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penvisions · 3 months ago

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there's a place and time {joel miller x reader}

Pairing: Younger / No-outbreak! Joel Miller x Neighbor! Reader

Summary: Moving back to your parents house wasn't part of the plan, neither was being a thorn in your neighbor's side. but you roll with the punches, and hey, he's kinda cute when he gets huffy.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: age gap (joel is mid 30's / reader is mid 20's), angst, biting words, argumentative language, joel is a lil meanie but so is reader, grief, off-screen loss, depictions of depression, comfort, mushy stuff

A/N: this literally came out of nowhere, a random thought on the way to work and then a manic two hours of writing once i got home. this turned out a little different than first imagined, but i hope it reads well!

navigation || joel miller masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

“Why don’t you date?”

“Excuse me?” The form crouched in between kitchen counters looked up at you with a raised brow, surely mishearing the question.

“Dating, I know you know what that is.” You repeat yourself as you push your arms back to brace on the counter and hop up on it. The granite of it is cold on your bare thighs, the shorts you were wearing thrown on haphazardly when a panic stricken pair of teenagers had begun to bang on your door in the early afternoon. The words of ‘fire’ and “help!” spurring you into action where you had been napping on your couch. Now though, the oven was off, the blackened frozen pizza still on the rack and covered in foam from the fire extinguisher neither of them had known how to use. Their father had sent them upstairs, thanking you for helping them out and getting it taken care of. “Or the concept at least, yeah?”

“Don’t mean it’s any of your business, little lady.” Joel’s voice leaves no room for further conversation as he realizes you’re more serious than need be. Little quips between you two common, the unspoken understanding of not discussing the reason for your presence in the neighborhood mutual.

“I dunno, I remember you being real keen on the idea of me babysitting.” You take a sip of your soda, swiped from the fridge after everything had calmed down. “Would do you a favor now, should you need the night off for some…fun.”

“Dating and fun are two different things.”

“Dating can be fun, if you do it with the right person.”

“Yeah, and what do you know about that? Saw you move in all by your lonesome. No big, burly man helping you with your boxes.”

The fizzy drink sours on your tongue and you toss him a scowl as he stands. He’s a few feet away but you can feel the warmth of him as he stands at his full height. He’s reaching to close the oven door, the creak of metal on metal loud in the beat of silence.

“You wouldn’t know fun if it bit you on your perky ass, Miller.”

“Language, you’re in my house.” His brow furrows and he pins you with a stern look. Something you’d seen him give to his brother, his girls, the neighbor across the way when she wouldn’t take the hint that he didn’t want her dog shit in his yard.

“Old men like yourself deserve to have some fun every once in a while. They deserve happiness too.”

“Even if I did, it’s no concern of yours. Your daddy didn’t help pay for two degrees for you to end up babysitting for grocery money.”

The rebuttal on the tip of your tongue suddenly dissolved as you felt a shiver run down your spine. He’s right, you know he’s right. But you just…you couldn’t even open the envelope with the certificates let alone add them to your resume and begin the arduous task of job hunting.

“Fuck you, I was only offering to help out a neighbor.” The words are rough, rounded out with the weight of too many emotions. You shove off from the counter, abandoning your half-finished drink. A delicacy you enjoyed only over at his house, too expensive for you to indulge in as bills you never anticipated paying became your responsibility.

“I didn’t mean-“ He had the self-awareness to realize he said the wrong thing. His hands coming up from his waist to reach out for you, but you don’t look over your shoulder as you make your way through the kitchen.

“Don’t come to me if you do need someone to look after the girls. I wouldn’t take your money anyway.”

“C’mon now,” His full lips shape around your name, but you’re already out the door. Resisting the urge to let it slam shut behind you, your anger still so sharp and hot. But the girls didn’t deserve to feel it, even the echo of it in the slamming of a door. Despite being a dick, Joel was a good father to them. He’d made his home a nurturing and loving environment. You didn’t want to taint it with your stained hands.

As he stands there in his empty kitchen, the smell of burnt dough, smoke, and ammonia dizzies him as he watches you cross over his yard to yours next door. The blank expression on your face and the faint smears of dried pant all over your legs makes him regret his fast words. He had been going for teasing, but of course they had come out harsh and wounding.

You were someone he didn’t know how to interact with. So sweet and polite with the girls, with the neighbors. But you were a firecracker with him. Teasing, whipping words that rung around his head, and he recalled far too often. The little smirk that pulled at your lips as you said them, waited for his response or sputtering lack of one. His own pulled from him, making him feel like a teenager again, like a young man you hadn’t been suddenly left alone to raise a child. Like his old self, someone who stood a chance with you as you gave him your attention time and time again.

He had only ever met you through the words of your parents, the people who had once occupied the house beside his own. He had moved in with two six-year-olds just as you had shoved off to college upstate. The running joke was that it was perfect timing for him to have missed out on the perfect babysitter.

Graduation is supposed to be a time of celebration and proud smiles, at least that’s what everyone else got. The day you had counted down on the calendar and crossed off the passing ones as it neared was now a blur of too bright colors and phone calls with people telling you things you didn’t want to think about, let alone hear as your new reality.

A car accident, on the drive upstate. Both parents, reckless driver.

A house that had been recently paid off, left to you. Your name already on the deed, something you didn’t want to think about too hard. Close, you had been close with each of them and them as a unit. A small family but understanding. It was yours, the backdrop to your life and suddenly the two people were only memories.

The move had been quick, the apartment you shared with fellow graduate students mostly books and a beautiful desk. The bedframe taken apart to go while the shelves had been left for the next occupants.

You hadn’t shared the news with any of your roommates or friends, not wanting to taint their own celebrations and happy memories of the day you all worked so hard for. Addresses were exchanged, well wishes were meant, but of course it all faded as time had gone on. Their news of job offers and exciting dates had been good to hear, but with no good things to respond with of your own, it was hard to feel the same way about them as you once had. They reached out, worry coloring their words, which made you feel even worse.

It haunts you for days, as you seal yourself into the home that is now yours alone. The paint slathered on canvas dries and the brushes coated in it turn into hardened caps over the bristles. You’re allowing things to sit for too long, the water evaporating in the cups you use to rinse between swatches of color. The open paint tubes oxidizing and becoming unsalvageable. But you have no control.

The bed becomes damp with nights of sweat, from your tossing and turning body as the heat rises and the air conditioning that needs to be repaired is just another phone call. You don’t even think you know where your phone is. It can’t bear bad news if you don’t answer it. It can’t carry the end of your world if you don’t let it.

There’s a sharp knock on the door at some point, in the midst of the haze of days after storming out of Joel’s kitchen. You hadn’t been able to dissect the sounds of life going on outside your closed windows.

But it had, to the point where now someone was calling on you to make you return to it.

Shrugging on a robe, you hold it tight to your aching body as you push up from the bed. Bare feet sticking to the hardwood floor as the heat fills the home.

“What?” You can’t help but bark as you swing the door open, only to find a concerned Joel on the porch, with your phone in his hand.

“I found this in the kitchen, must’ve fallen off the counter in the madness of getting the fire out and callin’ me.” He holds it out to you, but you don’t move to take it. “Figured you needed it, there’s a lot of missed calls and voicemails. I may have left a few too, to check on ya. Haven’t seen you in a few days.”

“Been here, painting.”

“Okay, that’s…that’s good. Got everything you need? Food, water, someone comin’ to fix the A/C?” It’s an apology in the only way Joel Miller is capable of giving, the need to make sure someone is getting what they need, that they’re taken care of. He’s a good provider, to his girls, to his brother, to the neighborhood when he’s not beat down from long days in the sun with concrete and paint dried to his skin, with wood shavings and stain splotched on his jeans.

“No.”

“No?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m my own person.”

Your name leaves his mouth on a sigh.

“I know that, but your parents…I know that kinda thing is-“

“I’m fine. Thanks for returning this.” You snatch it from his hand and go to close to door, not willing to hear what he has to say on the loss of your parents. For his credit, he let’s you. Knowing that you’re going through the motions, through the event in your own way. It doesn’t stop him from speaking loud enough for you to hear him through the door.

“The girls will be by with dinner later! Try to be nice to them, they ain’t me!”

The meal delivered by two smiling teenagers does lift your spirits a bit, even if all you do is shower and do a few loads of laundry. It’s a long process, the climb out of the hole that you had found yourself in.

Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months. You’re back to quipping across the yard with the man. His daughters delighting in the comraderies that underlies it all. It’s the height of summer now, the girls spending time with you to try their hand at painting. Sarah is better with bursts of color that compliment each other, vaguely floral. While Ellie is better with a muted palette imposed between detailed line art.

They always thank you for the time and attention, offering to help you clean up or tidy the house in exchange for watching over them when you notice Joel’s truck is still gone from their own driveway until late. They aren’t helpless, but you know what loneliness feels like and you don’t want them to become familiar with it.

You finally open the envelope containing your degrees, the last letters from your friends and pen down long responses. The stamps cute as you drop them off at the post office, the ornate certificates framed and hung above the desk in your father’s old office alongside his own.

Joel joins them most days, mid meal if he can make it in time. Food finding it’s way into your kitchen, something you’re sure is the combined effort of two pairs of small hands and one pair of big hands. The least you could do is turn it into something for everyone involved to enjoy.

But just as things seem to progress, they fall back apart. It wasn’t over a throwaway comment this time, though, but a piece of mail delivered from a local gallery asking after your willingness to partake in an exhibit. That they expressed their deepest condolences in this trying time.

The paint dries up again, another set of brushes left to ruin. The door goes unanswered, as does the phone you can hardly stand to look at. The lights don’t glow in the windows once the sun sets, no music is heard from behind thin screens, nor the sound of you humming along to it.

The house becomes a burden once again, shielding you from the world you as you feel the loss of your parents all over again.

You don’t hear the door open from where you’re sprawled on the floor of the bathroom, the shower is running but you didn’t make it under the spray. You’re fully clothed, having reached down underneath the vanity for a bottle of shampoo when your fingers had brushed over something else. A bottle of your mother’s favorite perfume. The one that lingered in every room she occupied, on every piece of clothing she adorned. It was her, the perfect encapsulation of who she was.

And it was staring at you inconspicuously from the shelf. The mere sight of it tearing the wound open once again and making it hard to breath.

That’s where Joel finds you. In tears over something as trivial as a tiny glass bottle. But he doesn’t bat an eye, he’s taking in the scene and shutting off the shower in a few easy steps.

“Hey now, come ‘ere, darlin’,” He’s crouching down beside you, hands reaching for your shaking body.

He’s so gentle, so soft as he pulls you up from the tiled floor and into his chest. Leaning back against rhe now closed vanity to support your weight. One hand on the back of your head, holding it to his chest, pleading with you to match his breathing so you don’t hurt yourself.

“Datin’ is hard, you’re right.” His words make you pause, confusion crowding out the wetness lingering in your eyes. The words from a conversation long ago pulling you out of your breakdown, the casual way he continues it.

“It is.” You insist, voice small and muffled as you refuse to pull your face from where it’s pressed against the warmth of his chest.

“Maybe…. maybe you’d be kind enough to try it with this grumpy old man. I’d sure like to give it a shot with someone like you.”

“I ain’t nothin’ special. Just the neighbor girl your dead friends talked about too much.”

“They loved you, darlin’. With everythin’ they had.” He holds tight to the hand you move underneath one of his. Seeking him out, to feel his skin on your own. “You are special, those paintings they showed me, you got a gift, honey.”

“Gifts don’t mean nothin’ when you got no one to share them with.”

“You share ‘em with the girls, they loved coming over here to spend time with you. Share ‘em with me, if you want. The girls and I are in your corner, we got you.”

“You don’t…you don’t want to date me. Every boy-“

“Boys don’t know how to date, that’s only something us old men know how to do. Will you let me show you, how it feels to be taken care of and looked after? To feel appreciated and like you aren’t a hindrance on nightly plans to play fuckin’ video games?”

“I like video games,” You sniffle, voice gaining strength as the conversation goes on. He’s soothing you, even as he just sits on the floor with you in his lap, his arms around you and your body pressed up against him. It’s the most comfortable you’ve felt in months. And it’s just Joel being Joel, it’s just you being you.

“Show me, if you want. Let me get to know you, let me show you what it’s like to be loved, not just sought after for a night of fun.”

“I don’t date old men.”

“No?”

“You’re not that much older than me, so I wouldn’t really call you old.”

“Cause then you’d have to admit you’re old too, huh?” He reads the meaning behind the change of thought, as if he was in your head right there alongside you.

“Yeah, we ain’t old. Life just beat us down, but damn if it didn’t touch your perky ass.” You reach a hand down from where it’s cradled between your chests, to pinch at where his backside it firmly planted on the floor. He jolts a bit, not expecting the action. But his rumbling laugh lightens the air around you both even more so.

“You goin’ soft on me, a compliment like that is makin’ my heart pick up. Can you feel it?”

“Yeah, cause you’re a big ole sap.” You can’t help the breathy chuckle that escapes past your lips, the twitch of a smile trying to break out. You can, indeed, feel the way his heart is thudding in his chest. The truth of your words and his making you feel some of the weight lift from your own.

“You ain’t gotta clue how sappy I could me, lemme show you, huh?”

“Only if you promise it’ll make me roll my eyes and groan.” You lean back enough to see his face, the roll of your eyes up to take in his hopeful expression allowing you to know how much he means it. Your own heartbeat picks up and you swear he can feel it too, if the crook of his lips underneath his mustache is any indication.

“Only if you promise to have a smile on your face while you do it.” He leans in, nose brushing against yours. The action so soft, so welcome after the isolation you had subjected yourself to.

“Deal.” You breathe out against his lips.

“It’s a deal then.” He presses them to yours, and damn it all, but it does bring a smile to your face.

taglist: @sawymredfox @tuquoquebrute @littlemisspascal @hiddenbabynyc @jessthebaker

@joelsgreys @tonysopranosrobe @morallyinept

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wholoveseggs · 1 month ago

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Kinktober - {Day Twelve}

{<- kinktober masterlist}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List} {Kinktober}

{Kol Mikaelson x F!Reader} Request { @midoriiakina }: Idea is: She often goes to the library, far from others in a secluded little spot, listening to music while she works and thus, she's oblivious to the world around her while she's working. Secretly, she's already a published author writing romance novels as a side hustle to pay the bills, even writing steamy as hell sex scenes even though she's a virgin, too busy or too shy to have any actual experience herself ... he sneaks up on her while she's working and reads over her shoulder, seeing that she's writing some unexpectedly kinky sex scene. And of course, Kol being Kol, he can't help himself... Kinks list: Overstim, breeding, size kink, height kink (lets be honest, he's a foot and a half taller than her, he can manhandle her around like a doll), hair pulling, public sex (Mustn't be too loud in the library, darling!), squirting/cum, oral, blood drinking (she knows he's a vampire and doesn't care how much he marks her up), virgin (but mostly knows what she's doing), and morning after somno to wake her up for more~!

♡♡♡ Darling! Sweetheart! Babe! Your request was so long & detailed... I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I had to shorten this idea immensely... That being said, I LOVE YOU FOR IT.... SO YOU WIN!!!!! You are the greedy award winner & you get a certificate!!!!!! (see the bottom of this post for your reward) ~ XOXO ♡♡♡

3.1k words - Kinks: library sex, a tad bit meta, Kol being a mega flirt, overstim, size, breeding, hair pulling, public, squirting, blood drinking, inexperience...

The library was always your favorite place, especially the quiet corners where you could hide and read your books. You could easily get lost there for hours, curled up in an armchair by a window, just reading away your worries.

That was what you had intended to do this afternoon, but inspiration had struck and instead, you had opened your laptop and started writing. It was the perfect way to pass the time, letting your fingers fly across the keyboard as you created worlds and characters and scenarios, letting yourself escape reality.

There was this particular fantasy you liked to write, a series of one shots based on your biggest turn ons, and today you were writing about a vampire that had caught your eye at the Mystic Grill. He was tall and handsome and the thought of him pinning you against a wall was making heat pool between your legs.

You knew who he was, all dark and dangerous, a Mikaelson. But even though the Mikaelsons had a reputation for being trouble, you couldn't help the way your eyes would roam across his chest and down his arms whenever you saw him.

It wasn't like you were ever going to make a move, or even have a chance with someone like that. So instead you chose to channel all your pent up desires into a good story. Your thighs rubbed together as you imagined him kissing you, and you were so lost in the words and the fantasy that you didn't notice anyone approaching you until a shadow fell over your laptop.

"I... um..." you stuttered, not knowing what to say. You wanted to crawl into a hole and die, you were utterly mortified that someone had caught you. You had been so careful to keep it a secret, and now...

Your head snapped up, heart in your throat, and you found yourself staring up into the face of the very same vampire you had been writing about. Kol Mikaelson stood behind you, leaning in to read over your shoulder. "Interesting... 'his hands pinned my hips against the wall as his fangs dragged across my neck.' how very kinky of you," he chuckled, and you quickly shut your laptop, your cheeks burning bright red.

"Don't stop on my account, love. I was quite enjoying the story," he said, taking the seat across from yours. "What happens next?"

You gaped at him, mouth hanging open, trying to form a response. What the hell did he mean by that?

He grinned at your reaction, "You know, we could make that happen if you'd like."

"I... what? No! That's... that's ridiculous," you shook your head, unable to believe he was actually propositioning you. You must have been dreaming. There was no way Kol Mikaelson was flirting with you.

"Why is it ridiculous? Do you have a boyfriend or something?" he asked, grinning even wider when you shook your head. "So why not? It's just a bit of sex,"

You didn't know what to say, so you just sat there staring at him. After a minute he laughed and leaned forward. "Come on, don't tell me you've never had sex before, sweetheart."

Now you really wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. Maybe there was a spell to make you invisible, so you could just disappear from this conversation.

"I, um, I mean, not... not exactly," you finally managed to stutter, cheeks burning even hotter.

He leaned back, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "Well now that is unexpected, considering the words you have flowing through that pretty little head of yours."

You blushed, unable to meet his gaze. This was so embarrassing, but it also felt strangely exciting. No one had ever talked to you like this, and the fact that it was Kol made it even better.

Kol watched your reactions, and decided he was going to have a bit of fun with you. He had seen you around town in the past few weeks, and he knew you were a witch, a very cute one at that. And he loved cute witches, they were always so much fun to tease.

"How about this then, since you're so innocent, let's play a little game," he said, smirking at the way you were fidgeting. "We can each tell each other a fantasy, and if we both like it, then we can act it out."

You swallowed, looking up at him, "please stop," you whispered, feeling nervous.

"What do you mean?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I... I mean I don't appreciate you making fun of me," you mumbled, looking down again.

Kol frowned, surprised. "I'm not making fun of you, love, I just want to get to know you a little better," he said, trying a different tactic.

You looked up at him, not sure what to say. He sounded sincere, and he was so attractive that it made you nervous. You wanted him to be sincere, to actually like you, but you couldn't stop the tiny voice inside you telling you that this was all just a joke.

He smiled softly, seeing the conflict in your eyes, "How about this, I'll tell you one of my fantasies, and if you like it, you can tell me one of yours."

You considered his offer for a moment, biting your lip as you looked up at him, trying to decide if he was being serious or not. Finally, you nodded, "Okay," you whispered, curious to hear what he would say.

He smirked, pleased that you had agreed, and leaned closer, "I love it when I have a pretty little thing in my lap... and she... makes a mess, if you know what I mean,"

You could feel your body responding, his words sending a rush of heat through you. You shifted in your seat, pressing your thighs together, unable to deny how aroused his words had made you.

Kol noticed the shift in your body, and he knew he was getting to you. "Come now, darling ... You write about these things, but can't speak them aloud?" he asked, smirking at the way you blushed.

You were growing tired of feeling so embarrassed, so you took a deep breath, willing yourself to be confident, to be the version of you that you wrote about. You met his gaze, "I've fantasized about... having sex in public," you said, voice shaking slightly.

He raised his eyebrows, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "Well now... that's a very naughty thing for such an innocent little girl," he teased, his words sending another wave of heat through you.

"I'm not that innocent," you retorted, trying to maintain eye contact, but it was hard when his eyes were so dark and intense.

He chuckled, "oh, I'm sure. You just need someone to teach you how to be a proper little slut," he purred, making your core clench.

"And you think you're up to the task?" you asked, surprising yourself with how bold the words sounded coming from your mouth.

"I think I can handle a pretty little thing like you," he grinned, watching as your cheeks turned pink.

You looked around the library, suddenly remembering that you were still in a very public place, and anyone could see you. Your gaze met his again, and you swallowed hard, "what if someone sees us?"

He leaned closer, his eyes burning into yours, "isn't that what makes it so hot?" he whispered, his voice low and seductive.

You bit your lip, your body aching with need. You were still a little hesitant, but there was no denying the way his words affected you, and you were tired of denying yourself what you wanted. This was an opportunity you couldn't let go to waste.

"Okay," you whispered, "let's do it."

His eyes lit up, genuinely surprised that he had convinced you. But he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He stood up, taking your hand, and led you towards the stacks of bookshelves, further into the library.

There was a cozy little corner that had a couch, and he took a seat, patting his lap, and waited for you to join him. You hesitated for a moment, not sure if you could actually do this, but he was so sexy and confident and you wanted to be just like that. So you took a deep breath and climbed into his lap, straddling his hips.

His hands moved to your waist, holding you in place, and his gaze drifted over your body, taking in the sight of you. "At least tell me you've kissed someone before," he said, giving your hip a little squeeze.

"Of course I have," you replied, feeling a little offended by the question.

He grinned and pulled you closer, pressing his lips against yours, kissing you deeply. You moaned softly, your hands gripping his shoulders, feeling his muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt. His lips were so soft, and he kissed you with a passion that made your toes curl.

You had kissed guys before, but it had never felt like this. He knew what he was doing, and he certainly knew how to turn a girl on. He tasted like mint and spice, and you felt dizzy with desire.

He pulled away, leaving you breathless and wanting more. His lips trailed down your neck, nipping at your skin, and you could feel the slight graze of his fangs. The thought of him biting you was exciting, but also a little terrifying.

A small spark of your magic tingled on your fingertips, a natural reflex to danger, and the feeling made him pause. He lifted his head and looked at you, "do I make you nervous, love?" he asked, a grin spreading across his lips.

You took a shaky breath, trying to calm your racing heart, and shook your head, "No, I'm fine," you said, trying to sound confident, but your voice came out a little squeaky.

He smirked, knowing full well that he made you nervous. But instead of pushing the issue, he reached under your dress and ran his fingers up the inside of your thigh, teasing your warm skin.

"Now, if we were in a more private setting, I would strip you naked and worship every inch of you. But alas, we'll have to be a bit more subtle," he said, his fingers brushing across the front of your panties.

You gasped, and he grinned, knowing the effect his touch was having on you. His fingers continued to tease you, brushing over a damp spot, searching for your little nub, and when he found it, your hips jerked and you let out a moan.

He grinned, loving the way you responded to his touch, and pressed a little harder, making circles with his fingers. "You are such a pretty little thing," he whispered, his other hand moving to grip your hair, tugging slightly.

You moaned at his words, and the sensation of him playing with your hair, tugging on the strands as his fingers moved. It was intoxicating, and you found yourself rolling your hips, grinding against his hand.

"Ooh, she likes it a bit rough, does she?" he teased, his voice low and seductive, "what else do you like sweetheart?"

Your mind was spinning, overwhelmed with sensations, and you struggled to find words. But the way his fingers moved had you desperate for more. "I... I like... the idea of being filled with.. cum." Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, hoping he knew what you meant.

He chuckled, amused by your shyness, "I'm the perfect bloke to try it with then," he said, his words making your stomach flip, "Can't get you pregnant, being a vampire and all... but I sure do love to try…"

His words sent a rush of heat through you, and before you could stop yourself, you were nodding. You wanted him, desperately.

He grinned, pushing your panties to the side and pressing two fingers inside of you, making you gasp.

He worked them slowly, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit, and it was all too much. You had never been this turned on before, and the way he touched you made your whole body feel like it was on fire.

You leaned in and kissed him, desperate for more. He tasted so good, and his lips were so soft. His tongue danced with yours, and he sucked gently on your lower lip, making you whimper.

Your hands gripped his shoulders, and you ground down against his hand, wanting more.

"Eager little thing, seems you aren't quite so innocent after all," he murmured, grinning against your lips.

"I told you, I'm not," you breathed, moaning softly as his fingers moved faster.

He chuckled, enjoying the way you were squirming, your cheeks flushed, the sweet little moans escaping your lips.

He could feel your walls starting to tighten around his fingers, and he knew you were close. He pulled his fingers out, making you whimper in frustration, and quickly unzipped his jeans.

"Now, sweet thing, writing about riding a cock and actually doing it are two very different things," he teased, taking your hand and putting it on his warm length.

You could feel how hard he was, and it was thrilling. His skin was so smooth, and you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking gently. He groaned, his eyes fluttering shut, and you could feel his cock twitching.

"Good girl, keep doing that," he moaned, his hands gripping your thighs, helping you plant your feet on the sofa so that you could lift yourself up.

You positioned his cock at your entrance, feeling the head rubbing against your wet slit, and slowly started to sink down. The stretch was almost too much, and you gasped, feeling your walls stretch around him.

"Slow down," he growled, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you in place, "You have to take it slow, or else it will hurt."

You stopped, taking a few deep breaths, and tried again. He held your hips steady, guiding you down, and you could feel the burn as he slid deeper. It was an intoxicating mix of pleasure and pain, and you could feel yourself stretching, taking him inch by inch.

When he was fully inside you, you let out a sigh, feeling so full.

"Far superior than any toy that you modern girls seem to favor," he said, chuckling at your expression.

"Shh... let me focus," you hissed, adjusting to the feeling of him.

"So bossy," he teased, but didn't say anything else, letting you take your time.

You moved your hips a little, testing the waters, and a soft moan escaped your lips. He felt so good inside you, filling you completely.

His hands gripped your hips, and he guided you into a slow, steady rhythm, helping you ride him. The muscles in your thighs immediately started to burn, and it was distracting you from your pleasure, so you put a hand on his shoulder and used him as leverage, grinding down harder.

"That's it," he murmured, his eyes glued to the point where you were joined, watching his cock disappear inside you, "you're a natural."

You moaned, feeling your body start to tingle, and knew that you were close. Your nails dug into his shoulders and he groaned, his hips jerking up, driving himself deeper. It didn't take long for you to completely unravel, falling over the edge with a cry, his name on your lips.

There was a sudden loud sound of a book dropping to the floor nearby, and you froze, wide-eyed, suddenly remembering that you were not alone.

Kol laughed, clearly amused by the situation and you pressed your face into the crook of his neck, trying to hide your embarrassment.

"Don't worry sweet girl, no one saw us," he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear.

He gently picked you up, keeping your bodies connected as he turned and laid you down on the sofa, his hips grinding against yours. He took your wrists and pinned them above your head, his fingers interlaced with yours.

"Now, let's see how quiet you can be, hmm?" he teased, his hips moving slowly, rocking against yours.

Your fingers dug into his hands, and he picked up the pace, his cock sliding in and out of you, his skin slapping against yours.

"I'm going to fill you up with my cum and make a proper mess of you," he whispered, his lips trailing over your neck, his fangs grazing the skin.

He reached between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing circles over the sensitive nub, and you gasped, the pleasure building inside you again.

His fangs pierced your skin, the sharp pain mixing with the pleasure of his cock thrusting inside you, and it sent you over the edge again. Your thighs trembling, a gush of wetness rushing from your core. Your walls clenched around him, and he groaned, his hips jerking as he came, spilling himself deep inside you.

"That's a good girl, making a mess just like I requested," he teased, his breath hot against your neck.

Your face was flushed, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. It had been the most intense orgasm of your life, and you were still struggling to wrap your mind around what had just happened.

He pulled back, grinning down at you, "See? Way better than fiction," he said, leaning down to kiss you softly.

Your heart was pounding, and you couldn't deny that he was right. Being with him was better than any fantasy.

He pulled back, giving you a wicked smirk. "Well, now that we've established how not very innocent you are, how about I take you home and we can try out all our fantasies on each other,"

You bit your lip and nodded, not able to deny how much you wanted him, again.

He stood, and helped you up, straightening your dress, and fixing his pants. He was surprisingly sweet with you, fixing your hair and leaving little kisses on your cheeks.

"I hope you know I don't want this to be a one time thing," he said, taking your hand and leading you to the exit.

"I wouldn't mind seeing where this could go," you replied, smiling shyly up at him.

He walked with you out of the library, and down the sidewalk, and the cool night air made you shiver. You were glad for the company, and you found yourself leaning into him, his arm around your waist.

"Now, where do you live, my little writer?"

You grinned, and gave him directions, excited for whatever he had in mind next.

After all, it would make a good story, wouldn't it?

~CONGRATULATIONS~

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doctorbitchcrxft · 4 months ago

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Hollywood Babylon | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (Eventual ? ;) )

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, heights

Word Count: 4424

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Dean sat with his arm draped around your shoulders on the back of a trolley tour of Warner Brothers studios. Dean was ecstatic, whispering to you about all of his favorite 80s horror movies that had been filmed there, and you smiled fondly at his ramblings.

Sam turned to you and his brother, seemingly uncomfortable, and hopped off the trolley. “Come on,” he said.

“Let’s finish the tour!” Dean begged, but Sam was already walking away. With an eye roll from the older brother, you and Dean hopped off as well to follow Sam around the lot.

Dean excitedly exclaimed, “Guys, check it out, it's Matt Damon!”

“Dee, I don’t think that’s Matt Damon,” you laughed.

“No, it is,” he argued, face dropping.

“Well, Matt Damon just picked up a broom and started sweeping,” Sam deadpanned.

Dean refused to back down. “Yeah, well, he's probably researching a role or something.”

“Ah, I don't think so.”

You noticed a sign pointing to the right. “Hey, this way, I think Stage 9 is over here.”

“Come on, let's keep going this way,” Dean pleaded, walking forward.

Sam shook his head. “No, come on, we've gotta work. Dude, you wanted to come to LA.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, for a vacation. I mean, swimming pools and movie stars! Not to work.”

“This seem like swimming pool weather to you, Dean? I mean, it's practically Canadian,” Sam scoffed.

“Yeah.” Dean seemed to hesitate before starting the next part of his sentence. “I just figured that, you know, after everything that happened with... Madison, y-you could use a little R-and-R, that's all.”

“Well, maybe I wanna work, Dean. Maybe it keeps my mind off things,” Sam grumbled.

“Oh-kay,” you cut in before the boys could become entrenched in a more intense argument. “So, this crew guy, he died on set?”

“Yeah, uh, rumors spreading like wildfire online,” the brunet responded. “They're saying the set's haunted.”

“Like ‘Poltergeist’?” Dean questioned.

Sam shrugged. “Could be a poltergeist.”

“No, no no,” the older brother said. “Like, the movie ‘Poltergeist’.”

Sam still looked confused.

“You know nothing of your cultural heritage, do you?” Dean scoffed.

You giggled. “Set of ‘Poltergeist’ was supposedly cursed. They used real human bones as props, and like, at least three of the actors died in it.”

“Well, yeah, it might be something like that,” Sam nodded.

“Alright, so this crew guy—” Dean began, “what's his name?”

“Frank Jaffey.”

“Frank Jaffey…” you considered. “He got a death certificate or a coroner's report or anything?”

“Well, no,” the younger Winchester started, “but, uh, it's LA, you know? It might not even be his real name. But the girl who found him; she said she saw something— a vanishing figure.”

“What's the girl's name?” you asked.

Sam thought for a second. “Uh, Tara Benchley?”

Dean began to grin widely. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Tara Benchley? From ‘Fear dot Com’ and ‘Ghost Ship’, Tara Benchley? Dude, why didn't you say so?”

You sent a warning glare at him. “Curb your enthusiasm, Dean.”

He shrank under your glance. “Sorry. I’m just— I’m a fan of her work. It’s very good.”

Your lopsided smile returned to your face and you shook your head at his antics, following him to Stage 9.

Once inside, you noticed a man in a sharp, fitted tuxedo with an earpiece talking to another man wearing a headset around his neck. There was another holding a thick packet of papers; assumedly a script.

The man in the fitted tuxedo seemed to notice you and snapped his fingers in your direction. “Uh, excuse me, Blue Sweater Girl?”

You pointed to yourself quizzically, suddenly remembering the oversized blue sweater swallowing your small frame whole.

“Yeah, you. Come here,” he ordered.

You briefly looked to the boys before heading toward the man.

“Can you get me a smoothie from Kraft?” he asked.

“Uh…” you stumbled.

The man scoffed. “You are a P.A.? This is what you do?”

You shook your head suddenly, figuring out what character you were supposed to be playing to infiltrate the set. “Yeah, sorry. I’m new. One smoothie comin’ right up.”

You turned on your heels with the boys hot on them.

“What's a P.A.?” Dean whispered.

“I think they're kind of like slaves,” Sam commented.

***

Hours later, the real crew was hard at work several scenes deep in their shoot for the day. You had swept the place for EMF, finding nothing and beginning to get slightly frustrated.

You met up with Sam and Dean at the Kraft services table.

“So?” you asked the brothers, shoving your hands in the pockets of your jeans.

“No EMF anywhere,” Dean said.

“Same here,” you nodded.

Sam snorted, “Great. So, what do you think?”

“Well, I think being a P.A. sucks. But—” Dean picked up a tiny sandwich, “the food these people get, are you kidding me? I mean look at these things. They're like miniature Philly cheesesteak sandwiches. They're delicious.”

He held one of them out to you, and you took it happily. “Thanks,” you grinned.

Dean took a huge bite of his own sandwich. “What'd you find out about the dead crew guy?”

“Frank Jaffey was just filling in for the day,” you said. “Nobody knew him or where he lived or anything.”

“Oh, great. So you found out about as much as I did,” Dean remarked. “Sam?”

“I did dig up some stuff about Stage 9's history.”

“Yeah?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Four people died messy here over the past eighty years. Two suicides and two fatal accidents.”

“Awesome. So any one of them could be a vengeful spirit,” you commented.

“Yeah. We've just gotta narrow it down more,” Sam nodded.

Dean’s eyes followed Tara Benchley as she walked onto set. “I'll get right on that.” He walked off, leaving you fuming.

You trusted Dean, but you didn’t trust his downstairs brain. And the fact that the two of you weren’t officially together bothered you in situations like this. You eyed him intensely with your arms folded, every once in a while bringing a hand to your mouth to chomp on your mini sandwich.

“Cool it, (Y/N),” Sam told you.

“I’m so cool,” you grumbled.

He made a bitch-face at you. “Uh-huh.”

You rolled your eyes. You stood by Sam, the both of you just trying to stick as close to the wall as possible for a few minutes. Then, Dean came back up to you. “I know who our mystery man is. And he’s not dead,” Dean said.

***

You then went to the home of Gerard St. James and confirmed that he was, in fact, the man who had posed as Frank Jaffey for the day. The whole thing was designed by the producers to stir up press for the movie, and it worked. In fact, you were planning to leave town chalking the whole thing up to a hoax when the man in the tailored suit who’d called you “Blue Sweater Girl” wound up dead; dropping into a scene hanging from his neck.

And so, you were back on set. You gave a lopsided smile at the sight of Dean so thoroughly enjoying himself; donning an equipment belt with a headset attached and snacking on as many sandwiches as he could get his hands on.

You noticed a P.A. whose name you learned was Walter storming off set and followed him. “Walter!” you called, trying to catch up to him.

“Leave me alone,” the short man grumbled, but you kept quickening your pace until you were by his side.

“What happened back there?” you asked.

“They’re screwing with the movie,” he replied.

“How so?”

He scoffed. “Didn’t you hear them? They keep adding explainers about how the ghosts can hear the summonings from hell or how the ghosts couldn’t possibly be afraid of salt,” he mocked the director.

“What’s got you so fired up, though?” you pushed. You reached the edge of the studio lot near the parking lot. “I mean, ghosts aren’t real, so, what difference does it make?”

He laughed humorlessly. “ ‘What difference does it’—” he cut himself off. “Look, you wouldn’t get it. Just— leave me alone.” He stormed off toward a green Jeep and slammed the door once inside it.

Perplexed, you made your way back onto the set. You took in the various actors and crew members milling about, reading over sides, setting up lights, mingling in the corners of the soundstage— and for a moment, you wished you could actually work on a set like this.

Dean was easy to find; frequently barking commands and responses into his headset, and Sam never far from him. That poor kid was so far out of his element.

“Hey, sweetheart, whatcha got?” Dean asked you as you approached.

That nickname still had a devastating effect on you. “Walter’s a little testy for a P.A. What you got?”

“Uh, not much. Other than EMF readings up the wazoo. For some reason, it's a legit haunting now,” he said. “Oh, and some freaky static feedback on the scenes.”

“Well,” you began. “Who’s the ghost? What’s it want?”

***

After reviewing one of the tapes Dean had snagged from one of his new crew-member friends, you discovered an apparition in the corner of the room just as Brad, the man who died, had fallen through the roof. Sam had somehow recognized her.

“Here. Check this out,” Sam said, putting a piece of paper between you and Dean who sat across the table from him.

“Yeah, go for Ozzy,” Dean spoke into his headset. “No, I don't have a 20 on Tara, I think she's 10-100… Okay, copy that. “ Dean looked back to Sam as you skimmed over the article he’d given you. “I'm sorry, what were you saying?”

Sam shook his head in exasperation, and you took the opportunity to explain what was happening to Dean. “Elise Drummond,” you relayed. “Kind of a rising star back in the thirties. Had an affair with a studio exec. Piece of shit kinda left her in the dust when he was done with her, and she hung herself from Stage 9’s rafters; right into a scene they were shooting.”

“Just like our man, Brad. So, what, she's got it in for the studio brass?” Dean questioned.

“Possibly,” Sam shrugged. “I mean, it's a motive. And Brad's death matches hers exactly.”

“We're digging tonight, aren't we?” Dean sighed.

***

Later that evening, you walked beside Sam into the Hollywood Forever Cemetery to dig up Elise Drummond’s grave.

“Which way?” Sam asked his brother, who walked ahead of you holding a map.

“Uh... over here,” he replied, continuing ahead. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

The older brother gestured to a memorial for Humpty Dumpty with a wide grin.

You shook your head, suppressing an amused sigh. “You’re a freak, dude,” you jested. “Kid in a candy store over a bunch of dead celebrities.”

“You just don’t get it, sweetheart,” Dean responded. “Hey, we've gotta go check out Johnny Ramone's grave when we're done here.”

“You wanna dig him up, too?” Sam deadpanned.

“Bite your tongue, heathen!” He passed another memorial, effectively distracting him from his younger brother’s blasphemy. “Oh, that's cool.”

“Focus, Pinky,” you said, nudging Dean’s shoulder.

“Hey, why am I Pinky?” he protested.

“ ‘Cause Sam’s clearly Brain,” you replied simply.

“So, what does that make you? Pharfignewton?” Dean chuckled.

“Oh, hell no. I’m Dot!” you protested.

“What, we’re doing a crossover episode?”

“Duh. You guys are the freaky lab rats. Not me. I’m flippin’ adorable,” you sassed.

Dean smiled delightedly at you.

“Guys, please,” Sam huffed, bringing your attention back to the task at hand. “What I don't get is why now? I mean, after seventy-five years, Elise Drummond suddenly goes homicidal, you know? Why this movie?”

“Well, maybe she's mad they're making a scary ghost flick,” Dean shrugged.

The brunet snorted. “Come on, is it really that scary?”

“Here we go,” you announced upon reaching Elise’s headstone.

“Yahtzee,” Dean remarked and immediately set to work digging.

***

You returned to the trailer Dean had scored to get a few hours of sleep after exhuming and torching the corpse of Elise Drummond. There was a pullout couch in the trailer as well as a single queen bed, and you and Dean agreed to share the bed. Sam clearly had questions, and you knew you would have to answer them in the morning.

“This is fuckin’ awesome, man,” Dean grinned, shrugging off his jacket and boots. “I feel like a movie star.”

You giggled. “Did you ever wanna be one when you were growing up?”

“Meh, I wanted to be a rockstar more,” he replied. “You got first shower.”

“Thanks.”

When both of you had showered and readied for bed, Dean slipped under the covers beside you. “Oh, holy crap, this is so much comfier than a motel.”

“Yeah, probably because the mattress is more than an inch thick,” you snorted, settling into Dean’s side. You laid against him in silence for a moment, before a question that had been plaguing you escaped. “Hey, Dean?”

He hummed in response.

“Do you— Do you have a… thing for Tara?” you asked.

He shifted to look down at you. “What?”

“I mean, I know you and I haven’t really… talked about anything yet…” you began to ramble, “but if you wanted to, y’know, go there with her— I just— it’d really upset me, is all.”

“(Y/N), if I wanted Tara that bad, do you think I’d have jumped at the chance to share a bed with you?” he asked earnestly.

“Well, I don’t know—”

“What, am I that much of a man whore?” he questioned before suddenly reconsidering. “Don’t answer that.”

You snorted. You paused for another moment, hesitant to ask your next question. “Would you— Would you ever wanna— I don’t know, be… more than just… this?”

Dean tilted your chin up with his finger. He leaned into you, kissing you gently, giving you all the answers you needed. “Fuck, yes,” he said against your lips.

***

The next morning, you awoke to sirens blaring outside the trailer. You jerked against Dean, waking him up, and he immediately straightened up and pulled you into his side protectively. He relaxed when he realized it was just a siren. However, that posed a more troubling question: why was there a siren outside your trailer at seven in the morning?

You quickly got dressed and met Sam at the door; heading down to see what the commotion was about. Sam went to investigate the crime scene as Dean went to talk to the friends he’d made on the set.

You milled about, simply observing. You noted Tara looking visibly upset as she stood with her costars; clearly having just woken up. People holding clipboards and headsets talked in hush voices, rushing from one group of crew members to another. You saw the director talking to a policeman, a body bag being rolled into an ambulance, and a nervous P.A. huddling with her friend a distance away from the scene. You’d seen all of these people before at least once or twice, and you assumed the sirens had to have woken everyone up. At least, everyone that was staying on the set and didn’t have homes nearby. Sam came back over to you.

“Run-in with a giant fan,” he said in a hushed voice. “Same thing happened to an electrician back in '66, a guy named Billy Beard.”

“What the hell, dude?” you questioned.

“I don't know. Doesn't seem like Elise this time, either. It's not her M.O.”

“No, no way. Couldn’t be her. We deep fried her already. But it’s weird; these things don’t normally tag-team,” you thought aloud.

The director suddenly stood on the hood of his car. “Everybody! Gather around, okay! I've got an announcement to make.” He handed his keys to the P.A. who’d been nervously chewing her nails in the corner with her friend before addressing the group again. Dean walked calmly over to you at that moment.

“Everyone! Huddle in!” the director called. “In light of Jay's accident last night, and in cooperation with the authorities, we're shutting down production for a few days. I know, I know. Look, I'm not gonna lie to you. We've had a few setbacks this week. But we all know what Jay and Brad wanted more than anything. And that was to see Hell Hazers 2: The Reckoning on screens all across America! Now, we owe it to them to go on, and to pull together and make this damn movie, huh?”

The crowd before you cheered and applauded.

“But— but, but, but not today. Go home. Someone will call you,” the director finished.

You snickered, turning to head back to your trailer.

“Any chance you got more copies of those dailies?” you asked Dean.

***

Later that day, you were barely able to keep your eyes glued to the screen in front of you. While watching the B-roll of the movie was fun, the movie itself was awfully boring and cheesy. You just wanted a ghost to jump out at you already, instead of needing to sift through hours of footage while Dean and Sam were out researching.

A pretty blonde actress interrupted Tara’s character as she began to read in Latin from a book.

Dean and Sam reentered the trailer.

“Hey,” Sam said.

“Hey,” you replied. “Anything?”

“Billy Beard was cremated,” Sam informed you.

“Perfect,” you deadpanned.

“Any more ghost cameos in the dailies?” Dean asked.

“Not in the first six hours,” you sighed, sitting back on the couch and running a hand through your hair. “Y’know, maybe the spirits are trying to shut down the movie 'cause they think it sucks. 'Cause, I mean, it kinda does.”

Suddenly, something caught your attention in Tara’s awful Latin pronunciation. You rewound the tape a little bit, listening closely. “Holy shit, guys,” you said, pausing the tape. “That’s the real deal. A real life necromantic summoning ritual.”

Sam looked at you confused. “What the hell is that doing in a Hollywood movie?”

“Beats the shit outta me,” you scoffed. You paused a moment. “Wait, Walter.”

“What about him?” Dean asked.

“He was all bent outta shape about them changing the ‘real’ ghost stuff. Like the salt, or that bit they added in about the ghosts having super hearing to be able to hear the Latin chanting from hell,” you said.

“Yeah, but he’s a P.A. What does he have to do with any of this?” Dean questioned.

“Dean, I think she’s got a point,” Sam chimed in. “What if Walter wrote the script, and he’s the reason this is all happening.”

“Dean, do you remember what your P.A. friends said the writer’s name was?” you asked.

*** You and the brothers tried your best not to weird Marty, the writer of the movie, out too terribly much as you pried into the history of the writing. He ended up confirming your theory; Walter had written the original script. You ended up getting copies of the original screenplay from Marty and brought it back to the trailer you were squatting in.

“Lord of the Dead” was the title on the cover page.

“Should've kept Walter's original script. It's actually pretty good,” Dean noted.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “And it reads like a how-to manual of conjuration, like a textbook on how to summon ghosts and get them to do whatever you want.”

“Yeah, like kill people,” Dean realized.

“I’m thinkin’ he got pissed they tinkled in his cheerios and started using black magic to get back at these people for wrecking his movie,” you chimed in.

“Motive and means,” Sam nodded.

“It's worth checking out,” the older brother shrugged.

As night fell, you exited the trailer and were going to try and find Walter at his home address. However, when you reached the parking lot, you noticed that distinctive army-green Jeep. “Wait, that’s Walter’s car,” you told the brothers. It was one of the only cars in the lot aside from the Impala. Immediately, the three of you ran back to Stage 9 to see if you could catch Walter in the act of trying to hurt someone else.

Thankfully, you made it to the studio just in time. You could hear a man screaming and a fan loudly blowing, and you ran toward the sound with your shotgun raised. Dean came up behind Marty and shot at the ghost of Billy Beard, effectively making him disappear. Sam clicked off the fan, and you followed Walter up to the rafters.

“You are one hell of a P.A.,” you heard Marty telling Dean as you climbed.

“What are you doing?” Walter asked you, still a bit of a distance above you.

“Uh, the fuck are you doing, dude?” you questioned. “Raising spirits from the dead? Makin’ ‘em murder for you? Do you have a death wish?”

“You don’t understand,” Walter shook his head.

“You’re right,” you said. “I don’t.”

You began to charge him, but he held his hands up. “Just... wait, look,” the man pleaded. “You put your heart and soul into something, years of hard work. It's years, and then they take it! And they crap all over it! And then— and then they want you to smile and say, ‘Thank you’.”

“Listen, I get it, man,” you began, “I know that feels shitty. But this is in no way, shape, or form the answer.”

“Look,” Walter scoffed. “I've got nothing against you, sweetness.” You cringed at the nickname as he continued talking. “You're not part of this. Just please, please, just leave. But Martin's gotta stay.”

“Sorry, can't do that,” Dean called up to you. “It's not that we like him or anything, it's… just a matter of principle.”

“Then I'm sorry, too.” Walter picked up the talisman around his neck and began to mutter in Latin. The set began shaking, and you grabbed the railings on either side of you to steady yourself.

“(Y/N)!” Dean called up to you.

Suddenly, a ghost with a horribly mangled face appeared in front of you, knocking you to the floor. You aimed your shotgun and fired, making him disappear. When you looked behind where the apparition had stood, Walter was gone.

“Dammit!” you cursed. You then spotted him sprinting across a rafter in the distance. The quickest way to him was going to be running along a large steel pipe next to you that led straight from your platform to his.

“(Y/N), are you fucking crazy?!” Dean exclaimed as you began to sprint across the pipe, trying not to be too careful that you slowed yourself down while simultaneously trying not to fall to your death.

“Maybe!” you called back, leaping off the pipe and clutching the railing of the rafter. You pulled yourself over the top of it, boots landing firmly on the mesh, steel floor.

You saw Walter chanting in the back corner of the rafters and ran at him; he hadn’t noticed you til you were quite literally standing on top of him. You had him completely cornered.

“It’s over, Walter,” you told him harshly. “Give it to me.”

Walter threw the talisman to the ground at your feet, shattering it completely. “There! Okay, now no one can have it.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “I wouldn't have done that if I were you.”

“Oh, yeah?” he challenged. “And why not?”

“Because you just freed them. Ain’t nothin’ I can do to help you now,” you said. “You brought ‘em back and forced them to murder. They're not gonna be very happy with you.”

The rafters below you suddenly creaked and separated from the wall, Walter screaming as he fell to the ground below. You screamed, hanging onto the railing for dear life as it hung loosely from where the platform was connected on its other end.

“(Y/N)!” the brothers called.

Your feet swung limply below you as you searched for something— anything— to grab onto and keep you from suffering the same fate as Walter. You noticed a thick cable attached to one of the strings of lights hanging down into the scene below and swung yourself over to it; latching on the way a fireman would grip a fire pole. You let go just enough to slide all the way down, letting go when you were no more than five feet from the ground. You rolled over your shoulder before you hit the floor and undoubtedly broke a bone, having learned that it was best not to land on your feet in these situations.

Dean, Sam, and Marty looked down at you in shock.

“What?” you breathed out. “Nobody’s gonna help me up?”

Dean and Sam immediately outstretched a hand each to help you off the floor.

“Dude, how are you not dead?” Sam questioned.

“Yeah, and since when are you chick-Ethan-Hunt?” Dean asked.

You shrugged. “My dad made sure I was agile enough to do shit like that. Still didn’t think I was gonna survive that.”

Sam and Dean chuckled, and you started heading out of the studio. “Shit, probably screwed up my arm, though,” you hissed, rotating the shoulder you'd used to tumble set over when you hit the ground.

“Hey, if that’s the worst injury you have after all that, let’s be thankful,” Sam commented.

Marty followed a bit behind, seeming a bit in shock. “Uh, guys?” he called.

The three of you turned.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” you replied. “Seriously. To anyone. Ever.”

He nodded, seeming slightly afraid of you.

*** You and the brothers decided to stick around for just a few more days to enjoy yourselves after everything that happened. You watched as Tara’s co-star, just as the brothers told you Marty had, directed Tara where to shoot by seeing where the ghosts were in the phone’s camera.

“You find out there's an afterlife, and this is what you do with it?” Sam snorted at Marty who was standing nearby.

He looked up from his cell phone, grinning. “I needed a little jazz on the page.”

You bid your goodbyes to the people you’d “worked” with that past week and walked toward the Impala with Dean’s arm around your shoulders. You laced your fingers with his.

Dean grabbed a sandwich with his free hand, and the three of you walked toward a painted sunset backdrop crew members were rolling away. “God, I love this town,” he chuckled, making you and Sam laugh.

The backdrop before you moved to reveal a beautiful sunset over the Hollywood Hills, bathing you in the sun’s glow.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

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dimespin · 5 months ago

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Saratoan Life Stages

The simple rule of thumb for guessing a Saratoan dragon's human-age is a kind of reverse dog years - divide their age by 2 and there you are. But as is the case with dog years, Saratoans develop on their own timeline.

They themselves understand their ages based on set of teeth, of which they can have a maximum of 7 across their lifetime.

First Teeth

The first set of teeth erupt shortly after the joey detaches from the mother's body about 6 months after the initial birth and arrival in the pouch. The joey is not yet old enough to permanently leave the pouch at 6 months but a few months later they will leave the pouch permanently and spend a few years clinging to their mother's back instead.

The development timeline for a joey has some similarities with human children (they start talking around the same time) and differences (they take their first wobbly steps as soon as they make their first venture out of the pouch around 6 months)

Compared to their extended lifespan these years are quite accelerated!

This set of teeth as well as the next lacks the pronounced canines the species is known for, very much looking like the teeth of what they are, an herbivore.

This set of teeth is shed at about age 6

Second Teeth

The next set of teeth are heavily associated with the age group called sub-adults, but they aren't officially considered sub-adults until age 15.

Sub-adults are still considered a type of child, but nonetheless are very independent. They are generally at similar levels of education as humans the same age, most of them work and many live away from their families full or part time.

Legally they occupy a separate category from either children or adults, with restrictions intended to protect them like lower legal working hours and it not being legal to sell them things like cigarettes, but they are also legally allowed to live apart from their family even if the family would prefer otherwise.

While they can earn professional certificates and credentials through education they are legally barred from many professional fields and must wait to use those credentials for adulthood. Because of this many take on apprentice or intern like jobs in their desired field to gain experience while waiting to be able to work in the field.

Despite the fact many of them work or are in college and can speak and think as you'd expect of a same-age human, they are known for being a bit childish, still having a drive to play, and sometimes still being emotionally immature and impulsive.

This is the stage at which their physical aging starts to slow down, so they do not hit their adult height until closer to when they get their next set of teeth. Growth does not completely stop but many sub-adults are markedly short compared to adults.

This set is shed at about age 30

Third Teeth

At age 30 Saratoans hit puberty and have their final growth spurt, reaching their adult height around the same time as their teeth start falling out and growing back in (for the Atau full adult height is usually reached around 35, but the tooth milestone and puberty still happens around the same time)

At this age they often become aware of their sexuality and between this and the expectations of whether or not they will reproduce, social roles within their culture are decided and imposed.

As they enter this age group there can be a lot of upheaval in their lives as they suddenly move from education to professional careers, move out, become parents, lose childhood friends and gain new ones, etc., depending on the individual

While they are culturally viewed as adults they are still often condescended to by older adults who view them as still being a bit wet behind the ears.

This set of teeth is shed at about age 65

Fourth Teeth

This set of teeth is associated with the approach of middle age. Normal adults generally dealing with life with now a significant amount of experience, but still with a huge population around them with more experience still.

This age group has a reputation for sometimes being annoying according to elders, as they are second only to sub-adults in their likelihood to rebel. This is the first time many of them have experienced adults (third teeth) showing them respect and following their lead on things, and this makes some start to view themselves as able to question those above them. This is especially annoying as this is also the time when many of them begin being trained for their future as house elders if they are in the position to take that role.

This age group and the next are the ones most likely to make a show of dominance smiling, as the tension between groups of adults who would otherwise be peers becomes heightened. Previous groups had no one to lord their age based social hierarchy position over but those they viewed as literal children, but now with other adults to pull rank on, the age based fights begin to reach their peak.

This set of teeth is shed at about age 100

Fifth Teeth

This set of teeth is associated with middle age and the time shortly after. Many start showing signs of aging during this time, with wrinkles and graying hair starting to appear.

During this time many start to see their fertility slowing down, with pregnancies becoming pretty much unheard of after age 130.

Many in this age group are already taking on important management roles within the house structure, as they are in the important position of both being old enough to command respect from many but still being fairly physically healthy and fit

This set of teeth is shed at about age 135

Sixth Teeth

The last set of teeth many Saratoans ever grow but not the last possible set. This set is associated with elders who are not the house leader. Often seen in the house leader's partner and eldest children within the house structure. Also often seen in older adults who choose to live outside the house structure system.

Saratoans health and signs of aging keep pretty stable from the previous age group through this one, accelerating much more around age 170, when they tend to lose the remaining color in their hair, thinning of the hair becomes visible on the arms and legs, and health decline and age related health conditions start to become a real problem.

This set of teeth is only shed under the circumstance of being left as the most dominant one within a family or group, often due to the death of the house leader when they were the next eldest individual.

Seventh Teeth

The last possible set of teeth when the canines become long enough they permanently protrude from the mouth at all times and unlike the other teeth are dry at all times. Because of this they are called tusks.

Tusked elders are stereotyped as very calm and patient and not interested in making a show of their dominance. They cannot meaningfully hide or reveal their teeth so they tend to relax about commanding respect simply for the sake of it as fourth and fifth teeth often do.

These teeth are only ever seen in the eldest dominant figure within a group. While it is technically possible to develop them after age 140, and much more rarely, as early as 100, it's more common to see them in individuals closer to 160 or more.

Saratoans generally live to be around 200, with the majority dying of old age closer to 190 or so, but still a few live past 200, with 210 being rare but not totally unheard of. There are rumors of even older individuals occurring but the records are sketchy

#saratoan #worldbuilding #digital media #dime made this #cut for length but there's pictures if you wanna skim it to look at them haha #thought it'd be a good idea to lay this out in a bit more detail

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evasive-anon · 8 months ago

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Tim would fucking TOWER over Jason if they actually met as kids.

Thinking about how in every kidfic Jason is always still described as bigger and stronger than frail little Timmy even though when Jason died at 15 he was only 4'6" and 87lbs going by his death certificate. Tim's Robin on the other hand was 5'1" at 13/14 looking at the height they had listed for him in DC's Who's Who update in 1991.

If Jason's and Tim's robin's ever actually met it'd actually look like this:

And that's assuming you match up youngest Robin!Tim with oldest Robin!Jason. And if they met pre-robin??? Jason at 4'6" (the like average height of a 10yo) was after years of living with Bruce. Like that's kid Jason at PEAK so he was smaller when he jacked those fucking tires. There's no way some rich in Bristol who's only two years younger than him is gonna be smaller just 'cause his mommy and daddy work a lot.

#canon vs fanon #jason todd #tim drake #dc robin #batbros #rants #bitches be like 'oh i wish they wouldn't always make jason look older in art'#but then use the same biases to make jason bigger and scarier as a kid #its giving classism #bruce is 6'2 so he must just look cartoonishly big compared to either of them tbh

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buildsafecanada · 5 months ago

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scotianostra · 3 months ago

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Thomas Sean Connery was born in the Fountainbridge area of Edinburgh on 25th August, 1930.

Big Tam, as he was affectionately known around Fountainbridge in his youth, well he was Tommy until his teens, when he shot up in height and stature, at one point he entered a bodybuilding contest, he was 6'2″ at the time, weighed around 14 stone, had a 48-inch chest, 25-inch thigh, and his arms were 15.25 inches.

His first job was as a milkman with the St Cuthbert’s Co-Operative Society in Edinburgh. I would think he would have delivered the milk on a horse drawn carriage, the stables for these horses was in the are he grew up, were in Grove Street, where I used to live the main offices for St Cuthbert’s still stands round the corner on Fountainbridge.

Connery also played football at junior level for Bonnyrigg Rose, my cousin played for them too for several years.

A few more facts about Sean are he has a tattoo on his arm that state “Scotland Forever” he got when he enrolled in the Merchant Navy, he was discharged from that job due to stomach ulcers, between jobs he was a nude model for art students at Edinburgh College of art, again not to far from Fountainbridge. Other jobs he took up were, a lorry driver, a lifeguard at Portobello swimming baths,a labourer and a coffin polisher!

I think it is interesting Connery never strayed far from Fountainbridge in his younger days, indeed when he decided that acting was a career he was going to pursue, it was the nearby Kings Theatre he got a job helping backstage, he was also competing in bodybuilding competitions at this time and while at an event in London he learned that there were auditions being held for South Pacific, he was picked to appear on the chorus line but as the production toured the country he was making his way up the ladder.

By the time it hit Edinburgh he had the part of Marine Cpl Hamilton Steeves and was understudying two of the juvenile leads, and his salary was raised from £12 to £14–10s a week, when the production was reprised the following year he had the lead role on the tour, taking over from the actor Larry Hagman, who played the part in London’s West End.

Connery never looked back from there and of course the role of James Bond catapulted him to international stardom, Ian Fleming though was against him getting the part initially, he said Sean was “unrefined” and not what he had in mind, Sean soon won him over though and Fleming later admitted he was an “ideal” Bond.

A few of the parts Sean either didn’t get or turned down are Gandalf, in the Lord of the Rings series of films, he said he never understood the books and also wasn’t keen on 18 months of filming in New Zealand. He also turned down the chance to play the role of the Architect in The Matrix Reloaded and The Matrix Revolutions. Sean was asked to portray King Edward I in Braveheart, but was too busy working on Another film at the time, Patrick McGoohan took the role instead, I’m sort of glad he never played Longshanks.

His 93rd and last film was 2003’s The League of Extraordinary Gentleman - although he officially retired in 2006, although he was temporarily tempted back to do the voice of Sir Billi in the animated adventure comedy of the same name.

Sir Sean Connery passed away in his sleep on 31st October 2020 at his home in the Bahamas, his son said he had been unwell for some time. The official cause of death was pneumonia, heart failure and old age, his death certificate revealed.

In a career spanning over 50 years, Connery earned an Academy Award, multiple Golden Globes, including the Cecil B. DeMille and Henrietta Awards, as well as two British Academy Film Awards (BAFTA) awards.

I've posted more pics than I normally would, firstly to show that Sean was much more than the first Bond, but also because the Scottish public, had and still have a big connection and love for the big guy.

Sean Connery 25th August 1930 – 31st October 2020.

#scotland #scottish #history #edinburgh #actor

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doberbutts · 4 months ago

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about your TME/Imane Khelif post, i believe i can provide some answers (im not transfem myself but im very interested in transfeminism)

first of all, no oppressed/oppressor binary is going to be perfect. POC/white is a useful distinction, but last summer a white man was killed after being mistaken for being arab. a straight man may be harassed for hugging his male friend and being seen as gay, etc. TME/TMA are useful terms to describe the way transmisogyny operates in society, even though like all oppressions, things can occasionally get muddled IRL. it doesn't make those terms useless or incorrect. to go back to the harassed straight man example, that man would certainly be a VICTIM of homophobia, but that doesn't make him gay, or mean that he doesn't have any heterosexual privilege at all.

(you said imane khelif may be sent to jail IF she's ruled not to be enough of a woman. horrifying prospect of course, but that IF is doing a lot! a trans woman would not have that IF!)

just wanted to provide that perspective since you asked very genuinely and thoughtfully. have a nice day

I appreciate the good faith response!!! This is exactly the sort of discussion I was looking for.

I am mostly on board - I have discussed at length how these social categories are muddy at best and do not operate on strict lines, and that people in general are impossible to place into neatly sorted boxes. Similar to your first example, I reference frequently a past love of mine who was white but often mistaken for mixed asian (usually chinese/white) due to his monolids, facial structure, and facial hair pattern. Despite being a white guy, he had numerous encounters with racists that ended quite violently for him, and as a result was probably one of the most sensitive white guys I've ever dated regarding race.

Being mistaken for being chinese, while not actually being chinese himself, is not at all the same as actually being chinese. I certainly agree. However, I think it is wrong to say that sinophobia does not affect him or that he is exempt from sinophobia because he has the ability to say "hey wait a second I'm not chinese I'm white". Mostly because any time he tried to do that, it didn't work, and he still got beaten up anyway.

And I also don't think it means he has no white privilege at all- certainly, we experienced it as a couple in real time because while he could be mistaken as a man of color, I absolutely am one without question. And, furthermore, I'm visibly black, not just "of color", which makes people really double down on the racism. Case in point, any time I parked my car in the visitor spot next to his apartment door, the landlord would run out of their office to chase me away stating the spot was only for approved visitors. Even though she saw me entering and exiting his residence in her pursuit to make me move my car. The town he lived in is less than 2% black, and these were luxury apartments that did not have a single black person in the building he specifically lived in. He could live there, but I couldn't even visit without being harassed.

Similarly, as I said in my post, I can see the logic of stating that there is privilege there even though Khelif is in a difficult situation currently, because yes, she can provide a birth certificate and a blood test and a genital check and be cleared of all accusations. I just think that being forced to submit to embarrassing and invasive testing, as well as being forced to provide personal documents, and having the world weigh in on the judgement of your gender, is not really a good literal get-out-of-jail-free card. It is certainly a leg up that she has the ability to do so. I do not think it is right that she should have to- but then I don't see the problem with trans women competing alongside cis women. I think it's stupid that sports are divided by gender and not by weight/height/proficiency.

And I think that forcing specifically women of color who oddly enough seem to be the vast majority of these cases (esp black women and esp esp black intersex women who didn't even know they were intersex before but w/e) to prove that they're woman enough to be qualified as women is racial violence with interphobia and transphobia as the weapon. Intersectionality and all that.

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kangarootraining · 1 month ago

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trippinsorrows · 20 days ago

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I know Roman will be strict with boys but what would make me cackle is if Lina or Leya got a boyfriend that’s just as big and as bad as him 😂😂😂 like imagine them going to prom and Roman has to look up to him/ or be at eye level because of his height and he’d get a pang in his chest because him and the guy have the same/similar muscle mass. Baby he’d be too stunned and jealous to speak 😂😭

wait, cause i'm screaming at this!!! 😂😂😂😂

but also, i'm wondering why the hell these boys so damn big in high school?!?! like, roman is a big ass man. emphasis on man. but, let both their dates be the same height as him, you're right, he would be fussing away to solana.

"what the fuck are they feeding these kids? they look fucking 25."

solana rolls her eyes, continuing to massage her husband's scalp as he lays in her lap, vehemently venting about his introduction to the girls dates.

their boyfriends, technically. but, she and the girls haven't quite worked out a way to break that news to her husband without his blood pressure shooting through the roof.

or the boys going missing.

"i developed early, too, roman. it happens." it happened to both their girls too, but she refuses to bring up those days. roman's overprotectiveness was times ten when the twins hit puberty. "and they're very nice."

"i don't give a fuck if they're nice or not. they're not good enough for my girls."

"roman, no one is good enough for them, leave it to you." solana leans over and kisses his forehead, advising, "they really like them, baby. please try to be nice."

"yeah, i'll be nice alright," he grumbles. solana rolls her eyes. he's about as mature as their younger kids sometimes. "i want to see their birth certificates." his eyes suddenly alight with an idea she knows she's not going to like. "i should go over there."

solana's eyes widen ever so slightly. yup. definitely not an idea she likes. "roman, you are not going to go over there."

"why not?" he sits up, looking at her like he doesn't know why that would such a bad idea. "anything can happen."

"because you remember the last time you showed up to their dance to check on them? you broke that poor boy's jaw!"

roman shrugs, indifferent. "he was too weak for my leya anyway."

solana sighs, heavily. she'd almost rather be entertaining their other four kids all at the same time than try to reason with her stubborn ass husband. "they'll be fine, roman. they have their security, and don't act like i don't know you don't have jimmy and jey sitting in the parking lot as backup."

roman looks away, neither confirming nor denying.

"and--"

the sound of something breaking pulls them from the conversation at hand followed by hushed, nervous, rushed conversation.

"what did you do?!"

"it wasn't me! it was kai!"

"no, it wasn't! it was koa!"

"no way!"

"i'm telling daddy!"

"snitch!"

"mommy! daddy!" aroha's soft voice is upped several octaves as she calls for her parents. "the twins are being mean to me!"

"nu uh!"

"uh huh!"

roman sighs. heavily. solana only smiles, seeing the frustration already growing. "i think we have more important things to worry about tonight than our teenagers."

roman scoffs, standing up and reaching his hand out to pull solana up from the sofa. "i wish you would even think to tell me you want another baby." she giggles, holding onto his arm as they head off to do damage control. "all these damn kids."

#ari answers #ltye ask #ltye short

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thepeacefulgarden · 2 years ago

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Numbers that don't define your worth:

The number of people you have or haven't slept with.

The number on the scale.

The height of your heels.

The length of your dress, pants, shorts, or skirt.

The depth of your neckline.

The width of your waistline.

The measurements of various body parts.

Your BMI.

Your fasting glucose, cholesterol, A1C, or any other labs.

The number of children you've had.

How many of those children are boys.

How many relationships you've been in.

How many times you've been married.

How many days you've been sober.

The number of trophies on your shelf.

Your income.

Your credit score.

How many extracurriculars you're involved in.

The number of likes you have on whatever content you post.

The number of followers you have on social media.

The number of friends you have in real life.

How many parties you get invited to.

Your age.

How much weight you can lift bench press.

How many push-ups, sit-ups, chin-ups, etc. you can do.

Your height.

The numbers on your clothing tags.

The number of degrees and certificates you have.

The number of houses you own.

The number of hours you work each week.

Your GPA.

#you are enough #you are worthy #purity culture #fuck diet culture #your body is not a moral failing #self compassion #self care #mental health #stop the glorification of busy #work #career #school #relationships

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hauntedhokage · 9 months ago

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check yes

Nanami Kento/F!Reader

summary: Nanami makes a request of Gojo to use his connections to arrange his marriage. He just wasn’t expecting to develop a crush on the person arranging his marriage.

word count: 4.2k

warnings: inexplicit references to sexual content

note: I had a very different intention for how this would flow but this is not it. oh well.

[ao3 link] [masterlist] [nanami masterlist] [ko-fi + commissions]

He was already starting to regret this. The house he was brought to was lavish, well maintained and belonging to an owner who took excellent care of the property. Someone from Gojo’s circles outside of Jujutsu Tech and not someone he’d rub elbows with commonly. In all fairness, they weren’t people Nanami wanted to rub elbows with either, but he felt it was natural to be nervous in a house this nice. Just how lucrative was this business anyway?

“Gojo, where did you bring me?”

“I said I’d bring you to the best in the world, didn’t I?” He did say that, but this was Satoru Gojo. There was always a joke or a loophole, Nanami learned to expect that. “This is where the best in the world lives and works - but only for her favorite clients.”

Just how many people had Gojo brought here that he’d become a favorite? Or was he really a favorite? Again, this was Satoru Gojo.

“When you said you had a proposition for me, I thought I’d finally get the big fish engaged.” The teasing tone pulled his attention to the staircase, and he rose an eyebrow at the sight of a woman who seemed vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place from where. “Who’s this?”

“Kento Nanami. A grade one sorcerer in need of a lady friend.”

“Why can’t you ever give me a proper introduction?” Nanami asks, following behind Gojo when his coworker moves to follow you into a room off to the side of the staircase.

You’re standing at a bookcase, opening and flipping through various notebooks until you find what you’re looking for, and Nanami notices that the notebook has Gojo’s name on the front of it when you turn to face them. Based on the size of the notebook and how worn it was, you do a lot of work with Gojo. Both men sit at the desk but you opt to continue standing as you flip through pages, and Nanami takes the time to observe how neat your office was. Art prints on the walls, a couple certificates, and two swords that he could feel the cursed energy radiating off of. Imbued with strong cursed energy, he’d assume you’d had a heavenly pact if he hadn’t already felt the fountain of energy you contained. It felt different from Gojo, it was warmer - much more comforting.

“Kento Nanami,” you mumble, writing in the notebook and only once barely glancing up from the page to see him watching you intently. “You’ve got a technique, right?”

“Seven-to-three. It’s a ratio technique.”

“So someone interested in math might be a plus. Height?”

And he’s forthcoming with the answers to your questions - sometimes having to correct Gojo’s incorrect answers - and he hates that Gojo is getting so much detailed information about himself that was so delicately tucked away. Things about him that would be used against him, as if Nanami asking Gojo about how to have his own marriage arranged wasn’t fuel enough for relentless teasing from the so-called strongest sorcerer.

“Is there a type of woman you’re most interested in?”

“Intelligent, patience, and being competent in a kitchen is a bonus but not required. I’m more than capable of cooking for myself.”

“You want a spouse who can keep herself occupied, I’m sure. Employed?”

“Unnecessary. I have an ample salary to care for two.”

“Appearance?”

“That’s irrelevant to me. What is most important is what lies beneath.”

That had you looking up from the notebook, pen halting only for a moment before you recovered and crossed something out before writing something else. Gojo was shocked enough for the entire room, you didn’t have anything else to add.

It’s only another twenty minutes and a couple pictures with requests for others where he looks less constipated before you’re walking them to the front door of your home while explaining next steps to Nanami. He’d expect to hear from you in a couple days with a date and time to look at profiles of prospective brides that you pulled based on the information you got from him today and estimated compatibility scores.

Gojo is left with a demand that he deal with the Zen’in clan who had been in contact with you regarding Megumi’s future plans for marriage that were none of your business. It seemed you had the same opinion of the clan that Gojo did, which wasn’t surprising but was definitely interesting. He'd have expected your work to not interfere with the dealings of the clans, but he supposed the jujutsu world was always dancing around the wishes of the clans.

“How do you know her?”

“We worked together a few years back on a special grade that had popped up while she was in Tokyo running errands. She doesn’t do a lot of sorcerer work, but she’ll gear up if her services are requested. Mostly she gets paid good money to arrange marriages for people like us.”

“But not you?”

“I’m too busy for a spouse. You’ve got strict hours and a real want for someone to come home to, better suited for marriage than someone like me.”

Everyone eventually resigned themselves to their fate. Maybe in a few years Gojo will change his mind, slow down in his work and let himself accept what he knew they all wanted deep down: a way to escape from the harsh reality that was the world of jujutsu. For now, that wasn’t an issue for Nanami to make his own so he wasn’t going to allow this to slide for the time being.

“Y’know I’m sure Shoko would let you take her out on a date - for practice, of course.”

Nanami pretends to not have heard the suggestion. Shoko had much more important things to do than go on pretend dates with him.

Two weeks pass before he’s sitting in your home again. This time not in your office, but outside on your back patio enjoying a tea and light snacks while going through the stacks of folders produced with potential marriage candidates. You preferred pen and paper to digital record keeping, printed photographs on glossy paper or the occasional polaroid carefully fastened to the folder with a paperclip. Some records were so extensive that an actual binder was required rather than just a folder, whether that was by your design or the client’s he’d yet to figure out.

There were two loaded binders, three thick folders, and two thinner ones stacked on the side of the table, and he dreads needing to look through them all. Arranging a marriage seemed much more simple when he floated the idea past Gojo - it didn’t feel like he’d need to be so involved. He could learn to live with and care for anybody as would be his responsibility as a husband - the responsibility he was signing up for by requesting a marriage to be arranged.

The seven potential candidates you��d selected had the highest compatibility scores from your own assessment of his wants and theirs. All in his preferred age range, some with their natural hair color others with artificially colored hair, even their sexual experience was provided in some detail.

“Your research is extensive,” he comments while reading through the first file. Her name was Yui, first born daughter to a farmer and his wife (who was a former sorcerer) with three younger siblings but no training in jujutsu but the ability to see curses and potential for a cursed technique to have been inherited. Artificial blonde, went to university to study journalism and writes for a gossip magazine with freelance projects on the side.

Key consideration: terrified of the sight of blood. That note has him closing the folder and setting it to the side to create his own discard pile.

“The world of jujutsu is a picky and particular one. The clans go off of technique, fertility, and strength which makes it easy. Those who don’t have clans arranging or go outside of their clans want much more freedom of choice, and things to choose from.”

“Has someone really turned down a candidate because of their sexual experience?”

“More often than you’d think, in both directions. Why didn’t you like Yui?”

“Being afraid of the sight of blood doesn’t seem to fit right with my profession.” As expected, you write that down in your notebook while your free hand idly stirs your tea.

“Reckless in combat?”

“No, but I’m not untouchable like Gojo is. Accidents happen, I’d hate to spur my spouse into terror because a bloody shirt was in the washing machine.

You nod, this time lifting one of the small finger sandwiches to your lips as you continue to write. He looks into the next folder, surprised to see this candidate was a sorcerer from overseas looking to move to Tokyo. Céline from Paris, grade two sorcerer without a cursed technique. Her mission record was attached, and Nanami raises an eyebrow at the fact that she’d never completed a mission on her own. That was intriguing, and the notes that followed regarding the reason for denial to be promoted to grade one made it clear why she’d never finished a mission on her own: she was reckless and endangered herself and her colleagues on every mission.

With moving to Tokyo, she doesn’t want to give up being a sorcerer. Ideally would continue down this career path until plans to have children were made and solidified.

With that, Nanami moves Céline into the discard pile as well. He had no interest in a spouse who was recklessly endangering herself and planned on continuing to do so until pregnancy forced her to stop. He wasn’t even certain that he wanted children, and it seemed like she did eventually which was not going to be satisfactory for her.

The other five files meet the same fate, neatly stacked on the other side of the table while you continue to take notes. You’d added about three more pages on notes while watching him read through files and provide commentary when asked, which showed just how observant you were. This was a profession you excelled at for a reason.

“Are you normally this picky, Mr. Nanami? This is just a review to see if you want to meet these ladies, not propose on the spot.”

“I don’t want to waste their time or my own if I don’t believe there will be a connection after the meeting. If I don't see a future, why bother?”

“Should I just let you read through my entire filing cabinet on prospects to see if there’s anyone you like?” You were teasing him, that was clear and made him feel just a bit better about shutting down all of your preliminary choices. But perhaps you expected him to do that, if the additional set of four folders you pulled from the bag sitting on your left meant anything. You truly watched everything that he did.

“That shouldn’t be necessary. You spent the last hour psychoanalyzing me with intentionally incompatible brides for a reason, did you not?”

“Not intentionally incompatible, just incidentally. Everyone is open to options until they have the options, that’s where the pickiness sets in. Everyone has lines they’d prefer not to cross, I needed to find yours to better asses potential partners.”

“What are mine?”

“The most basic one is consistent mutual inconvenience or concern”

You go on to explain how that spiderwebs into a few other different lines that created his personal boundaries for selecting a wife (and, really, any personal acquaintance). Consistent mutual inconvenience, like him needing to hide a key risk of his profession for a wife terrified of the sight of blood while the wife would need to constantly emotionally prepare for the day where she made contact with the sight of his blood, was not a strong foundation for a relationship. Arranged or not, there needed to be levels of trust and comfortability that could be built, and that comfortability would never be built upon a foundation of fear. That mutual inconvenience webbed into concern, like always being worried that your spouse’s reckless behavior would get themselves killed but they have no desire to quit their job or change their ways would just create exhaustion in the relationship and that wouldn’t be healthy for the marriage.

If asked, he was definitely reading the words on the paper in his hands and not too captivated by every word that left your mouth to even remember the woman’s name on the page. He had a type, and you were sitting right across from him. It was a shame you weren’t an option.

A month passes and you’ve finally gotten him to agree to meet with a prospective bride. He had a condition and that was that he got to debrief with you immediately after to share his thoughts and feelings, and you agreed to it without hesitation. Of course Gojo was paying for every minute of your time that Nanami used, so agreeing was a natural decision, but part of him hoped it was a desire to spend that time with him and hear his opinions as more than just a client.

The prospective bride was named Sayuri. She, like you, had graduated from Jujutsu High’s Kyoto campus and she also, like you, had retired from working as a sorcerer. But with a full stop due to an injury that rendered her cursed technique inoperable, leaving random missions off the table for her own health.

He appreciated a woman who knew her physical limits, and you looked so proud when he told her that to her face. He was trying, and he was glad that you saw that too, but he knew he’d take the wind out of your sails when he told you that he didn’t see himself with Sayuri for more than just a couple dinner dates. She was nice, truly a lovely girl, but her opinions on teenagers were far too negative while he greatly enjoyed the time he got to spend with the Jujutsu High students (even if they weren’t aware that he enjoyed being around them). As much as they could irritate him, he learned a lot from them but that was a notion that Sayuri just couldn’t accept. He couldn’t accept her as a bride if she would be uncomfortable with Yuuji or Maki stopping in for a visit every now and again.

Nanami is only slightly disappointed in himself when you deflate at the news. But you also seem more determined to find him a bride, and that brings him relief that you didn’t think he was a lost cause just yet. He would hate to feel as though he’d wasted your time, that was clearly a precious commodity to yourself and other people who desired your services.

“It’s almost like you prefer spending time with me rather than any other women,” you comment off-handedly before leaving, something he knew you meant that as a tease but he dared not tell you it was an accurate assumption. He wanted you to want to continue to be around him, this crush of his would go away once he’d found a suitable arrangement.

You start to consume his thoughts, the worst part is that he’d been traveling for missions so he hadn’t seen you in weeks. Every day he’s checking his phone for a message from you, his email for new scans of your notes on a prospective spouse, any indication that you were thinking of him just as much as he was thinking of you. It was disgustingly unprofessional to be so distracted, especially when you were simply doing your job that Gojo was paying you to do. To think that you had any sort of feeling for him would be presumptuous, preposterous, and downright idiotic.

But you never said anything about having a partner of your own, and that gives him a hope that he’s not sure he should have. How could he maintain an air of professionalism when in the back of his head he’s wondering if there was a flavor attached to the glossy shine decorating your lips?

He lets himself get distracted during his first mission back in Tokyo. The curse wasn’t even a particularly strong one, just annoying, and he let himself get distracted by his phone vibrating in his pocket. He usually put his phone on do-not-disturb when he was on a mission, this time he did not and he had a growing red stain on his shirt to pay for that error. If it was just a text, that’d be one thing. Unfortunately for him it was a call, the vibration strong against his thigh and enough to skew his focus long enough to miss the way the curse lunged at him. Poor performance on his part.

He was just going to go home after this, enjoy a shower in his own personal bathroom and then check in at the school in the morning. Sleep in his own bed and enjoy being home after six weeks of hotels (as nice as they were).

Then he checked his phone, listened to the voicemail that you had left and how excited you sounded to have found the one for him.

He tells the cab driver your address before he even considers going to the school to see Shoko to have his injury treated. He’d rather be dead in an alley than be in the school infirmary for the night, the concrete was definitely going to be more comfortable than the bed there.

He doesn’t even know what he’d say to you when he knocks on your door. He doesn’t know how you’d react, but he feels better when you open the door and bring him in with just one look at his disheveled state and bring him up the stairs. In all the visits he’d made to your home, this was the first time he’d been up the stairs.

“What happened?” you ask softly once he’s in your master bathroom, and he sighs as he sits on your toilet per your instruction. The first aid kit is pulled from under the sink, but his attempt to unbutton his shirt is thwarted when you start to do it for him. “Talk to me, Kento.”

“I got distracted while fighting a curse.”

“Distracted? That doesn’t sound like you.” You sound worried, and that makes him feel better about being here. Less imposing, at the very least. “But I guess you’ve been going nonstop for a few weeks. Must’ve been a big distraction.”

“I was only momentarily distracted. A mistake that won’t be repeated.”

“I’m sure,” you murmur, your hands carefully cleaning around the wound in his side. “Y’know, Shoko would be a better doctor considering she actually is one.”

“I can leave, if-”

“No.” Your hand on his chest stops him from trying to stand. “I’d rather you stay, honestly.”

He relaxes at that, letting his head fall back against the wall with his eyes closed as you continue to work. It wasn’t life threatening by any means, and you were being very gentle with him as you worked to clean up the blood so you could better look at it.

“Why me, though?”

“I didn’t think much about it. I considered where I felt safe, and you were the first to come to mind.” It’s a vulnerable answer, an honesty he wasn’t prepared to share so openly but you were safe. Always had been. Even with your analyzing gaze and the way you managed to carefully pick apart his guarded exterior, you still felt safe for him. But the way your brow furrowed when he looked down raised a concern. “Is there an issue?”

“No, no issue. You bled a fair amount but that made it look worse than it actually is. You’ll survive until the morning, and Shoko can patch you up properly then.” And he feels the gauze on his skin, your hands applying decent pressure to keep it in place as you start to wrap the bandaging to keep the gauze in place throughout the night. Then your touch is gone, and he sees you standing while carefully removing the gloves that were now stained with his blood. “Pain meds?”

“Please.” He’s letting you pull him to stand, his shirt is now ruined and not worth keeping on but it’d be rude for him to walk around without some sort of covering. This feels indecent when his relationship with you was supposed to be strictly business, like he’s crossing a boundary that wasn’t meant to be crossed - a boundary that he supposed he had crossed when he came to you instead of calling Shoko. He didn’t even know if you had medical training aside from the basic first aid all sorcerers are taught.

“I make you feel safe, huh?”

“You know almost everything about me. More than any of my colleagues who I trust with my life know.” He hears your thoughtful hum in response to his statement, watching as your fingers carefully roll one of the buttons of his undone shirt between them. “So, yes, I feel very safe with you. I enjoy the time we spend together.”

And he doesn’t register how it happens, all he knows is that his lips are on yours and your hands are now gripping his shirt to keep him close while his hands hold your face close to his. Your legs hit the footboard of your bed frame, something that halts him for only a moment before he’s carefully helping you over it while your hands push his shirt off of his shoulders.

This was not what he had intended when he showed up on your doorstep unannounced and bleeding, but now he knows your lips taste like strawberry and the flavor of your gloss lingers long after you’ve removed it. He knows that you’re not afraid of taking what it is you need, that you had wanted him just as badly as he had wanted you.

But after he’s come down from the moment he lets his brain take over and his anxiety flares. You were supposed to be finding him a suitable spouse, yet here he was in your bed - how could that possibly end? Would you want to help him after he crossed this boundary? Did you want him to stay here with you tonight? Probably not, even if you were sleeping soundly with your head on his arm. So he pulls himself away from you as soon as he’s sure you won’t wake, knowing that he caught sight of a guest bedroom down the hall close to the stairs. He’d sleep there, then make breakfast in the morning. Simple recovery of a situation that he hoped wouldn’t crumble in his hands.

If you’d been upset by his choice not to sleep in your bed, you don’t show it. The following morning you only greet him with breakfast and let him know that you enjoyed yourself and hoped that he did the same. He left your home to go back to the Jujutsu Tech campus with a kiss on the cheek and mug of coffee to go, with a promise that he'd be in touch to properly go over the notes you'd sent him.

Then it was back to business.

Only that business involved more overnight visits, ones where he stayed by your side through the night and went through the motions of the morning with you. Breakfast and coffee, then you both were off to perform your respective jobs. It was odd, sleeping with you then the next day receiving texts about potential candidates. Part of him admired your ability to maintain sight of the goal, the other part wished you’d tell him that you wanted to be with him instead of some random person seeking a husband. He’d miss the intimacy you shared when he finally settled for someone he could live with for the rest of his life - when that would happen, he wasn’t sure.

He just knew it wouldn’t be any time soon. He didn’t want to settle just yet.

“I found another candidate for you to review,” you mention one evening, your fingers lazily carding through his hair as he relaxes against you. A disinterested hum is all he can bother to respond with, knowing that he was going to find a reason to reject the proposition. He knew what he wanted, and you unfortunately weren’t an option.

“Would you marry me, Kento?” He’s surprised to hear you ask such a question, lifting his head from where it rests on your chest to see you watching him with a soft smile. “I’m running out of candidates for you to turn down.”

“I didn’t think you were an option,” he murmurs, watching as your shoulders shrug against the mattress. Clearly you didn’t realize that you were an option either until recently.

“Originally I wasn’t. But now we’ve had sex multiple times, I’m not sure either of us would move on easily.”

Sound logic, he knew he wouldn’t be able to move on at all. Not for months, at a minimum - he really liked you a lot. “Besides, you’re very picky.”

“Do you want to be my wife?”

“I think we would have a very comfortable marriage. Mutually beneficial in many ways. The major bonus is we already like each other.” Again, your logic is sound and he knows that you know that. Why wouldn’t he want to marry you? This was exactly what he was hoping for and thought was unattainable. But you’re smiling up at him, your hand gently caressing his cheek as he watches you for any sign of uncertainty and finds none. “Do you want to be my husband?”

And he knows that he’d be honored to be your husband. You could take care of yourself, but would let him take care of you when needed. You were intelligent, independent, able to act when needed, and understood his work as a sorcerer intimately so you didn’t fear the potential consequences of his career.

You truly would be the perfect wife, the only downside was that he’d have to thank Gojo for bringing him into your life.

#nanami kento x reader #nanami kento jjk #nanami kento fanfic #nanami kento fluff #nanami kento x you #kento nanami x reader #kento nanami x you #kento nanami imagine #nanami kento imagine #jjk imagines #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fanfic

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mistydeyes · 1 year ago

Text

therapy pt. ii; treatment and pharmacotherapy

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FIRST read part i here! olivia (@lundenloves) covers the initial therapy portion beautifully and i cannot emphasize how good the characterization of simon is!!

summary: Reeling from the myriad of questions posed by the therapist, Simon is now sent to the second process of therapy: treatment and meds.

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader

warnings: swearing, medical terminology + medications, mentions of depression/anxiety/ptsd

a/n: i finally got around to this! this has been in the works since the summer and tbh I fell off with it but olivia's amazing part + pharmacy school rotations really invigorated this back up! hope you enjoy :)

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As Simon exited the stuffy office, he felt defeated. He wanted to escape the confines of the base and forget about all the information he had offered willingly. He hesitated as he eyed the corridor with a glowing red exit sign at the end of it. As if he was thinking aloud, Kaufman’s voice echoed in the hallway.

“The medical wing is the other way,” she called with a laugh, sickly rebounding in the sterile, empty hallway. With balled fists, Simon made the journey to his next destination.

Similar to this morning, the soldiers avoided his gaze and hastily stepped out of his way as he continued. The halls were filled with the sounds of his heavy boots as he saw the large sign signifying the medical wing. He could feel his fist tighten as he reached the closed door. “Captain Blake Isley,” he muttered as he looked at the golden lettering of the plaque. With a moment’s hesitation, he pounded on the wood with three resounding knocks that echoed in the hallway.

“Enter!” he could hear the captain command from the other side of the door. He gripped the cold door knob before entering the sterile office. He blinked slowly and adjusted to the harsh overhead light.

He stood in the cold environment, noting the various bookshelves of medical literature and some certificates displayed on the wall. Captain Isley sat behind a desk, a stack of files in front of her. Simon silently cursed, why did it always have to be a woman?

“You can sit down, Simon,” she replied without glancing up, “I’ll be with you in a moment.” Simon sat himself at one of the two chairs in front of her desk. He almost preferred this over the therapist’s office. First, it was cold and he revealed in the atmosphere. He also enjoyed her lack of interest in his case. Hopefully, he would get some time back and still be able to return to his gym routine.

However, as she pulled out his large case file and typed furiously at her computer, he knew this would be as long as his previous appointment. “Alright,” she said as she looked at him, “let’s get the basics out of the way.” She moved her mouse and he assumed his file was on the screen.

“Can you confirm your height and weight?” Isley asked and Simon couldn’t help but scoff. “Shouldn’t that be in my file there, Captain?” he questioned. “Just confirm for me, Simon,” she replied, “and you can drop the formalities, I’m fine with Doctor.” Simon smiled slightly at her contradiction. “1.93 meters and 100 kilos last I remember,” he replied curtly and she nodded as she continued.

“Great,” she replied sarcastically, “now for the fun stuff.” She pulled out a file that appeared to be his medical and pharmacy records. “I’ll go through these 1 by 1 and you just need to let me know if you’re still taking them,” she said before going line by line.

“Paracetamol?” “Yes, regularly.” Simon settled down in the chair. His frequent visits to the infirmary and pharmacy would make this list a long one. She nodded before moving her finger down to the next line.

“Lemborexant?” He took a moment to think about what that one looked like before he replied. “The sleep one?” “Yes, looks like it’s for your insomnia,” she said, looking down at the manila file. “Mostly when I’m back on base or leave.”

“How about Metaxalone?” “Only on leave.” To this, she raised an eyebrow as she looked up. “You don’t take it regularly?” “No, who wants to take something four times a day.” Simon couldn’t help but feel defensive. That one was the size of a horse pill and it was meant to help with some muscle pain. Despite the relief, he would always leave it behind on long missions. He could work through some pain if it meant that he didn’t have to take cover and swallow another pill.

“Vitamin D?” “When, I remember.” Simon secretly hated this one. It smelled overly like a fish market and he had an entire lecture from his general practitioner to get more sun and to stop wearing his mask.

“Calcium carbonate?” she continued to question and Simon stopped for a moment. “I’m not the doctor here,” he said in a sarcastic tone, “what are those?” She pursed her lips before replying. “TUMS, Simon, do you take TUMS?” “When I need to,” he said and sat back in his chair.

“Alright, and I’ll skip past your other lovely pharmaceuticals as it looks like they correlate to your hospital stays.” Thank god, this session would turn into another fucking hour based on his last few visits.

“You must be a field day at the pharmacy,” she joked and Simon let out a semblance of a laugh. She rifled through some papers in her desk before she spoke again. “Looks like you have some history with fluoxetine, any thoughts?”

He remembered taking it before he enlisted. It was a small, green, and white capsule meant to help with all of his shit. He hated the constant schedule and the sight of these things, eventually deciding to stop it in basic.

“Hated them,” he replied without any further comments. “Why is that?” she asked, taking a moment to look up at him. “The schedule was a nuisance,” he said plainly and she sighed. “That’s a common complaint but looks like you have a schedule now, Simon.” He nodded in response before she looked back down at her papers.

“Simon, have you ever heard of venlafaxine and risperidone?” she questioned. “Never heard of ‘em” he responded and he leaned forward as she handed him a few papers.

The two papers had the two unfamiliar drug names listed on top along with a slew of information. His eyes flickered around at terms like “post-traumatic stress disorder” and “depression.” She cleared her throat before continuing. “I’ll give you the basics and you can read that in your free time,” she stated and he put the papers in his lap.

“Venlafaxine is generally used for treatment of depression and other mood disorders,” Isley began to say and he couldn’t believe he was being prescribed an antidepressant again. “But I’m going to therapy,” he interjected and it sounded more harsh than he had intended. “Think of this as going hand in hand with that,” she stated with a sudden tone of optimism, “they both benefit one another.” He nodded in feigned agreement as it was no use fighting against it.

“Now you’ll want to take these around the same time every day,” she continued and he groaned at the consistent schedule. Just another thing to add to his routine. “You should see improvements in about two weeks but don’t be surprised if it takes a little longer,” she advised and he continued to demonstrate he was listening.

“Alright, now for the other one,” Isley said as she looked at her notes. “Alright, so we’re also starting you on Risperidone,” she stated, “now this also treats mood disorders similar to venlafaxine.” She looked at him as if he should be writing these down but he just continued to nod and attempt to remember the key notes.

“Take this as well once a day around the same time,” she advised and continued with her lecture, “better yet you can take both of them at the same time so you don’t forget!” She took a moment to look over the papers before looking up at him again. “You’ve been quiet, Simon,” she observed and he hated the sudden shift of attention back on him. “Any questions?” she inquired as she stuffed the papers back into his file.

“None, Captain,” he responded flatly, wanting to exit this mini-medication lecture. She raised an eyebrow at him and he coughed out, “Sorry, doctor.” Isley sighed before folding her hands on the table. “Then you’re all set, I’ll have your scripts sent down to the pharmacy.” With that Simon, pushed back the seat and walked towards the door. Just as he was about to exit, the doctor had one last thing to say.

“Oh and Simon, watch your alcohol with this,” Isley spoke and he turned to her, “one drink will feel like five.” He laughed slightly, at least there were some benefits to this new addition to his routine.

The pharmacy was Simon’s final stop of the day. He looked at the analog clock on the wall, 16:00. God, this day was turning out to be a tour of the entire base and all he wanted to do was head to the gym. He stood in the queue and impatiently tapped his boot on the ground. The last thing he needed was this line. But it moved at a snail’s pace as the pharmacist ran around and typed occasionally into the monitor.

Simon was looking down at his phone when he felt someone bump his arm. He looked up and saw Gaz smiling up at him. “Fancy seeing you here,” he chuckled and Simon rolled his eyes. He nodded in response and hoped Gaz would just leave. “Long day?” he continued to question and Simon grunted, trying his best to make minimal conversation. “You can say that,” he muttered and Gaz finally caught on to Simon’s attitude. “Well, I’ll see you around Lieutenant,” he replied before walking off with his bag in hand.

Finally, Simon had reached the front of the queue. He looked back at the clock, half past the hour. “Rushing off somewhere, Simon?” the pharmacist asked and he looked back at her. “No Captain, it’s just been a long day,” he breathed out and she returned a reassuring smile. As Isley postulated, Simon frequented the pharmacy on a monthly basis. She knew him by name and went to pull up his file.

“Got a few new ones, I see,” she replied and Simon nodded in response. “Let me go see if those are ready.” Simon waited as he saw the pharmacist walk to the bins and search for his bag. “Here we go!” she smiled and opened the bag to count out the medication bottles. “Alright, so I have your three here,” she replied, “it’s a shame you aren’t due for your others so I’ll be seeing you next month.” Fucking wonderful, he thought, just another visit to this side of the base.

Before she handed it to him, she took another look at the bag. “Did Isley talk to you about alcohol with these?” she questioned as she looked up at him. Simon met her gaze and nodded. “Got her lecture, Captain,” he replied and she took a deep breath. “Okay good, you got a hefty cocktail here Simon but you didn’t hear it from Pharmacy,” she winked.

As he went to go take the bag, she pulled bag. “Anything else, Captain?” he grumbled, he just wanted his stupid medication that she was forfeiting. “One more thing, but did Isley talk about the fentanyl lollipops you are deployed with?” she questioned yet again. Simon remembered the newest edition to his med-pack, a set of white lollies that contained fentanyl for any injury on the field. “Yeah, got those a while ago,” she hummed as he confirmed her suspicions.

“I’ll make a note here and notify your team but you cannot take those,” she warned, “under any circumstances, you cannot be given those.” He raised an eyebrow at the odd instruction. “What will I die, Captain?” he expressed with doubt. She laughed slightly before replying. “That, or a seizure,” she mused, “or you might just shit your ass out.” It was Simon’s turn to laugh and he waved at her as he exited the pharmacy.

“I’ll be sure to tell Mactavish when I call him, I just know he would find that funny,” she called out and Simon felt his lips curve into a smile. As he held the rattling pill bottles in hand, he tried his best to figure out where to fit it into his routine. No time was ideal but he guessed the morning would suffice. He would need to get a goddamn calendar at the amount of things he was supposed to remember.

Just as he walked back to his quarters, your name popped up on his phone. “Hope you’re doing well :)” you wrote, almost as if you could tell he was having a shit day. Out of therapy sessions, he found value in one thing she focused on. He would be doing this, the therapy and the pills, for you. Not for him or Price or his teammates, he’ll be doing this for you.

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#task force 141 x reader #task force 141 #cod x reader #call of duty modern warfare #izzie is drawing #cod mwii #modern warfare 2 #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty #mw2 imagine #madebyizzie #mw2 #izzie is writing

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