Mary Sue.

For God sake her first real kill was with the help of her horse and a pitchfork while laying down being terrified.

I do like that she used the "death" Sentence in her amazing show off against the racoonTM because that what Rohans warrior use to say while riding into battle!

I disapprove about her daily clothing choice. White boots and shirt? Really? That poor laundry lady!

Now to the more important part that I need to say:

I loved Targg and the shield maiden Owlyn so much. I want a healing fix it and I ship them.

Did they had any interactions with each other. No. But that's not gonna stop hopefully anyone!

He was a really good general with great moral compass! He would have spared Hama and the small folk. Now let me get this quick~ out of the system:

I loved his clothing and I mean he got just stabbed once(1)time he could survive that! (Helm got shot with arrows like 6 times and was fist fighting people while being very depressed in a snowstorm like a week after that)

Let there be some loyal wild men safe Targg from the battle field and then he heals but doesn't know what to do with his life and then he meets hera and olwyn and he tags along because he respects her and he has nothing better to do. They could go on a adventure together.

Or idk let him see that the raccoon man is crazy earlier and safe hama for negotiations or whatever and he helps Rohan idk I read fics with much worse unrealistic premise and it still worked great!

Here have a little comic

So let's talk about Helm hammerhand!

What a legend. No really I'm gonna draw him standing heroics with his tits out and his hammer holding into the sky.

He would approve.

I laughed out loud that he kinda froze to death and suddenly had his hammer in his hand!

He punched a ogre/orc to death! Sauron and the Balrog should be thankful that he does not have access to thermo leggings and the blood of the Numenorian because he would have punched them all straight into the void!!

He would have throw the ring into the fire because he has no use of such nonsense!

And Haleth !! The silm Haleth would have approved of him!!!

So cool,so hot and even his death was kinda cool, very quick but so heroic.

The twink bard hama got used up to show that the raccoonTM is a terrible war lord and a super pathetic man. Kinda sad and underwhelming. Good part to start a fix it fic!

And wulf Ach wulf man idk what to say I will say that the German dub gave him a better and deeper voice then the English voice so that was nice! I had some feeling for him when his father died and he got choked out by helm but he really went all out to become very pathetic.

I hope there are some good fics that work on his very odd characteristics

I'm gonna draw him once being even much more pathetic but I need to confess he is rather bland next to Targg or Frealaf!!

Frealaf ❤️ God he is SO handsome and so cool in the rescue and he got that calm vibe about him.

He makes a great King.

I loved his clothing so much in general the clothing was great!! (Except the white pants/boot from hera!!)

Very beautiful and I can't wait to see more close up pics!! It was of course alot of fantasy style belts and fur but I do not mind that!

Then the very funny siege machine.

In all earnestly if the wild men are so good at building stuff and hauling around ridiculous amount of woods then they missed their opportunity to become middle earth's greatest engineers!!

Builders!

Wood cutters!

Why fighting around and eating scraps if you could become middle earth's best architect??

And what the hell did the poor drum player did wrong that he got a free yeeting into the atmosphere???

At least he was dedicated to play his drum until his end I guess?

But I loved the skull masks! Hehe very easy way to draw some hot wild men ~

That's my thoughts I did not went into much details about what could have been better or what is not really like in the books. I'm just glad that there is another great addition to the Tolkien fandom!!

[wandascosmic]

Could you write just a cute fic where Wanda and reader do a bunch of autumn season activities. Like Wanda loves to bake so she makes some halloween themed desserts with the help of reader (who in reality just makes a mess and eats all the ingredients).

Wanda would also probably be the type to just want to take a walk because she likes seeing the trees that change color, and of course reader wouldn’t listen when Wanda told her to dress warm so Wanda sacrifices her scarf or hat or both for her to wear instead.

Then for halloween all the avengers could dress up in costumes to hand out candy to the kids, and reader would convince Wanda to do a couples costume.

autumn appreciation (request)

wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: in which you and your girlfriend make the most of the wonderful autumn season.

word count: 965

tags: unedited, fluff, domesticity, idiots baking together, our favorite couple going for a walk, couples costume!!!, kids trick or treating at the avengers compound, we love halloween so much

“Hey, Nat, have you seen Wanda?” you ask the assassin in the compound. 

Nat shrugs. “I’m pretty sure she’s making ghost cookies, pumpkin cookies, and a witch-shaped cake on a broom. Which is odd because couldn’t she just make a self-portrait–”

“Got it, thanks Nat!” you cut her off, running in the direction of your girlfriend. 

Stopping in the kitchen, you grin at the sight before you. Wanda was in deep focus, mixing a bunch of cake batter in various bowls, trying her best to bake to perfection. However, she was covered in flour, food coloring, and every baking ingredient you could think of had somehow stained her apron. 

“Witchy,” you greet, walking over towards her. 

“Y/N!” Wanda’s eyes light up before you as she makes her way over, giving you a tight hug before you could protest. 

“Wands,” you say, as Wanda refuses to let go. 

“Hm?” Wanda hums. 

“You’re covered in every baking ingredient in America,” you say, snickering. 

Wanda gasps, immediately letting go and seeing your shirt stained with everything that was on her apron. “I’m so sorry, detka! I’ll go get you a new shirt and change this apron– I didn’t even realize–” 

“Wands, don’t worry,” you cut off. “You’re not really baking if you’re not covered in head to toe in flour and confectioner’s sugar.” 

Wanda grins in response.

“Besides, I came over here to help you, since it looked like fun and I haven’t seen you yet today,” you reassure. 

“Oh!” Wanda says excitedly. “Yes, that would be so much fun. Okay, so I need some help with the ghost cookies since the frosting is a little tricky cause it’s a different kind than the pumpkin ones, so let’s do that!” Wanda grabs your hand and begins to lead you to the kitchen.

You grab a measuring cup and start getting to work per Wanda’s instructions. 

Two hours later, you and Wanda are still hard at work. 

“Detka, I think the kitchen is even messier with you than when I started. And that’s saying something since it looked like a flour bomb had gone off in front of me,” Wanda giggles. 

“Hey, you put me to work, woman,” you say, grabbing a piece of cookie dough and munching on it. 

“And you’ve mostly just eaten our ingredients.” 

“You put candy in front of me, you can’t expect me not to eat it,” you shrug. “Plus, we’re basically almost done now! We’ve just got to put everything in the oven.” You grin. “What do you say to your wonderful girlfriend?” 

“Don’t eat all the marshmallows next time?” Wanda retorts with her arms crossed. 

You give her a look, causing Wanda to finally let her smile shine through. 

“Fine, thank you, I love you,” Wanda gives you a kiss. 

“I love you too, my grumpy Sokovian witch.” 

And by the end of the day, every treat you and Wanda had worked so hard on has been eaten by a member of the compound.

*** “Baby,” Wanda shakes you lightly on the couch as you sleep on top of her chest. 

“Hm?” you hum sleepily. 

“Let’s go for a walk,” Wanda says. 

“Why?” you ask, looking at Wanda confusedly. “We rarely take walks.” 

“That’s why we should start!” Wanda responds. “I want to see the leaves change color, please,” Wanda stretches out the last syllable and gives you a pleading look. 

“Fine,” you agree reluctantly. 

“Thank you!” Wanda says, giving you a kiss. “I’m gonna grab my coat, you grab yours too since it’s cold.”

But, of course, you don’t listen to your incredibly smart girlfriend.  

Two minutes into your walk, in which Wanda’s already gushed about seven yellow trees, eight red trees, and five orange trees, you’re completely freezing, and trying your best to hide your shivers. 

But, of course, Wanda notices. 

And silently, Wanda wraps her scarf around your neck and gives you her hat, pulling you into your arms as you continue your walk down the beautiful trail. 

***

“Wanda, come on, it’ll be fun!” you argue, the morning of Halloween. 

“I don’t know,” Wanda says reluctantly as you show her the peanut butter and jelly costume you had bought for the two of you. Wanda was going to be the jelly, of course. 

“Please, witchy?” you give her your best pleading look to which Wanda’s incapable of saying no to. 

“Fine,” Wanda agrees. “But you owe me,” she says, grabbing the costume and going into the bathroom to change. 

“You got it,” you agree, yelling past the door. 

The kids love yours and Wanda’s costume, every single child who’s rang the doorbell and said trick or treat has pointed out your costume, making Wanda blush every time. 

“Trick or treat!” the last group of kids said in unison as Steve opened the compound door. 

“It’s the Avengers!” one of them remarked. 

“You guys are so cool,” another one said. 

“Hey, you guys are the best couple!” a girl, about five years younger than you pointed at you and Wanda. “I love you guys so much.” 

“Aw, we love you,” you respond, giving her a few extra pieces of candy as well as her friends. 

The kids take a few pictures with a couple of you, and you wave as they leave, “Have a great evening!” you call out.

Closing the door, Steve turns to you all, “I think we’re good for tonight, goodnight everyone,” he says, heading off in the direction of his room. 

You turn to Wanda with a grin. “So, wasn’t the costume worth it?” 

“I look ridiculous,” Wanda retorts. “But, unfortunately, anything for you, detka.” 

“I’ll return the favor next year,” you tell her with a kiss. 

“You better,” Wanda says, wrapping her arms around your waist as you both head off to bed together.

[widebrimmedhatsblog]

you write "enemies to ____" SO WELL. and i've had an AU daydream stuck in my head for a month that is violet as a second year scribe pulled into the revolution bullshit first because jessinia and liam started banging, but mostly because of the suspicion of it all

Oh thank you!! That’s such a fun daydream. Unfortunately, I don’t actually ship Liam and Jesinia, so a full fic with them in it would kick my ass, but you should try your hand at it!!!

Have this drabble as inspo (620 ish words, canon compliant, set during IF part one except Xaden is there because I wanted him to be):

“It’s second year rider business, Jes. I’m sorry.”

Violet peeks her head around the archive’s shelving unit just long enough to watch Liam’s fingers move, then settle. She should retreat back to safety. She should prioritize not getting caught. But she needs to know what Jes says back.

“Last time you had ‘second year rider business,’” Jesinia retorts, hands moving so sharply, they recruit her arms and chest for emphasis, “you came back bloodied and bruised.”

Violet can just make out Liam’s sad smile over the top of Jesinia’s head. The sight of it—that private sweetness—is almost enough to make Violet want to hide back in the stacks. Instead, she settles for pulling her hood higher over her head. If Liam happens to look her way, he might not recognize her if her hair is tucked under the cream fabric.

“A different type of second year rider business,” Liam admits. Somehow, his body language conveys his guilt without any of the usual signifiers. His hands are heavier, his motions softer.

Violet needs to know what it means.

The worst part is, Violet actually likes Liam. He doesn’t have that typical aura of rider arrogance, and he’s so good to Jesinia. If only he wasn’t a liar. Then, he’d be perfect.

Violet fiddles with her hood once more, covering as much of her head as she can. She steps backward, meaning to hide herself behind the shelf once more. She’ll come face to face with her books, and she’ll find one to inconspicuously pull off the shelf. When Jesinia returns from her boyfriend, she’ll be none the wiser to Violet’s scheming, just as it should be.

But, as she spins to face the shelves, there are no books in her line of sight. Instead, her vision is filled with darkness, a black shirt on a broad black chest.

She tries to swallow down her gasp, but she’s too slow. He hears it, and he smirks, relishing her surprise.

“Eavesdropping, Violence?”

“Deserting your post, Riorson?”

His smirk stretches even further across his face at her accusation. Her hate for him flickers in her chest, a twin flame to her annoyance, her invigoration. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m here on dragon business.”

She crosses her arms. He is not in her archives on dragon business.

“Riders aren’t allowed this far back,” she counters, eyes narrowed on him.

He merely cocks his head. He enjoys her scrutiny, too. “Mairi’s back here.”

“Yes, well, we like Liam. He gets special privileges.”

He doesn’t, actually. Jesinia’s completely fucked if any of the other scribes catch on to her study-dates. Of course, Jesinia’s completely fucked in plenty of areas. If her boyfriend’s schemes involve Xaden Riorson, traitor’s son…

Violet can’t think about that when the man is right before her. It’s dangerous. She intuits that much from the sight of the swords on his back.

He plasters a hand on his chest. “You don’t like me, Violence? I’m hurt.”

She’s not sure why his teasing gets her, but it does. She rises onto her toes and slams a finger into his muscled chest.

“I know you’re up to something,” she hisses, “and I am going to find out what.”

His eyes take her in, appraising her in her scribe robes.

“I’m sure you will, Violence.” He steps back, out from under her finger, and nods at someone over her shoulder. Violet spins to find Liam and Jesinia, watching the show. Her cheeks flush pink. She’d rather look at Riorson, so she spins right back around. He’s still smirking at her, bastard that he is. She hears the smirk in his voice as he adds, “Be sure to let me know when you do.”

She watches him leave, Liam at his side. She is going to figure him out.

[thattiredsock]

Hey me again, I've recently got some notes here and I was reminded of it. there's many good tips on the notes, mostly doing the base in a grey instead of withe.

Other thing I do mostly for day to day stuff is skip the base and do the black parts with withe instead.

Also, also, since making the post I've been involved in some stuff for Day of the Death and I've kinda use some stuff I've learned from doing my make up for that, mostly that I love looking like a skeleton and that If I where to do a withe base, like the pics, this stuff

Its a cream for rashes, I've found it pretty easily in almost any drugstore or supermarket (at least here in Mexico, hope is the same elsewhere), that with some baby powder, works like a charm

Also shout out to these tags form @olivay-official

#it depends on the type of corpse paint you want to do#like if you want a skull look instead of doing the dsrk parts with black do them with an ashy tan#they make makeup that is thick and will show up in dark skin well usually its for theater and stage but it will go on thick so you can use#your features to your advantage here and either flip the dark and light or emphasize the dsrk parts of your skin by highlighting with a cool#tone in the areas you want surrounding the dark#for corpse like zombie i recommend going full mummy style depending on how dark your skin is use the above method and do the highlights#you want to use cool and ashy tones that drown out the life#i would also add green and yellow ochre in there#these are good zombie colors to#mix in plus they gray and dull colors which is what we want here#look at stage makup brands as these go on smooth and thick enough to get the color to stand out against any skin color#just be sure to pick a good brand that has the color variety you need#ben bye is a common one but i don’t know if it has much variety in skin tone colors and while colors from there would still totslly work for#corpse makeup you may not want to support them if they arent providing for everyone#but like i said I’m not sure tha last time i looked at stage makeup from them was many years ago and at the time they had like 3 skintone#options and a rsnge of out there colors#ooh and if you want to go all tim burton just use blur to frame your shadows and defs with any corpse make the cheeks look deeply sunken#hope this helps

Thanks for your help guys!

Does anybody know how can I, a brown person, do corpse paint?. Like I know there's nothing actually stopping me from painting my face with withe paint. But you know, the point is to look "cadaver like" and something tells me that my cadaver would not turn that pale

[pato-roldnart]

Some friendly Quidditch match for @hdwickedwixen zine :3

He caught the snitch!

[thebibliosphere]

Just caught a glimpse of my waiting email and have decided to stay in the woods forever.

[itsonlypolite]

OMG WAIT I FORGOT HIS WINGS

WAIT IM OBSESSED WITH THIS!!!!!!!!!!!

ITS HIM ITS THE GUY ITS THE BACKSTABBER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AND YOU DREW HIM SO HANDSOME

AAAAAFJRJRIFFNEJDIDJSJSJRRNRJRIEIEIEIR

THANK YOU!!!!!!!

[detectivehole]

[ultimatesomething-1191]

Mh….Ah- Hinata! Good morning! It’s been a little bit. Hmm…Are you not cold, at all?

[Komaeda shouldn’t be cold, if anything he should be overheating from the fact he’s a lot more bundled up than is actually required, having to find another blazer back at his dorm and coupling it with a scarf.

It can’t have been colder than 10ºc (50ºf).]

@komaedas-fragments

Huh? Oh... no, I'm okay.

Good morning, Komaeda.

(It's... really not that cold out. Is he okay?)

[skriblee-ksk]

Smth based off @natsukishinomiyaswife’s fic here! READ IT!! not just for context but bc its sooo good?? Still shocked with how many people she fit in there.

I was SO happy Kiyuu appeared in there!!! But more than that, Jackiyuu friendship in every universe is smth i strive. Although there is only room for one specific Jack in her heart!!!

Time to talk more about Kiyuu!!

She actually has a lot of doubts abt her relationship with Jack, but in a really really weird way??? She got the aromantic doubts out of her system when she confessed to him, so it’s not about that.

Like if Jack liked someone else, she’d happily give him up so he can be happy, but in a relationship herself, she keeps wondering if she truly is the best fit for him?? Like she wants him to be the happiest he can be, so she treats him with care and love (and is extremely clingy, but she’s always like that), but she keeps wondering if he could be happier. And if so, then with whom?

And then she ends of saying stupid stuff she didn’t think of the deeper implications of. She’s too awkwardly honest!!!! But she just wants him to be happy, that’s it!!!!! 😭😭

I cannot wait for the next part!!! I LOVE THIS GATHERING OF OCS AND YUUS TOO MUCH now that i got jackiyuu out of my system, i’d love to draw kiyuu interacting w the other characters!!

Taglist (ask to be added!!): @kathxrat-01 @distant-velleity @scint1llat3 @elenauaurs @boopshoops

@lumdays @venaue @jewelulu @thehollowwriter

[mendel-falsettos]

This is disturbing.

could you spare a sphere for @mendel-falsettos ?

Get sphered