#also my glasses are horribly smudged

[croziers-compass]

A humble selfie request for the sleepover ask thing. Or a bad joke, if you'd rather not, though.

It's not much. But it's there. I think I have some "selfies" - photographes posted elsewheres on my blog as well. Not much to look at but, eheu, I can accomidate that.

Here is your bad joke though, in addition:

What vegetable is banned from Arctic Exploration Ships?

Leeks

[lilywastaken]

⇝ midnight .

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!AFAB!Reader.

PART ONE OF MÉNAGE.

SUMMARY: Simon makes the mistake of spending the night before one of the longest missions of his career in the arms of a woman he met at a pub, unaware of the consequences it would have on his life moving forward.

WARNINGS: AFAB!Fem!Reader (no use of Y/N!) NSFW [ Oral (F receiving), Degradation, Praising, size difference/kink, dacryphilia, dumbification, slight bondage, frottage, unprotected P in V, overstimulation, various orgasms, creampie.], Angst, Pregnancy, mentions of abortion, kind of OOC Simon? He’s just soft when he’s not Ghost, Canon typical violence.

A/N: My first COD fic! It also happens to be the longest piece of writing I've ever done 😵! This is the first part of a series I've been planning on writing for a while, so I'll hopefully get the second part out soon! Please don't forget to reblog/comment if you enjoy the fic, it helps a lot!!! Thanks for all the support!! <3

WORD COUNT: 10.1k.

MASTERLIST.

Also on Ao3!

Going out wasn't one of Ghost's favourite things to do.

Even after getting back to his tiny flat in Manchester following a horribly long mission and shedding his mask, going back to the burly man his neighbours knew as Simon, some random guy who had moved in a few years ago and seldom stepped outside except for the random smoking session some of them would see him having on his balcony; he didn't enjoy going out.

So when he finally was able to relax onto his shitty leather sofa and catch up with some of the footy games he had missed while away, all he wanted more than anything was a good whiskey in his favourite (cleanest) glass.

And almost like a cartoon character staring at their empty wallet, Simon stared ahead at his liquor cabinet, jaw clenched as he spied at the remaining drops of alcohol that were left in the bottle, remembering the mental note he had made before leaving his flat the last time to get himself the alcohol he had chugged down during one of his depressive episodes.

So, in a fit of anger, he shoved on whatever clean clothes he could find in his duffle bag, skull balaclava pulled over his messy hair, and stomped down the stairs to the nearest Tesco…

…only to find it closed.

And fuck him if he was going to walk the extra hour to the nearest Morrison's just to get some shitty whiskey bottle to drown his sorrows in. At this point, he'd just go and sit in a corner of a pub, nursing what he would hope would be an acceptable liquor.

He was absolutely pissed by the time he made it into the homey bar, the universe having decided to make it it's personal mission to fuck him up today and making the worst storm possible start to rain upon Manchester.

Oh, and of course, the pub's tables were all full of teenagers (who definitely had fake IDs, no way they were all 18), and some old geezers who were shouting at the football game on TV (great, Manchester was loosing, another thing to worsen his night), leaving the only available seat one in the middle of the bar next to some woman chatting amicably to the waiter, who seemed a bit more interested in her cleavage than in what she had to say.

He slipped into the seat silently, his clear eyes death-staring into the bartender's, immediately scaring him shitless ("Yer about ta kill me with that look, Lt." Johnny had once joked about his murderous gaze, and to be fair, Simon was slightly hoping the scot would combust and die right there.), no doubt believing that he was with the woman and was about to punch his teeth in for staring longer than he should have.

As he scurried off into the back, you turned to him, taken aback at first as you made eye contact with the towering, wet, balaclava-clad man who was staring back at you, but you were brave enough to smile kindly at him, going back to running your finger over the rim of your drink, which Simon noticed was still and hardly drank out of, despite the lipstick smudges around the top. You'd been here a while, and by the way your leg was nervously jumping up and down as time passed by, he could only assume you'd been stood up.

Now, Simon wasn't dumb, far from it; and Simon was smart enough to recognize when someone was attractive, and he was pretty sure that the woman in front of him was drop-dead gorgeous despite the sad look that adorned your features. So, if he was correct, he couldn't even begin to fathom how someone could even start to think of standing up a woman like you, especially after inviting her to this shitty pub, where the food had definitely given him food poisoning before.

He hadn't realised how deep in thought he must have been while staring at your glass until a soft hand rested against his bicep, eyes instantly flashing back towards yours, instincts haywire from having been pulled out from his thoughts so suddenly.

"Sorry!" You immediately retracted your hand from his arm, smiling apologetically up at him before turning your gaze back to the golden liquid. "I asked if you were okay. I can't imagine walking around in a storm with just that on." You gestured towards his shirt, allowing Simon to look down and stare at the tight T-shirt he had chosen to wear, a few dirt stains decorating it in the worst way possible, having dressed for the occasion that was a 10pm trip to Tesco and not meeting up with a pretty woman at a pub.

"Wasn't planning on walking 'round." He grumbled out, his voice deeper than what you had expected, the thick accent and scratchy sound of it making shivers run down your spine and heat pool into your stomach, becoming horrified with yourself that you allowed such a minimal thing like a masked man's voice get you all hot and flustered like this.

"'Nd you? Doesn't seem like you're dressed for a night out at the Crown's." His eyes moved towards your dress, surprised with himself that he had actively been the one to continue the conversation; his thick hand reaching over to grab his drink from the bartender's hand (which he must have ordered during the haze he had been in before.) as he awaited your answer.

"Oh." He watched you smooth down your hair out from the corner of his eye, your hands shaky as they found comfort around the fancy glass of your whiskey. Or was it bourbon? Maybe rum? You seemed like the type of woman to appreciate a good glass of liquor. "Yeah, 'm waiting for someone."

He watched your eyes dart over to the clock hanging on the wall opposite you both, the little hand nearing the number 11.

"Could've taken you somewhere nicer." He commented, taking a jab at both the pub and your missing date, the small breathless chuckle that left your lips catching his attention.

"Yeah. Not like I expected a reservation at the Ritz, but somewhere that doesn't look like my grandad's favourite pub would be nice." You joked over the sound of some of the old men cheering in the background over some team scoring a goal, and while Simon would've normally turned around to make sure it had been Manchester, he was too focused on the mesmerising way your eyes looked in the dim light, your eyelashes fluttering innocently as you continued what had started as small talk, that evolved into friendly conversation and him buying you another drink, and that ended with him waiting for you outside the bathrooms, holding onto your tiny umbrella.

Simon wasn't one to frequent in hook-ups, but how enticing you had been when talking to him, the way your body looked in that dress and how you'd brushed your soft hand against his bicep (this time with another intent other than to snap him out of his stupor), had left him wanting, nay, craving more from you.

So when you looked out the window behind him before gesturing to the small umbrella hanging from your bag and asked if he wanted to take you home, he would have been demented to deny you.

His screen's brightness lit up his face as he scrolled over the scarce messages he had received across the almost 10 years he had had this crappy phone, about to delete Soap's number before you came out, a smile on your face and makeup freshly applied.

"Some girls helped me with my makeup in there." You commented happily, fingertips brushing over the blush that had been applied to the apples of your cheeks, which made you somehow look even more enticing than before. "I didn't have time to look in the mirror, but I hope it looks okay."

"Looks nice on you." He let out after processing your new look, his chest tightening as your smile somehow widened and your eyes brightened, having learned across the few hours you had spent together that Simon wasn't really one to show his emotions towards anyone, so a short compliment like that was a big step.

"You think?" You didn't wait for an answer, your hand finding his and starting to lead him out of the shadowy corner he had taken refuge in while your time in the bathroom, letting him push open the exit door so he could open up the umbrella, not caring about the raindrops falling onto him and darkening his clothes, the rain getting caught onto his eyelashes like morning dew on a spiders web, the beautiful orbs drawing you in like a butterfly happily flying into a spider's nest.

The umbrella was open and poised on top of you before you could even step out of the pub, Simon doing his best so you wouldn't be touched by the rain, aware of how uncomfortable some people got when it came to water running down your back or touching your face (especially when you looked so so pretty with your make-up.). Along with his massive frame walking next to you, you were pretty sure there was no way a single drop of water would touch your skin the whole way back home.

Which ended up being almost silent, you leading the way and commenting on random stores or things you passed, brightening up every time you got a chuckle out of him and melting whenever his hand would wrap around your waist as you passed some creepy man or a suspicious-looking group of teens, pulling you into his side so no one would even think of messing with you.

You were highly aware of how dangerous it was in hindsight to take some random man home (whose face you hadn't even seen yet!), but Simon made you feel safe, special, in some weird way… like as long as you were in his vicinity, nothing could happen to you, nothing could harm you. And you wanted to cling onto that feeling, onto the feeling of protection and warmth that Simon extruded.

So you didn't think twice about it, even as you slipped the key into the front door to your apartment complex and stood next to him the whole elevator ride up to your floor, his hand curled around yours with his thumb rubbing over your knuckles, the soft action enough to make heat pool into your tummy and your panties, getting worked up over casual affection from the breathtaking man.

"Y'sure about this, lovie?" His raspy voice made you fumble with your keys as he came up behind you, watching you struggle to unlock your flat as his breath hit your ear. "Tell me to leave and I will. Last chance."

Your breathing grew shaky as his own warmed your cheek, the way he worded it making it seem like the act you were both about to perform was something akin to letting a beast free, and even if it was, as long as Simon was the one to do it, you would have let him do anything.

"Yes." You managed to get out as your door finally opened, not even getting the time to take a step in before his hands were all over you, pushing you into the apartment and slamming the door closed behind him with his foot, his balaclava somehow being pulled up to his nose, high enough so you could gaze upon his soft pink lips and the blond stubble that adorned his chin and slightly crooked nose, aware that you would have spent hours tracing his features with your eyes, engraving them to memory, but he took away any thoughts away from you as he slotted his lips with yours.

You learned immediately that Simon's kisses were desperate, sloppy, needy. The way his hands gripped at your hips and his teeth nibbled onto your bottom lip, tongue running over yours as he trailed his palms down your thighs onto your feet, wrenching off your heels and ripping apart your tights, ignoring the angered whine that left your lips.

"Easier access, lovie." He murmured against your lips, finally pulling back with a sleazy grin on his lips, a string of spit connecting you both before breaking, allowing you a bit of time to catch your breath while he took in your living room, staring at the doors. "Bedroom?"

"Th- That one-" You hazardly pointed towards one of the doors behind you, squealing out loud as he grabbed you effortlessly and started to carry you towards your room, thighs pressed to his sides and ankles crossed behind his back, making sure to cling onto him so he wouldn't randomly drop you (Although by the way his muscles barely tensed when he had picked you up, and how easily he seemed to navigate around while carrying you made you think that there was no way he'd let you fall.)

Your back finally hit your familiar soft mattress, hands clenching onto your silk sheets as he watched you like a hawk, hands resting on the space of your thighs near your now-dripping cunt, thumbs rubbing into the soft pudge.

"Fuck… Just look t'you." He rumbled out, your cheeks growing warm as he continued to stare without moving, enjoying the way you started to squirm beneath his touch. "Calm, lovie, jus' taking my time wiv' you."

You mewled out at the deep tone his voice took, thighs threatening to close as one of his hands made his way towards your clothed cunt, which had been made accessible thanks to your now-ripped tights that had been left behind in the living room.

Simon forced your thighs back open with a grunt, glassy eyes darkening as he watched your own hands come up to cover your face out of embarrassment, letting himself soak in it for a moment before finally starting to act.

"Lean up f'me." You obeyed immediately, trembling under his touch as he slowly pulled your dress off, letting it pool onto the floor along with his shirt, which he had quickly gotten rid of as soon as you were in your lingerie. His eyes roamed the lace for a moment before letting out a dry chuckle, looking up at you to find you ogling at his scarred chest, almost drooling at the sight of his well built pecs and stomach. "Tryin' to get lucky tonight?" He spoke, fingers snapping your bra strap, thinking back to why you were originally at that pub in the first place.

"Shut up." You grumbled, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him up the bed so you could continue kissing him, having been left craving more ever since that breathtaking one in the foyer.

He didn't complain, quickly indulging you as he slotted his lips with yours once again, his kiss as sloppy as needy as before, openly moaning against them as your hands run under his balaclava to pull at the short strands of his coarse hair, his own hands wrapping your thighs around his waist so your clothed pussy could grind against the hard material of his trousers over his hardened cock, rejoicing in the way your moans and whines sounded as he drank them up.

"S'needy." He chastised softly as he pulled away, moving you both towards the top of the bed so you could rest your head on your pillows, catching your breath while he started slipping off his belt and trousers (the belt being placed on the bed, just in case), and letting you gaze upon the tent in his boxers, shivering at the monstrous sight of his cock, trying to imagine how in the living fuck would he fit inside you if he couldn't even fit properly in his boxers, pulling out a moan from your lipstick smudged lips at the simple thought of being fucked by such a tool.

"Like it?" He chuckled, slowly starting to lean down with his hands on your thighs, pulling one of them over his shoulder so he was face to face with your covered cunt, his breath warm as it hit your clit, making you whine. "Gunna let me have a taste?"

"Y-Yes, god, yes, Simon, please-" You breathed out all at once, desperate for his touch after the slow teasing, watching what was visible of his face scrunch up in mock laughter as he revelled in your whines.

"As you wish, lovie."

He didn't even bother pushing your panties aside before taking a lick of your cunt from bottom to top, pressing soft kisses to your clit to hear your desperate whines and feel your thighs shake beneath his touch, continuing to slowly make out with your clothed pussy, purposefully driving you insane with his limited touches.

"Off, off, pl-please, Si, please -" You whined, pushing his head away in an attempt to start to pull your panties down, crying out in frustration as he didn't budge, a growl leaving his lips and sending vibrations up your cunt.

"Don't touch. I'm taking my fucking time, pretty. Or would you rather me stick my cock into you without any prep?" You moaned out loudly at the thought, back threatening to arch as he slowly grasped at your panties, a humourless chuckle leaving his pretty lips. "Yeah, I bet your slutty pussy'd love that, wouldn't it, lovie?" He purred before finally sliding down your pants, taking a moment to stare at your cunt and let you squirm before slowly spreading your thighs again, immediately shoving his face into his prize and repeating his movements from before, but faster and rougher, letting you feel every inch of his tongue as it ran over your lips and slowly inched inside of your hole, your moans and silent screams only edging him further on until he took your engorged clit into his mouth and started sucking, placing a hand on your stomach and pushing your arching back down onto the mattress.

He was surprised, to say the least. Yes, he'd realised you were sensitive as soon as he had kissed you for the first time, but he hadn't expected you to almost burst into tears from being eaten out (He wasn't even /trying/ to make you cry, he wondered what would happen if he did.), so he wondered if all the men you'd been with before had gone down on you, but by the way you were reacting to such simple touches, he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

"So fuckin' sweet, baby." He murmured into your pussy as he let go of your swollen clit, giving your hole some attention as the hand that was on your tummy ran down to circle your clit, overstimulating you in the best way possible. "Taste like fuckin' heaven."

"Si- Simon-" you whined his name out so so sweetly, music to the normally cold lieutenant's ears. "Gonn- Fuuuck! 'Na cum! Please, please, Si, need to-"

"S'okay, let go for me, lovie." He basically purred into you as he continued licking contently at your gushing hole, fingers tactically rubbing on your clit, before changing spots, taking your clit back into his mouth and letting his fingers slip in to you, preening at the sweet gasp that left your lips at the sudden intrusion, his coarse fingers moving in and out and immediately finding that one spot that made your back arch and toes curl, and just as he was taught in the military, he took advantage of the weak spot (in this case, your sweet spot.) and didn't stop brushing his fingers against it, the increasing sound of his name alerting him of your upcoming orgasm.

And once the coil within your stomach snapped and Simon finally let your back arch of the bed, your release gushing out of you and coating his hand and wrist, you let out the loudest moan of his name, the sound immediately going to his painfully hard cock, but he didn't stop, tongue not ceasing its assault on your clit and fingers continuing to rub against your g-spot until you finally came down from your high, brain mushy and eyes glassy as you stared up at the cream ceiling.

"Such a good girl." He purred out as he finally stopped, retracting his wet fingers and taking them into his mouth, swirling his tongue around and cleaning off all of the slick you had left from your orgasm, savouring it like he would with a lollipop. "Fuckin' taste amazing."

You whined in response, the embarrassment from having cummed so fast and having to watch him lick up all your release finally catching up to you, shaky hands moving to cover your sweaty face.

He clicked his tongue, grabbing them before they could cover your pretty features and holding them together in one hand.

"No, baby. Don't want you fuckin' hiding f'me." He snapped, slowly pulling them upwards so that they were pinned against the headboard, his other hand moving to gather the belt he had discarded not so long ago, quickly taking advantage of your cum-lax state to wrap it around your wrists, making sure it was tight enough to constrict you, but not tight enough to hurt, and letting you lie there while he started on getting rid of his boxers. "Wanna see that pretty face while you come undone on my cock. Isn't that what y'want too?"

You tried moving your head to nod, but it felt so so heavy that even the slightest movement felt like a chore, feeling grateful that Simon was a man able to move you around and dominate you without even breaking sweat, that all you needed to do was lie back and enjoy everything he gave you.

"Fuckin' hell. Not even fucked ya yet and you're 'lready gone?" He sneered, coming to hover over you so he could press wet kisses to your cheeks and neck, purposefully avoiding your lips. "Pretty girl gets her pussy played wiv and turns into a right proper slut, don' she?" He purred against your neck, his words making you shiver and squirm as your body instinctively tried to move away from the stimulus, only for him to pull you back towards him with grubby hands, a loud gasp leaving your lips as he pressed your crotches together, having expected the soft cotton of his boxers and not the hard, hot feeling of his cock flush against your dripping pussy.

"Oh- Oh my god, Simon, th-"

"Mm." He cut you off with a soft purr and a nip to your jugular, no doubt making sure that you'd wake up in purple marks the next morning as he did the same all over your neck. "'S me. All me, lovie. F'you."

You moaned at the implication, slowly starting to grind yourself against him as he made it his personal mission to cover your upper body in kisses, stopping at your clavicle and staring down at your bra, that was still to be taken off.

"Fuck, forgot all 'bout these." His hand came up to squeeze one of them softly, a small sound of pleasure leaving your lips at the added stimulation as you continued to rub your cunt against his hardened cock. "Pretty little things."

He started grinding his own hips against yours, watching with amazement at how quickly you reacted to his touch, your back arching enough for him to slip his hands behind and unclasping your bra suspiciously easy, pulling it off and throwing it behind him and landing god knows where, and leaving you finally completely bare beneath him.

"Look t'you." His warm hands immediately cupped your tits, thumb and pointer rubbing your nipples between them, pinching and pulling until they were hard, an amazed chuckle leaving his lips as he listened to your moans increase in sound, his grinding against you not ceasing either.

"Oh fuck- fuck fuck!" It was embarrassing, how quickly he had you whining and mewling beneath him, when you had found yourself struggling before to even feel something with men before him doing the same. It was just something about him, something about the way he sounded and touched, the precise movements against you, almost like he had been trained for your pleasure, to get you over the edge as many times as he could muster before even getting his dick wet.

Because the instant you felt his warm breath hit one of your perky breasts, you knew you were fucked, headed towards your second orgasm of the night. His warm mouth enveloped your hard nipple, pulling and tugging with his teeth and soothing the slight pain he left with his talented tongue, his grinding becoming quicker and rougher as he felt your thighs tremble around his waist, your eyes watering as you neared the release you oh so craved, gasping out loud as one of his hands came up to cup your cheek, thumb rubbing over your flushed skin.

"You gunna cry, baby? S'okay, let it out. Let it out f'me." He growled as he let go of your now throbbing nipple, moving to give your other neglected breast the same attention, hand leaving your face to run down to your core and slowly run over your clit, a huge contrast to the rough movements of his cock against you and his warm mouth on your nipple, all the different stimulations and feelings enough to push you over the edge and let the tears that had been collecting in your waterline finally fall, gasping moans and screams leaving your lips as you soaked his cock, body trembling beneath his ministrations as he chuckled against your nipple, enjoying the way you were slowly falling apart and he hadn't even pushed into you yet.

He didn't stop for a few moments, waiting until the moment where you would inevitably start whining and pushing him off with weak arms to cease, leaning back up with a shit eating grin as he waited for you to come down from your high.

"Oi, look at me." He taps one of his fingers on your face, moving your gaze towards his, a small, patronising pout tugging at his lips as he watches the tears roll down your cheeks. "Poor thing. You all fucked out yet? D'you think y'could still take my cock? Or are you too dumb f'that right now?"

"Y-yes, yes, please, please, need it so bad, Si! So so bad!" You stuttered out between laboured breaths, hands struggling against their binding, itching to be let free and feel his cock in your hands, which you could see between you, almost as girthy as a coke can and with a few prominent veins leading up to his flushed red tip, that was leaking pre spend you would gladly pay money to clean up with your tongue. "O-oh fuck, Simon, please -"

"Sh, shh. Calm down, y'little crybaby." He chastised, leaning down to softly press kisses over the tears that had gathered on your flushed cheeks, chuckling at how desperate you looked under him. "I'll give you what you want. Gon' fuck you so well, yeah? You'll feel me f'weeks, lovie."

"Fuck, yes, please! Want your cock so badly, please!" You cried, legs immediately spreading for him as soon as his calloused hands landed on the pudge of your thighs, slightly digging his fingers into them as he took in the beautiful sight of your soaking wet pussy, having half the mind to shove his cock in you without a second thought. But no.

"Calm." He snapped, one of his hands dropping your thighs and slapping your face softly to get your attention. "Protection, baby. You got a condom?"

He frowned as you shook your head, gasping for breath as you pointed over to your nightstand, where he could faintly see the glint of a packet of tablets in the dark. "Pill. 'M on the pill, Si. Clean. I'm clean."

He couldn't help the smile that crept onto his lips at the thought of being able to cum inside, and how eager you were acting to get him to finally stick his cock inside, whines and whimpers pulling him from his thoughts as he stared down at you.

"You going to let me cum inside then, lovie?" He teased, pulling your other thigh back up so the underside of both of them were resting flush against his bare chest, twitching cock resting on your overstimulated core. "Don' think I'm gonna be able to pull out."

"Don't want you to, fuck! Please, Simon, please!! Inside, want you to cum inside!"

A shiver racked through his body at your words, carefully letting one of your legs go and making sure it would stay there, wrapping around it to grab his cock, slowly sliding the head around your puffy lips to collect the slick, wanting the intrusion to be as painless as possible.

"Fuck… Alright, baby, alright. Breathe f'me." He whispered, letting the head of his cock press against your hole, telling himself to go slow and calm down, but by the way you were pulsing and clenching around the head, almost like you were pulling him in, made it hard to stay sane. "God, slutty lil' cunt's just swallowing me in, huh? Want this cock that bad?"

Your hands shook against their restraint as he started to push himself into your sopping hole, wanting nothing more than to grab onto something for stability, but you didn't want to risk him getting annoyed at you for trying to.

"S'okay, almost there." He mumbled, lying straight through his teeth because with one look down to where he was connected to it would prove that he wasn't even halfway in, and it was already proving difficult for your hole to accommodate to his massive size.

"S'big, Si, you're so biiig." You whined, spreading your legs slightly and pushing your body onto him to help, shivering as you could feel him start throbbing inside of you, no doubt needing his own climax after having spent so much time focusing on you.

You could feel your eyes start to flutter close, mouth dropping open as he finally bottomed out, his heavy balls flush against your ass and cock throbbing inside of you, taking a breather and letting you adjust to his size before he would start on his ruthless pace.

"Fuck, lovie, you droolin'?" He panted, a hand coming up to rest against your face and pull you out of your sex-drunk haze (Despite only getting his cock inside you now.), your eyes drowning in his crystal ones, hypnotised by his gaze as he used his thumb to rub away some of the drool that had dribbled down your chin. "Pretty girl finally gets some cock and turns into a drooling slut, huh?"

You let out a noise of complaint as your hands continued to struggle, the few coarse hairs that were peeking out from under his mask enough to make you want to bury your fingers in them, pull at his strands and dig your nails into his scalp as he rocked your world.

He seemed to to understand what you wanted, a chuckle leaving his swollen lips as he leaned over you, legs folding along with him and allowing him to reach a deeper point in your cunt you didn't know that existed, a loud moan escaping you as his calloused hands start undoing the belt, finally letting your wrists free and throwing the piece of leather away, his hands going back to holding onto one of your thighs and another gripping your waist.

"All yours, baby. All fuckin' yours."

He gave you a moment to react as he bottomed out, leaving you empty for a split moment before he slammed back in, cock head almost instantly hitting that sweet spot deep inside you, your hands immediately finding refuge on his shoulders, nails digging into the scarred skin as he repeated his ruthless thrusts, your body shaking beneath his as he pushed down onto your body, forcing you both into a mating press, your cunt tightening around his cock at the sight of his eyes rolling into the back of his head, tummy fluttering at the thought that he was enjoying this as much as you were.

"Fuck, so good, Simon! So fucking good!" Your hands trailed up to the nape of his neck and pulled at the few short hairs there, urging a growl out of him and causing him to slightly speed up, the head of his cock at this point abusing your g-spot, urging you to near your third orgasm. "Wan- Wanna cum, fuck, gonna cum, Simon!"

"Already, baby?" He spoke through bated breath, his stamina allowing him to keep a good and consistent pace, enough to please both of you and almost bring you to tears again. "That's okay, cum for me, lovie. Cum on my fucking cock, show me how much of a fucking whore you are f'me."

Your back arched, pressing your breasts to his sweaty chest, the extra stimulation from your nipples rubbing against his coarse skin finally pushing you over the edge, your cunt clamping down on his cock and making it near impossible for him to continue thrusting, but as the good soldier Simon was, he persisted, rutting into you with bared teeth and a clenched jaw, fucking you through your orgasm until your slick covered his balls and upper thighs.

"Good girl, good fucking girl." He rasped, hand moving from your waist up to your neck, giving an experimental squeeze and moaning as you clenched around him, a breathless chuckle leaving him. "Fuck, you're still clenchin' around me so nicely, love. Feel so fuckin' good, perfect lil' pussy all f'me..."

Simon was saying nonsense at this point, becoming near pussy drunk as his cock hammered into your puffy cunt, nearing his own peak after all the foreplay.

"Si- Simon-!" You keened, hands running under his mask to grasp at his hair properly, pulling at it to coax another guttural moan from him and leading him back down to engage in a messy kiss, teeth clanking together and spit being shared, feeling the desperation he was in as he continued to batter your pussy searching for his own orgasm. "Cum, please, please, cum inside!"

Simon's eyes rolled into the back of his head at your begging, eyelashes fluttering as his pace stuttered inside of you, cockhead pressing against the entrance to your cervix and finally going over the edge, his spend gushing into you and almost immediately filling you, his cock acting like a plug inside you.

"O-oh, fuuck…" He moaned out, voice going slightly high pitched as he relished in the euphoria of finishing inside of you, his nails leaving ten moon shaped indents on your hips, the pain nothing compared to the feeling of him finally fucking his spend into you, you'd have to worry about the inevitable bruises and marks in the morning before work. "Fuck, you're… fuck."

Simon lowered himself down, resting his sweaty balaclava-clad face on your shoulder as you both caught your breaths, his cock twitching inside of you as he rode the waves of his orgasm.

Your eyes were blown out, staring up at the ceiling as you were hit with a sudden wave of realisation, your brain finally catching up with your body and taking in everything that had just happened, especially the fact that you had allowed some masked man you'd met at a pub on a tinder date to ravage you like a starved animal.

"Oh my god." You said, voice wavering as you shivered beneath the mountain of a man, who's sweaty body was pressed flush to yours, his cock softening inside of you as you both started to sober up. "O-Oh my god, Simon."

He let out a moan against your skin, languidly thrusting one final time into you before slowly pulling out, peeling himself off of you and letting the cold air envelop your now-shivering body, the feeling of his warm cum dripping down your puffy cunt pulling out another broken whine from your lips.

"Look at that…" You tried moving away as Simon ran a finger down your spent hole, gathering his cum best he could before slowly shoving it back into you, clicking his tongue at your reaction before leaning down and pressing a final kiss to your clit, the loud cry that left you making him smile almost predatorily. "So, so pretty, baby."

Your eyelids fluttered closed as you felt the bed shift beneath Simon's moving weight, allowing you time to set your head on straight and think about the next words that were going to come out of your mouth (That weren't strangled moans of the blond's name and jumbled cries about how good he felt.) while he moved around, no doubt getting his discarded clothes so he could slip away into the night.

"...leavin'?" You finally mustered out, letting your head fall to a side so you could watch him pick up his boxers and slip them on, his balaclava fixed into place like it had been when you met him, leaving you to stare into his mysterious blue eyes, the only gateway into the man who had just finished ravishing you.

"..." He turned to look at you over his shoulder, eyes trailing over your shivering frame as he fought internally over your words.

Ghost knew that it would be dangerous to stay, to indulge in your touch and show himself to you in one of his most vulnerable states. He didn't know you outside of the few hours he had spent with you, and even with that, it wasn't enough for Ghost to let his guard down around you.

Simon wanted to stay, he wanted to climb back into bed and let you curl into his side, let his warm hands run up and down your warm skin like he had done while pleasuring you, listen to your snores and even breathing. And despite probably not being able to fall asleep himself, Simon knew that it would be one of the few tranquil nights of his life.

So despite Ghost's alarming protests ringing in his head, Simon slowly made his way into the empty spot of your bed next to you, the covers soft and cool against his heated skin, soothing the raging fire that seemed to boil inside of him at the mere sight of you, his large arms wrapping around you and pulling you towards his side of the bed.

As soon as your bare body made contact with his, you melted like ice cream on a hot day, curling into his side and allowing him to wrap his tattooed arm around you, calloused hands running up and down your sides, taking his sweet time memorising every curve and dip of your body as you rested your head onto his chest, ear pressed right above his rapidly beating heart.

Not one word was exchanged between you both the whole time you lied together, his fingers tracing every little nook and cranny of your skin he could find, stopping every once in a while to rub on a tense muscle or over a scar, the soft ministrations swiftly lulling you to sleep.

The hand that you had splayed on his chest was mimicking his movements, fingers running over the blond hair that adorned his chest, playing with the small cross that dangled from the small chain necklace around his neck. Every time his hand would come up to rub at your shoulders, you caught a peak at the many tattoos that sleeved his arm, and as much as you wanted to turn around and commit all of them to memory, every time you tried to move, he'd press you closer, as if he knew that if he did allow you to, you'd only put off sleeping for longer.

As your eyelids started drooping, you felt his other hand come up to rest over your smaller one, toughened fingers intertwining with your own softer ones, a tired smile forming at your lips before finally clocking out, his heartbeat a firm rhythm that pulled you further and further into the soft grasp of Hypnos.

As expected, Simon didn't sleep a wink.

He had tried to close his eyes and enjoy the warmth you radiated, trying his best to let your soft snores and murmurs lull him to sleep, but it was impossible.

Despite not having slept for more than two days, he was unable to fall asleep, on edge after the catastrophe that was his last mission.

That was one of the reasons he had decided to step out of his comfort zone and allow himself a night of indulgence with you, a night of letting himself go and take out all his anger on you, but he had been impuissant to hurt you or even come close to actually wound you, instead taking it as slow as he knew how to and muttering soft praises and sweet nicknames into your ear along with the degradation that he'd mixed in.

And even after tiring himself out, he still couldn't let himself fully relax.

But as he turned his head to look down at your sleeping face, he thought that maybe this wasn't so bad. He felt… at ease, for the first time in a while. No strident alarms to wake him up at the crack of dawn, no ringing in his ears as a grenade went off near him, no desperately patching up a wound and drenching his hands in blood, no screams and pleas of mercy reverberating around his head as he disposed of the enemy.

None of that. It was just you. With your body curled into his side and your soft skin beneath a killer's hands.

Which is why he wished he could stay there forever. Lock the door and have you in his arms for the rest of his life, without the paranoia and the horrors that followed him everywhere he went, only focus on you and how mushy you made him feel with only a few hours of knowing him.

Which is why he wished he could have just fallen asleep and ignored the vibrations that came from beneath his discarded clothes, that he didn't leave your side and pick up the phone, that he hadn't followed orders like he always did and hadn't left you alone.

He carefully tucked you in, making his side of the bed before hesitantly brushing his scarred knuckles against your flushed cheeks, an alternative to the kiss he oh-so wanted to press down onto you until you woke up, until you asked him to stay, until he caved in and left the 141 to fend for themselves.

But he didn't.

He closed the door to your bedroom, slipped his phone and keys back into his pockets and headed towards the front door, ready to leave you behind and go back to being Ghost.

But as his hand reached for the doorknob, his eyes caught onto a stack of fluorescent yellow sticky notes on the kitchen counter, and in a stroke of not so genius, he grabbed the nearest pen and scribbled down his number onto the piece of paper, signing it with a simple "S .", hoping that you'd deduce it was from him, and not from some random person whose name started with the letter S that had broken into your apartment just to give you their number.

He stuck it a bit too aggressively to the almost bare fridge, making sure it was in a visible spot that you wouldn't be able to miss before finally stepping out of your flat, adjusting his mask in the elevator's mirror and going back to the cold hearted killer his fellow soldiers knew as Ghost.

He'd expected it to be a short mission.

One that they'd be able to finish within two weeks at best so he could go back to his cramped flat in Manchester and hopefully get back to you.

He'd spent almost every day of the first week of his departure wondering if you'd found the note, if when he'd retrieve his phone back from his locker back at base, he'd find a few messages from an unknown number he hoped was yours, asking him how he was, asking him to meet up again, wondering if he was okay…

That's what mostly kept him going for the first few days.

Until it all went haywire.

The mission escalated quickly into a mess of soldiers and betrayals, flying from place to place and taking more lives with his bare hands than he had ever before.

Blood soaked his hands in a way it never had, the toll of deaths on his name increasing with every passing day, week, month, year.

When the mission that had started off as something simple, something Ghost couldn't even remember, ended after a year, the 141 couldn't be more relieved. And exhausted.

They'd fought for many months straight, barely finding places to get a wink of sleep, and sometimes even running out of food while they camped out in one of the dingy safe houses of whatever city they were currently stranded in.

But it was finally over. Their target had been disposed of and any enemy that remained had either been eliminated or had scurried off.

As the chopper brought them back to base, none of them said a word, even Johnny refrained from making any jokes, knowing that it would only piss off both of his superiors and maybe get a tired chuckle out of Gaz.

Price uttered a "Good job." to all of them before patting them on the shoulder and going to his office, no doubt ready to go back home and have the sleep of his life.

The two sergeants withheld from talking too much to their lieutenant, murmuring a goodbye to him before going their own way, Ghost not even bothering to answer, too mentally and physically exhausted to even open his mouth to speak.

The first thing he did once he reached his locker was throw the goddamn mask off, letting the plastic skull clatter against the tiles as he rummaged through his belongings, wanting nothing more than to get into some clean clothes and go back home, where he would drink away the horrors that would no doubt follow him and probably pass out watching reruns of football games he had missed.

The clothes he had worn the day before the mission were tighter, accentuating the change in his physique after putting his muscles to work for a whole year, the seams of his trousers digging uncomfortably into his legs, his pockets full of random junk he had left in there.

He fished for whatever was currently pressing against his backside, pulling out his small phone from the pocket, frowning down at the gadget, which was no doubt out of battery after being left for so long.

Simon was pleasantly surprised when the screen brightened, showing his black lock screen and the time, the battery hanging onto dear life with a 1%. He moved to grab his charger, his eyes still trained on the incoming notifications that would soon flood his home screen, not really expecting much aside from the emails entailing rubbish deals or the occasional spam from a porn site he'd signed up to as a teen and hadn't been able to delete.

Instead, he was bombarded with over a thousand notifications at once, all from the same unknown number, the messages going too quickly for his tired eyes, focusing on the random words he was able to take from the rapidly passing texts.

‍

Answer.

Ignoring.

Asshole.

Appointment.

Doctor.

Pub.

Baby.

Pregnancy.

‍‍

His mind blocked itself off as he processed the last word, trying to make sense of all the confusing messages that had been sent to his phone.

Had it been by accident? Was he the recipient of some prank? Had he unknowingly given out his number to someo-

You.

Simon's throat went dry as the realisation dawned on him. Without sparing another second, he unlocked his phone, clicking onto the notifications and scrolling down as fast he could while still intaking information, afraid that his phone would die out at any point in time and render him utterly confused and terrified.

His body went on autopilot the more he read, brain fuzzy as if he had just drank a whole bottle of hard-hitting liquor, his eyes fixed on the bright screen of his phone in terror.

He was in shock. His mind wasn't in the right state to process any of this, he wasn't able to properly begin to fathom the meaning behind your words, as simple as they were.

‍

— I'm pregnant.

— I'm fucking pregnant, Simon.

— I don't know how it happened, the chances of the pill failing are so fucking low, and of course it happened to us.

‍

— Please pick up.

— I know you're getting the messages.

‍

— The doctor told me it's too dangerous to perform the abortion.

— I have to keep it or risk my life.

‍

— I need you to answer, Simon. Please, I just need to know that you're there.

— I'm scared.

‍

— You're such an asshole, you know that, right?! Fucking gave me your number only to disappear? Left me pregnant with your bloody kid!? And you can't even bother to pick up the goddamn phone.

‍

— Fuck you.

‍

— …

— It's a boy. Thought you'd want to know.

‍

— My due date is in a month. Please… call me, if you're even reading these. I don't want to be alone.

‍

The phone flashed the low power message in hopes that Simon would take mercy on it and finally plug it in, but Simon paid it no mind, clear eyes staring down at the picture you'd attached during one of the first months of your pregnancy.

The blurry picture of an ecography staring back at him disproved any doubts that might have formed in his mind, your full name displayed at the bottom along with the date it was taken, solidifying the fact even more.

It was real. This was real. You'd been carrying his son for 9 months, sending him frantic and terrified messages all throughout the three trimesters in hopes that he'd answer, all the while he had forgotten all about you in the midst of his mission, while you probably didn't spend a single day of that year not thinking about him.

His phone went dark once it finally had enough, leaving him standing there with a dry throat and shaky hands.

It was rare for Ghost to feel fear, but not for Simon. His throat would contract with every breath, his nose would sting as tears threatened to form on his waterline, his hands would get shaky until he balled them up and threw a punch into whatever item was closest.

This time wasn't any different. He punched his locker door, denting the metal effortlessly as he tried to wash away the fear and guilt creeping up to him with the pain that bloomed at his knuckles, that ran up his arms like electric shocks until they went numb.

He was an asshole.

Simon knew that it wasn't his fault that the mission had been extended for way too long, but he kept thinking back to the moment he'd placed his number on your fridge, wondering what would have happened if he'd done the smart thing and added that he'd be unavailable for a while, but that he'd get back to you. Maybe you would have been less scared while going through the pregnancy, comforted by the thought that he hadn't been ignoring you, but he knew that even then, you would have gone through it alone and terrified.

"I'm an asshole."

He rested his head against the dented locker, the cool metal soothing the headache that had quickly formed after all the conflicting feelings that had rushed through him in the matter of a minute.

All he had wanted was to go back home and rest, but fuck him if he was going to be able to even close his eyes after learning he was a father.

He packed everything up as quickly as he could, not bothering to say goodbye or join the other three for a drink at a pub, heading to his car so he could get the fuck out of London and back to Manchester, where he prayed you still lived, in that tiny flat near that dingy pub where he had first laid eyes on you in.

As his gloved hands gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white, a terrifying thought struck him.

Who's to say you had even kept the baby?

Who's to say you couldn't bear to look at the baby, that you'd given him away to a way more functional family?

The thought inflicted fear in him, a type of fear he didn't know if he should be feeling or not, confused with all the unpleasant emotions swirling inside of him.

"God, fuck!" He slammed his hands onto the steering wheel, the roar he had let out no doubt scaring any civilian that had been walking near his car at the time, but he couldn't care less.

All that was important now was getting back to you, to what he hoped was still the mother of his son.

Happy giggles and gurgles filled the living room, your tiny baby outstretching his arms out as you cycled his legs slowly, making silly faces down at him to keep him distracted.

Your doctor had recommended small exercises like these, some that would help develop his future motor skills, but you'd found that Tommy was a curious baby, one that couldn't stay still for longer than five minutes before he was whining and huffing in a futile attempt to get your attention and hopefully release him from his tiny prison; and so, in order to keep him focused, you resorted to having leisured conversations with him, your small son hanging onto your every word with wide blue eyes and a gaping mouth, as if he could understand your frustrations with the man who had blocked your car off and the girl from the bakery that had gotten your order wrong, or making silly faces at him to hear him giggle with glee.

You placed his small feet down and went back to your resting face, his eyes instantly going from your face to the closest toy, small chubby arm reaching out to grab it, your fingers running over his tummy and getting out a few giggles out of him before he finally grasped the toy, pressing it into his side.

As he distracted himself, you let yourself sit down properly, back hitting the edge of the sofa as you watched your son roll around on the blanket you'd laid down, letting yourself look up at the TV for a moment to have a small break, the news reporter standing in front of Big Ben ranting about some resolved political dispute or something.

Your eyes trailed back down to your son, who was wriggling around with a new toy in his grasp, cooing and drooling as he stared up at the ceiling, blue eyes fixed on one of the many cracks in the ceiling.

You winced at the not so friendly reminder of the state your flat was in. Going through a pregnancy on your own without any help and barely any money to take care of yourself left your home in a condition you were not proud of. You'd tried your best to clean and make the nursery as cosy as possible, but at the end of your third trimester you could barely lean down to pick up the hoover. Once you had been allowed back home, you'd cleaned up, but you couldn't really do much to fix the poor way your building had been constructed.

A sigh left your lips, leaning down to rest your head against your knees with closed eyes, giving yourself a few moments of sacred rest, something you seldom got anymore those days.

Sometimes, you thought as you wrapped your arms around your legs, you wished you weren't alone. As much hate you had harboured for your son's father across the year, you couldn't help the longing that still filled you every time you thought about him, wondering if you'd ever see him again, if he'd ever hold his son in his arms.

Frustrated tears filled the corners of your eyes, wiping them away with your sleeves before turning your attention back to your son, who was now squirming in his spot making grabby hands at you.

"I've got you, duck, don't worry." You cooed, picking him up and pressing a few kisses to his chubby cheeks, cradling him to your chest as you got up from the floor, careful to not drop him or bump him into anything.

As you took him back to his room, routinely changing his diaper and clothes, you thought back to the small breakdown you almost had had a few minutes ago, letting out an exhausted sigh. There was no use in imagining a future where Simon fit in, you'd given him enough time to answer, to show any signs of life at all. You were alone.

You were on the verge of tears as you placed Tommy in his tiny crib, handing him the small duck plushie your grandma had knitted a few months back when she had come to visit, watching him cling onto it in his sleep for a few moments, his soft breaths and coos tranquillising the waves of anxiety threatening to drown you.

"Good night, Tom." You whispered, pressing a kiss to his chubby cheek before flicking on the night light, carefully closing the door and resting your body against it, a shaky sigh leaving your chapped lips.

God, you were pathetic. Hung up over a man who you'd only known for a few hours, who'd left you with a baby (unknowingly or not, didn't matter), who still haunted your dreams every time you tried to get some rest. Why couldn't he have just picked up the phone? Why had he just given you his fucking number if he wasn't bothering on answering? Why had he gotten into your head so easily, with his sweet nicknames and soft kisses? Why couldn't you just fucking mov-

Your whole body jumped as the shrill doorbell rang, the sound reverberating around the flat and no doubt reaching Tommy's sensitive ears.

"God, yeah, I hear it!" You cried out as the sound didn't stop, starting to get worried that it would wake your baby up and then you'd have to deal with putting him to sleep all over again. "Fuck! I know, I'm coming!"

You looked through the peephole, eyebrows furrowing as you gazed upon a man's tacky army jacket instead of the normal face, so either this guy was incredibly fucking tall or he was standing on a stool.

Knowing that the area you lived in wasn't the safest, you unlocked the door but kept the chain latch on, a gap big enough so you could see the guy outside but not big enough for him to attack you.

"What?" You snapped, a bit harsher than how you'd normally answer the door, but this guy didn't really deserve any respect after how he'd basically abused your doorbell to the point of the sound still ringing in your ears. "What do you-"

Your gaze had been fixed onto his chest, scanning the army jacket you had spied through the peephole, cringing internally at the Union Jack plastered on his left bicep, hoping to God that he wasn't some type of Tory propagandist going door to door. But as your eyes trailed up to meet his, your mouth went dry.

Crystal blue eyes framed by pretty blonde eyelashes (identical to the blue eyes your son had been staring up at you with for the past three months), contrasting with the black face paint that was smeared around his eyes, the rest of his face obscured by that damn skull balaclava that haunted you.

It was him. It was fucking him.

"Simon." You said his name breathlessly, not missing the way his body stiffened at your shaky tone.

"Yeah. It's me."

[gabessquishytum]

Hob is a superlative thief.

He sometimes breaks into museums or other high security places just because he can (breaking into the Geneva Freeport was very cool ~ https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geneva_Freeport ~ he didn’t even steal anything!)

Anyway he heard through his favorite unsavory circles, that Roderick Burgess had acquired some awesome priceless "magical" thing a little while ago. Well Hob is nothing if not curious.

Besides, Roderick Burgess is an actively horrible person, stealing from him would be a distinct pleasure. Hob hadn't even decided he was going to steal whatever the thing was, but he was going to take a look,,,,,and if it was less magical and more "kill the world" then he would grab it and drop it off with the most trust worthy government type he knew. And Hob honestly expects it's a kill the world thing, since you know magic is not real.

Hob was NOT expecting a person, person-shaped thing, pissed elder god thing, enclosed in glass and iron. How a douchebag like Roderick Burgess was able to trap and contain an elemental force of the universe Hob did not care to find out, but he knew he couldn't leave it in Burgess's "care."

Should Hob be finding seething man-shaped thing beautiful; stealing things tends to get Hob hot, sure, but he doesn't think it's ever been quite like this. Hob hopes he gets out of this mostly still sane.

OOO this is a super fun idea!!! I just think it would be really fun if Hob is just doing crime for fun and because he finds it kinda... hot. He's absolutely not freeing Dream for altruistic reasons, no way... he's just got a reputation to maintain when it comes to thievery!

Dream is less than thrilled to see yet another human coming up to his cage, but this time... its different. There's a small tool which cuts a small circular hole in the glass and lets the air come rushing in. Hob also smudges the binding circle (in fact, he upends a bottle of water to wash away the paint completely). And with that, Dream can use the rushing return of his powers to explode out of the glass orb.

He's obviously glad to be out, but he realises immediately that his tools have been stolen and dispersed. Which is when Hob pipes up again, and offers his assistance in recovering them. Who better to track down stolen goods, than a thief? By the time Dream reluctantly accompanies Hob back to his car, leaving the mansion and its occupants behind in eternal sleep, Hob has already tracked down the bag of sand via ebay.

Dream is still skeptical, but when Hob accompanies him to hell and somehow manages to pinch the helm from right under the demon's nose... he starts to think that it might be worth keeping this annoying human around for a while longer. Even Matthew is impressed. Especially when they all make it out of hell in one piece, and nobody even has to play the oldest game.

The ruby is obviously problematic and Dream almost forbids Hob from coming with him at all. But Hob is adamant that he always finishes up his jobs. He heads to the diner with Dream, just about resists the urge to go crazy and rob everyone in the place. In the end Dream doesn't need his help, but it's kind of nice to be just hanging out anyway. Obviously there could be nicer circumstances for a date, but Hob is kind of feeling some kinda way about this particular elemental force...

And Dream is obviously struggling with the events of his imprisonment, but having Hob around is a nice distraction. Even if he keeps finding Hob’s hand rifling through his coat pocket ("how BIG is that pocket?! I got my whole arm inside!" "It contains a multitude of unknown universes. Keep your fingers to yourself.")

Hob settles for holding Dream’s hand instead. Which is even better, actually.

[a-kaash-me-outside]

a bit dirty - ch1

in which you hook up with osamu in a club bathroom and that's just the beginning. ch1 | next [masterlist]

// maybe a bad idea ~ ᴏsᴀᴍᴜ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ~ 6683 ᴡᴏʀᴅs

a look into this chapter: 18+ minors dni nsfw, cute flirting before, drinking but not drunk sex, unprotected sex (NO PREGNANCY TROPE I PROMISE I SWEAR FOREVER), thigh fucking, slight missed connection trope, names names names pet names a million pet names, minimal foreplay (unless you count flirting as foreplay), afab she/her pronouns

join my taglist here!! ~~ ♡ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ♡

you are completely aware that you should not be out right now.

but you are.

and you could chalk that up to your horribly persuasive friends and their constant nagging and pleading for you to tag along with them tonight or your distaste for saying no to people and disappointing them or even a mild fear of missing the played out events of a really great night in your head.

the truth is, it doesn't matter the reason that you’re out despite how kinda stupid it is. the fact is, you know that it’s a bad idea to be entering a club at 12am when the alarm in your pocket is set to 6am, but you’re doing it anyway. sure, you were lightly bullied and, sure, you keep offering deprecating and pity-me sentences about how you really shouldn’t be out, but you’re still there. you’re still out. 

you’re still hovering over a high-top table in the corner of the club a few steps from the bar screaming over loud music, “i told you guys that i didn’t really want to drink tonight.” yet, a drink is, indeed, thrusted into your hand. the glass bottle is cool against your palm, fingers smudging the condensation on the label as you hold it tight.

“if you don’t want it, i’ll drink it,” your friend offers, red jacket bunched around his wrist as he extends his hand towards you, palm shaped so the bottle would fit perfectly against it. you shake your head, bringing it to your lips, taking a sip, and then another, and then another. 

“this is such a bad idea, kuroo,” you drone, exhaling as you take another sip.

“yn,” kuroo says abruptly, one hand placed on your shoulder, fingers squeezing to call you to look at him, “we know.”

“do you want to go home?” akaashi asks, calling your bluff or genuinely concerned, you’re not completely sure. he turns to another member of your friend group for confirmation and a bit of support, “bo, should we just take her home?”

you stick your hand out in between them as if this would stop the conversation from progressing or any decisions from being made. you shake your head, “no. no, i don’t want to go home.”

“then maybe loosen up and act like it,” bokuto implores, hands on your shoulders, leaning his definitely not a tiny bit of weight against you, bouncing along with the beat of the song. 

“i just feel like if i keep saying it’s a bad idea,” you reason, narrowing your eyes as the sentences finishes in your head and you know that you’re going to get flamed when it actually comes out of your mouth, “that it makes up for the fact that i’m out because i feel bad for it?”

definitely not.

yeah, i don’t think so.

nice try.

bad logic, yn, really bad. 

you groan, “okay, okay. fine. actually having fun. because i’m out,” you point at akaashi and he nods back at you, “and so why not just enjoy it instead of making myself miserable for being out?”

“and us,” tsukishima notes, “don’t forget us. you’re also making us miserable.”

kuroo throws his arm around tsukishima, runs the tops of his knuckles over his hair as he laughs, “you’re always miserable. you don’t count.”

“tch, knock it off,” tsukishima swats at kuroo’s fist so violently that he almost falls over.

“yea,” you say in an attempt to convince yourself, “just have a fun time and don’t think about the fact that i should probably be on my way home right now.” 

akaashi bumps his shoulder into yours, the one that bokuto’s fingers are still tightly grasped around. “you know how to have fun, yn,” he reminds you, “laughing at those dumbasses is usually a good start.” akaashi nods towards tsukishima and kuroo trying, and failing, to contain their back and forth, bumping into the table and spilling bokuto’s drink. 

it is a good start, you suppose. you can’t help but laugh, actually, as they start yelling at each other, blame spewing and insults flown. “and then,” akaashi says, raising his eyebrows and gesturing to your drink. he raises his own, waits for you to do the same and then lightly taps the neck against yours. you raise the bottle to your lips, tilt it upwards, and don’t bring it back down until the only weight in your hand is the empty glass.

“c’mon, idiots, you owe bo a new drink,” akaashi shouts over the already loud club and added bickering, “and we need a refill also.”

they either don’t hear him or choose to ignore him. neither tsukishima nor kuroo even bat an eye to akaashi waving his hands to get their attention or the dramatic sigh that he forces. bokuto notices, though, nods to the bar as he says, “c’mon, we will go get new drinks. they won’t even notice we’re gone!”

your tiny nod is confirmation enough. bokuto grabs your wrist, gently pulls you through the mass amounts of people to the bar, moving through the crowd much easier than you would’ve on your own. sure, you could maneuver in and out of people, but bokuto could barrel right through them, polite enough to offer small sorrys and excuse mes, but assertive enough to keep moving the entire time. 

bokuto presses up against the counter, leans over the top to order whatever drinks he’s ordering, and then waits patiently while the bartender grabs said drinks. you stand next to him, akaashi on the other side of bo, a bit of space between you resting with your lower back on the edge of the countertop and the horde of people dancing in the vicinity. 

the bar is a bit of an oasis, somewhat more organized than the conglomerate of different groups that occupied the rest of the venue. there is a patience here that you don’t get in other parts of the club, a knowing restraint that you welcome like a breath of fresh air. you scan the length of the bar, the groups of people inhabiting the same space that you are for the same reason that you are and among them, a man with gray hair and a tight black t-shirt who keeps looking over in your direction. 

everytime you try to sneak a private glance, he’s already looking at you, eyes meeting yours for a fraction of a second before pretending that he was looking somewhere else. you’re suddenly feeling much warmer than before, perhaps it has something to do with the club lights or the large gathering of people or the way the two guys that are with him keep nudging him in your direction. 

“that guy keeps looking at you,” bokuto notes, pointing very blatantly at the man across the bar. “you should go talk to him.”

“no way!” you instantly reject the thought. 

akaashi leans forward, peeking out from the other side of bo. “step three of having a fun night out? getting railed by a mystery guy who keeps throwing you looks,” akaashi explains, head nodding, no inclination of sarcasm. 

“you said talk to him,” you say, glance thrown over your shoulder just in case he’s already gone. that would solve a lot of your inner turmoil right now. but when you do look, he’s looking right back. this time, he keeps eye contact with you for an entire second before pulling away.

“right, well, and then fuck him,” akaashi says, mischevious smile, shrugging his shoulders as if it were obvious.

“i don’t do that,” you explain. 

“you haven’t done that,” bokuto says, “there’s a difference.” 

“look, you’re out, you’re trying to have a good time, that hot fuckin’ guy is staring you down?” akaashi says, naming all of the reasons that he believes this is a great idea, “and the four of us are here if something is weird. this is the perfect opportunity.”

“no, no,” you shake your head, “besides, i’ve gotta finish this drink and tsukishima and kuroo are probably-”

bokuto taps his card against the machine as you babble on excuses and grabs the drinks from the counter in the middle of your sentence, handing one to akaashi and holding the other two. “oh nooo,” bokuto whines, “turns out these drinks are for me. better find someone else to buy you a drink.” he makes eye contact with akaashi, nods towards the direction of where you all came from and starts moving that way.

you move to follow them, but your feet don’t move, heart beating against your chest as your core tells you that if you hesitate for only a moment, they will be out of reach and it’ll actually be easier to just sit here at the bar. and if something were to happen while you were abandoned by your friends, if the buff looking tall guy a few feet down the bar decides to talk to you, then it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have ever happened to you. 

it’s not just that you don’t move, it’s that you make the very conscious choice not to move. you take a deep breath and check one more time that he’s still there, that he’s still looking at you, and he is. you let your stare linger this time, you have no other obligations or people to talk with. it’s you, all alone at this bar, waiting for one particularly attractive man to make his way over to you and talk to you, you might as well make it obvious. 

with him are two other guys, one that looks eerily like him but with brassy dyed hair and a louder personality and another one with a black mask on and dark, curly hair. the blonde one nods in your direction, pushes him with his shoulder once and then twice and then a third time. you think that this will cause a reaction, but it doesn’t. 

you’re almost ready to concede, make your way back to the high top and have a good night without going out of your comfort zone, but the other guy leans over and says something in his ear, points at you with his chin, and then pulls the blonde guy away and leaves the gray haired guy alone just like you. 

for someone who didn’t make his way over to you the first three times someone shoved him in your direction, it doesn’t take him long to walk over to you once he’s alone. you wonder if you’ll have to say something first, what will you say first, what should you say first?

“did your friends leave ya too?” he asks, and if you hadn’t downed your first drink and you weren’t as nervous as you were, you might’ve noticed how out of place he sounded as well. 

you laugh, offer a short nod as he takes place next to you, leaning against the bar the same way you are. you’re rooting through your brain to concoct an adequate response, one that will entice him to stay, continue a conversation, let him know that you’re very interested while also not telling him that outright, but all of that thinking is rendering you currently silent.

still, he tries again, asks something much easier, “can i buy ya a drink?” 

you nod again, turning towards him this time, but not before catching a glimpse of his profile, his chest, his forearms tense with his fingers gripping the edge of the counter. tonight was definitely not a mistake. you don’t care how early you have to be up tomorrow. “only if you stick around for a dance too,” you say, hand ghosting on said tense forearm, testing the waters, voice projecting so that you’re sure he hears you.

he laughs this time, gorgeously genuine smirk appearing along with it. “i don’t really dance,” he admits, “but to talk to ya a bit longer? i’d be stupid not to.” his eyes flicker down to your lips, the way your tongue peeks out for just a second and your teeth scrape against the bottom, and then back up to your eyes, wider than before but just as lust-stricken. 

he turns, flags down a bartender. on their way over to the two of you, he leans down, “what can i getcha?”

“i’m not picky,” you respond, “i’m pretty adventurous, actually. i like trying new things. i feel like you can learn a lot about someone from drinking their go-to drink.” you feel like you’re rambling, but he’s looking at you like you’re the cutest thing on earth. 

he leans over the bar, orders whatever he orders, and then quickly returns back to your side. “so what did you order?” you ask. “what will i be drinking?”

“spiced rum and coke,” he calls back, “what does that say about me?”

“hm?” you question, tilting your head.

“ya said that ya can learn a lot about someone from their go-to drink. what does that say about me?” he asks, smiling.

you purse your lips, mulling it over for a second. “i think it says that you like the classics, but with a more exciting twist,” you say back. “like-” 

he wraps his arm around your waist, cutting you off as he pulls you closer to him, moving you out of the way of some far too drunk couple that was knocked in your direction, drink sloshing right where you were just standing. “sorry,” he says, very slow to remove his hand from your waist, but you lean back into it. 

“don’t apologize,” you say, staying pressed up against his side. “practically saved my life,” you joke. “if the roles were reversed, you’d be drenched right now. i’m not that fast.” he raises his eyebrows at your sentence, but you don’t correct yourself, just avert his gaze and laugh at yourself. “did you have that all planned or?” you ask.

“nope,” he says, arm still around your waist as he pulls his card out of his pocket to pay. he hands you one of the drinks. “just the stars aligning or somethin.” 

the spice of the rum is nice, warming, a bit more flavorful, an unexpectedly fun twist to a classic. you smile up at him. “now you owe me a dance,” you say, nodding towards the dance floor full of people. 

he doesn’t hesitate, slides his hand down your side, digs his fingers into the fat of your hip, and nods in the same direction as you. “lead the way,” he says. he follows you as you weave through groups of friends and drunk couples until you find a somewhat less crowded corner. the music isn’t as loud here, a bit further away from the speakers and the action, but it feels perfect for the two of you. 

dancing is a generous word for what the two of you are doing. it starts more like swaying, his hand still on your hip, your hand now on his shoulder. you’re both still chained with mostly empty drinks in one hand, taking small sips here and there in between half-lidded eye contact and half-steps closer to the other. 

“is it bad that i want to get rid of this ridiculously over-charged drink so that i can put both of my hands on you?” he asks, leaning down to place his lips against your ear despite the fact that the music isn’t necessarily loud enough to warrant that. you shake your head, his lips brushing against the side of your cheek as you do, and then you let it fall onto his shoulder. 

you reach out, feel alone guiding you as you set your half-drank cup on a random table. you clasp your hands around his neck, allowing yourself to lean backwards to take him all in, pretty gray eyes, hungry look in the depths of them. you tangle your fingers into the hair at the base of his neck. you really want to kiss him.

the hand that just held his drink is colder, shocking almost as it smooths down your lower back, fingers hooking into the waistband of your skirt, toying with the fabric and the zipper on the side. now you really want to kiss him.

he’s staring directly into your eyes as his fingers ghost over the lace of your underwear. he doesn’t pull away at the feeling, doesn’t stutter or retreat or dive deeper, but pushes his fingers underneath the band, dull nails scraping against the soft skin of your hip. you really want to kiss him right now. 

he’s so focused on touching you, on teasing you, on watching your adorable expression as you try to keep yourself composed, that you decide to take matters into your own hands, pulling him down into you and pushing up into him, lips smashing against his, fingers threading into his hair. 

you talk in the same instances that you breathe, in between long, sloppy kisses and roaming touches. “i don’t normally do this,” you admit. “am i supposed to say that?” 

“i wouldn’t know,” he says back, out of breath before pressing a kiss into your lips again, speaking against them, “i don’t either.”

“looking like that?” you ask, just as out of breath as he is, “your hands confident as that? yea fuckin right.”

he pulls away for a real breath, chest rising and falling a bit heavier than usual, tongue swiping over his lip to swallow the spit you’ve left there. “honest,” he replies.

you shake your head. you still don’t necessarily believe him, “i suppose i don’t have to trust you to go fuck you in the bathroom.”

he tilts his head, a huge smile on his face now. “oh?” he questions, “is that how far this is goin? ya thinking that far out?”

you blush, instantly warm against his touch. “well, no, i- i didn’t mean-,” you stutter.

“i mean, i suppose it doesn’t have to be that far out,” he says, low, as he brings one hand up and places your chin between his fingers, demanding your eye contact. “it could be in the next thirty seconds if ya want.”

all you can do is nod, but that’s enough for him. he’s dragging you by the waist to the other corner of the club, nodding towards the only single-room, open bathroom and you nod even more dramatically, following him inside. 

he locks the door behind you and his hands are instantly back on your body, gripped around each of your hips, both pressing you against the door and holding you in place as you pull his face down into you harder. he slides his hands to your lower back, down your ass, pushing up your skirt so he can feel your soft skin directly on his large hands. 

he uses this grip to lift you, back sliding against the bathroom door as he pulls you closer to him. he doesn’t have to lean down as far to kiss you now, doesn’t have to worry about using his hands to press you into the door. your legs are wrapped around him, his hips pressed between them. 

he kisses down your neck. “do i get to know your name?” he asks into your collarbones.

“do you need to?” you ask, cheek against the top of his head. 

when he laughs, you can feel the vibrations dance across your chest, “guess not.” he licks a strip up your neck, grinding his hips against you, “what do you want me to call you tonight then?”

“something cute,” you offer. 

he laughs again, “alright, doll, i’ll get creative then.” he holds you tight, both hands on the undersides of your thighs as he moves you to the sink, sets you on the edge of the porcelain fixture. his hands move to the tops of your thighs, sliding up and up until the hem of your skirt is at the top of your hips, exposing the lacey panties he was toying with moments ago.

surprisingly, this weird grip that he has on the tops of your thighs is not doing a horrible job at keeping you up right, but the longer that he feels your skin, drags his nails against the fats of your thighs, nudges open your legs with his knee, the less his focus is on keeping you steady. your core is tight, engaged to not fall backwards into the faucet, but perched right on the edge. 

“fuck, you’re so pretty,” he murmurs against your neck, hooks both of his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulls them down your thighs, over your knees, and lets them rest around your ankles and the fact that he’s being this mindful, doesn’t let your panties touch the gross bathroom floor, either means that he has, indeed, done this before or, the much worse option, he’s just that considerate and thoughtful.

he wraps one arm around your lower back, places one large hand on the inside of your thigh and slides it further between your legs until the tip of his thumb rubs against your already messy clit. you reach out on instinct, fingers wrapping around his forearm, eyes begging to stare into his, but he can’t pull away from the way that you’re teetering on the edge of the sink, thighs quivering to keep yourself upright as he begins to tease you, so you force it, slide your grip up his arm and shoulder and tilt his head to look you in the eyes and now he’s convinced he can’t ever pull away from this sight. 

your eyebrows are knit together but always moving, lip jutted out, chin tilted upwards, breathing already unsteady and he can feel the heat radiating from your entire body. he watches your jaw fall open as he drags the tips of two fingers between your puffy lips, circling the pads against your hole once before your tiny, but insistent nods convince him to push inside. your eyes close lazily and then open half-lidded, corners of your lip upturn into a blissful smile, and the prettiest hum leaves your throat as his fingers fill you.

with your position on the sink it’s not easy, but you move your hips forward the smallest bit. it barely pushes his fingers deeper, but the miniscule movements are better than nothing. he could give you everything you wanted right now, could curl his fingers and move so fast that his arm’ll be sore tomorrow, but there’ll be time for that in a second. right now, you’re whimpering so needy for him, soft walls clenching around two fingers, juices dripping into his palm and down to his wrist, a slow, sticky squelching louder than the music and chatter behind the closed door. 

“more?” you ask, quiet and sweet. you could’ve told him politely or demanded it, however you wanted to communicate your need would’ve been good enough for him, but you ask him so nicely and he knows exactly how the rest of the night will go, knows exactly what you need from him. 

“oh, sweetheart,” he says and the butterflies in your stomach are getting restless now. he nudges your legs open wider with his knee, steps in between them to get a better angle, chest against your shoulder as he starts fingering you faster, driving his two thick, long fingers deeper inside of you, curling as he pulls his arm back towards himself. “give ya anything ya want when ya ask that nicely.”

you can’t think of any other words, the only thing leaving your mouth over and over again is, “fuck fuck fuck” as he fucks you so pretty with his fingers. you’re so wet around him, so easy for his fingers to slip in and out of you and you’re having a hard time keeping your legs spread. if he weren’t standing between them, they’d be closed around his hand right now. it’s all so much. 

your forehead falls into his bicep, nodding against the muscle, fingers grip around the edge of the sink as you babble, “gonna come, please, gonna make me come.”

“then come, bunny,” he says, presses a soft kiss into your hair, and you’re gone. you listen to him so well, he can’t help but smile as he continues the motions, fingering you through your orgasm, walls fluttering around him, flooding even more. the grip on your waist gets tighter as you lose control, taking care of you as nearly every thought leaves your head. if he were any less in control, less thoughtful, you’d be on the floor right now. 

“and what do i call you?” you pant the second that you’re able to think again, hands not really sure where to root as they move from his chest to his shoulder to his forearm. 

“s’pose you might need something to call out when i wreck ya, huh?” he asks, kissing the side of your jaw because it’s the closest thing he can reach, thankful for your tiny recovery as he reaches down with one hand to undo his belt and jeans. 

fuck. you swallow harshly, not caring for even a second how much the effect of these words is showing on your face. this confidence might look tacky or awkward on somebody else, but his beaming genuine smile and equally as strong grip on your waist is driving you insane already and you know he’s not lying, he’s going to ruin you. you nod. 

“don’t matter to me, princess,” he says, smearing the juices on his fingers down the length of his cock, swirling around his tip, but you don’t dare look down, eyes on his as he finishes his sentence, “as long as it’s coming out of your pretty mouth, you can call me whatever you want.”

“and you say you haven’t done this before,” you breathe, voice very unsteady for how confident that sentence could’ve been.

“i really haven’t,” he shakes his head, leaning down to kiss you. “honest. just something about you that’s driving me crazy,” he says, wet fingers digging into your hip under your skirt, and for some dumb fucking reason you believe him, nodding stupid like he needed confirmation to a plain statement and you hope he understands that this means that you want him right now.

you press your forehead against his shoulder, catching only a glimpse of him lining himself up, finally having a scene to match the sensations as he drags his thick head between your sloppy lips, grids the underside against your clit, pushes the tip against your slightly stretched hole. 

“nuhhuh,” he says, picking your chin up, shaking his head, talking so soft that you accept it all as gospel, “look at me, dove. you can watch later, but right now, i need to see your pretty expression as i spear ya, okay?”

all you can do is nod, all you can say is, “okay.”

he smirks, kisses the side of your jaw so quickly before pulling away, eyes scanning every facial feature so he can notice the change in every single one, and then he pushes inside of you. the moan that rips from you is so loud that you’re convinced every person in the building can hear it. it breaks off at the end, so forceful that your vocal chords can’t support it, and you can’t see how entranced he’s looking at you because you can’t focus on anything.

you’re so fucking full. 

he’s pressed completely up against you, hips resting on the insides of your thighs, arm around your lower back to pull you into him, your chest against his, and his face is so close to yours, but not close enough that he can’t see how hard he’s already wrecking you just by being inside of you.

his hips pull back slowly. you can feel every inch leaving you and you’re already squirming at not being filled to the brim, circling your hips as best you can on the edge of the sink. he pushes forward again, harsher this time. your head falls against his shoulder and from this position, you can finally see it, the sheen of your slick on his cock as he pulls out and fucks back into you, how thick he is as he disappears inside of you. your walls clench around him at the sight, his hips stutter at the feeling, he needs more. 

every thrust inside of you, the fronts of his thighs slam against the side of the sink. you feel like the entire room is shaking with how forceful he’s being, but he can’t help himself, not when you’re sucking him in so tight. “shit, so fuckin’ perfect for me, fuck, so wet, ‘s it feel good, pumpkin?”

you nod vehemently, can barely talk amongst your whimpers and whines, can’t even really form a thought it feels so fucking good. “mmm,” you whine, “feels mm- feel- s- so good, baby, fuck, so so s- so good.”

“can’t even talk, you’re so cock drunk, huh, pretty?” he asks, moving both of his hands to your hips, rocking you back and forth to meet his thrusts and you just let him.

“please don’t stop, please, gonna come,” you say, the only string of words you’ve managed since he’s started fucking you, but you need him to know how close you are. 

“lemme feel it, babygirl, lemme feel how tight ya get when you’re comin’ on my cock, yea?” he coaxes, rhythmic pace unwavering, harder now even as he pushes you over the edge. before you even make a noise, he knows that you’re coming, can feel you gush, dripping down the underside of his cock as you squeeze him impossibly tighter and he’s throbbing now, doesn’t know how much longer he can take it when you’re making such adorable noises and looking at him like that between bouts of inabilities to focus and panting that heavily. 

he lets you ride through your orgasm completely as he hammers into you, lets you recover fully before even thinking about asking, “can i come on your thighs, angel?”

“oh, fuck,” you breathe, gummy walls fluttering at the thought.

you’re so drenched, juices running down your thighs and the inside of your legs, that it’s easy for him to press your legs together and fuck into them to finish. your plush thighs aren’t as tight as your cunt, but they’re softer, fuller, kinder, and he can’t get enough of the feeling and the sight, skin rippling as his thick cock slides against the sheened skin, disappearing into the fats of them repeatedly. you can’t stop looking either, forehead pressed against his as you both watch this sight in awe. 

“gonna paint your thighs white, puppy, fuck,” he announces, his own breath getting heavier, thrusts getting less rhythmic, more messy as he gives in, heavy cock resting between your thighs as he releases.

the throb is violent against the inside of your thighs and you can feel every single pulse as stream after stream of his sticky load coats your thighs. as the last bit of come drools out of the tip, he presses your legs together harder and pushes his hips forward one more time, hissing as his sensitive cock slides through the mess of come he’s created on your legs. 

“holy shit,” he breathes after a silent second. or, well, as silent as it can be with an entire world of people and happenings just a door away.

you nod, finally catching your own as you cup his cheek with your hand, guiding him down to meet your lips one last time, not because you’re desperate or needing, but something that you hope he takes with him as he leaves the bathroom and the club, a wordless thank you.

in the aftermath of lust and infatuation, you smile at him. he holds you in place, but leans away from you to grab some form of tissue to clean you up. he helps you down from the edge of the sink, helps you stand up right when your feet touch the floor, backs of your thighs aching from being pushed into the edge of a cheap sink all night. 

“well,” you shyly bend over to pull your panties up from around your ankles, “really great night,” you say, voice still weak even after you clear your throat. 

“yea,” he breathes a light chuckle, “a really great night,” he agrees.

you wait a beat, patient to see if he’s going to add anything else, a prying question or longing statement. the longer that you stay in this bathroom, the louder the noises of the confines get, the outside fading away momentarily as you hear the occasional drip of the faucet and the hum of fluorescent lights.

“do you think i could-,” he starts.

“i should probably get back to-,” you start at the same time.

“what?” you ask quickly, rushing to get him to finish the sentence he started, but there’s a soft pink on his cheeks and he’s quiet for another couple of seconds, and then he shakes his head.

“nothing,” he says, “i should get back to my friends too.” you only notice the sigh, the gulp, the hesitance and the regret because you’re looking for it, because you’re feeling it too. 

his hand is on the door handle and for a single second you’re sure that he’s going to say something else, finish his other sentence or start a new, but he doesn’t. he opens the door, the loudness of the music unwelcomed in comparison to the privacy and seclusion of your bathroom hookup.

“well,” you repeat, “maybe i’ll see you some other time and you can fuck me in the bathroom again.” his hand is still on your waist as he smiles huge and his laughter takes residency in your chest seemingly until the end of time.

“or, maybe you could-,” he starts, but perhaps the stars have unaligned themselves now, because he can’t seem to catch a break.

“HEY!” kuroo screams from across the bar the second that he makes eye contact with you. akaashi hits him once and then a second time for good measure, leaning in and overtly pointing to the person next to you. kuroo raises his arm, taps on his wrist with the other hand, and oh god you don’t even want to know what time it is. still, you shake your head and turn your attention back to your fling that you hope asks for a number and turns into at the very least a longer-term fling. 

“sorry about him,” you shake your head, and you swear he looks like he’s going to try one more time, pushing past all of the things that are refusing to let him ask you a simple question, but the blonde from earlier catches his attention, making a similar motion with wide eyes, chest forward like he’s going to walk over here any minute and your well it was really great while it lasted fling is removing his hand from your lower back. 

“i hope so, yea,” he replies, a smaller smile now as he turns his body towards the two people he was with before that are heading to the exit. “i really hope so.” 

the second that he starts to move so do you, both making your way through the dwindling crowd to the respective groups that you came here with, throwing a look over your shoulder every few seconds to make sure that, yes, he is indeed stealing the same obsessive glances that you are as he leaves.

“i can’t fucking believe you,” you say, hitting kuroo on the same shoulder that akaashi did, “he was about to give me his number, and now he’s gone forever.”

“you’d think that you’d get his number before you left the bathroom, yn, god,” kuroo says, shifting blame. “besides, maybe you’ll come out with us more now instead of being a buzzkill all the time, instead of being all guys, it’s not a good idea and i literally have work in the morning and-”

“kuroo is… oddly right,” akaashi says, interrupting him and shrugging, “in some weird way. he probably comes here from time to time, i’m sure you’ll run into him again. what was his name?”

your eyes go wide and you try to hide the fact that you fucked this guy without ever learning his name, but tsukishima catches it instantly and starts cackling. “wow, who even are you?”

“we’ll come back next friday, yea? you’ll probably find him again and you guys can have a fun mystery hookup in the bathroom again,” akaashi half-reason, half-pokes fun and you nod. you hope he comes back too. maybe you’ll at least learn his name next time.

/\ /\ /\

despite the fact that you do not regret anything from last night (well, maybe the part where you didn’t get the number of an incredibly hot guy who fucked you in the bathroom of a club, but nothing else), the morning is still not well-recieved for you. you didn’t even drink that much last night, but the small amounts of alcohol and the severe lack of sleep have you waking up feeling like your bones are made of bricks and your head is filled with them.

you didn’t get home until nearly 3 in the morning and you didn’t pass out until well past 3. you can’t brush your teeth enough times and the water in the shower can’t be hot enough and no matter how much concealer you layer on, the bags under your eyes are still at least somewhat visible.

regret isn’t the right word per se, because you definitely don’t regret going out the night (morning?) before or staying out as long as you did, but you definitely are feeling the effects of your bad decisions come to life. 

and on top of everything, you have to be presentable enough to go into work? that’s ridiculous. 

** bffs + tsukishima **

&lt; delivered / 8:04 am < alright who tf did this to me

> kuroo / 8:15 am > that guy last night lmao

&lt; delivered / 8:25 am < i wish akaashi was up instead of u

> kuroo / 8:29 am > what time do you   have to be in anyway?

&lt; delivered / 8:30 am < omw now.

a deep breath is not enough to prepare you for a full day of work, but it has to do something, right? and taking six of them outside of the front doors of not only your job, but your first day at your new job is probably enough to compensate for the exhaustion and physical garbage that you’re feeling.

you push open the doors, fake smile plastered on your very tired face, apron draped over your forearm. “good morning,” you offer over the chime of the entrance bell. before you even step fully inside, you’re greeted with the same tired-veiled enthusiasm, voice so familiarly soft that his morning welcome sounds more like an opening hymn. 

you walk towards the voice, but you don’t see anyone fully yet, only the top of a moving black cap behind the counter accompanied by shuffling papers and clanging pots. “just a sec, sorry,” he calls before standing up straight, rice cooker in his arms and he realizes it in the same immediate instant that you do.

gray eyes, still pretty but surprised now; gray hair no longer casually messy but neat under an onigiri embroidered dad cap; tight black shirt against his chest long-sleeved now; and he laughs, not because anything is funny, but because he doesn’t know how else to react at how impossible this situation is and yea it’s the exact same laugh that’s still living in your chest. 

you’re sure you look like a deer in the headlight right now, because it’s certainly how you feel. you can’t really breathe, don’t know what to say, because, yes, this is, indeed, the man that you had sex with in a dirty club bathroom less than 8 hours ago. 

you look down at his name tag, miya osamu. well, fuck, if only you’d have learned his name last night.

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[alavestineneas]

Glass and mirrors

pairing: young!coriolanussnow x fem!reader summary: There is one thing the world needs to know about her: she didn't become a star overnight. She was born to be one. warnings: canon-typical violence, mentions of mental illness, narcissism, blonde men who need therapy, unhinged women, people in shitty relationships and toxic industries word count: 4.6k PART TWO IS HERE

author's note: Hello and welcome to our small community of people who have fallen victim to the charming (and evil) blonde man! This fic is heavily inspired by the edits of models that pop up on my ticktock feed every day. Shout out to them and the talented editors who bless my eyes with their creations. As for YN this time, prepare to be on quite a ride because she, surprise-surprise, is evil! In my head, there has to be at least one victor who feels no remorse at all; they can't all be morally good (and relatively sane) people. Also, the obsession with beauty in this fic is, in fact, intentional, so bear with me. Feel free to comment or insult the author in the comments, but only if you are creative with it. Enjoy and see you in part 2!

In all of her short childhood, she always loved mirrors. Her grandma used to joke about it with her old friends while they shared lunch at the factory: ''That empty-headed child wants to do nothing but stare at herself all day.'' The women would laugh, their raspy voices making the glid, already filled with toxic fumes to the brim, hotter. YN didn't mind; she would pretend not to hear them, clinging to the machinery in front of her instead. She would get out of here sooner or later, and she'd see whose laughter would be left echoing all through the narrow streets.

She wasn't born to rot in this place like these people were; YN was sure of that. Not with a face like hers, with manners she taught herself from the bright magic box in their cramped commune apartment, where a few times a year the government played the show. It was supposed to be a punishment, YN reminded herself each time, but it didn't look like one. She watched the children eat more food than she had seen in a month and then cry on the stage in front of millions. She wouldn't cry if she was there, that was for certain. People die every day here, but none of them get to dress up in the jewels provided by the wealthiest people she has ever seen.

It was funny how they had all the money in the world and still chose to dress so horribly. Mismatched fabrics and smudged colours on their faces, like the colours of the lake near her house—the factories polluted it with dyes, turning the water green, purple, and sometimes even pink. That's how she got her old grey dress to be such a pretty lavender colour. It didn't matter that everyone at school laughed at her, even Miss Kyla; she was horrendously ugly anyway, her hair resembling the colour of unwashed underwear. YN wore her dress with pride, mimicking the voice of the funny multicolour-haired man on the screen, chatting with long o's and a's.

That's how she ended up here, on the first floor of the newly renovated training centre, with a drink in her freshly manicured hand. She had two hours before her stylists would need her again—a time designated for sleep, which she apparently so greatly lacks. YN doesn't care; she went without sleep for much longer than two days. Instead, she does what she loves the most—turns on a shiny screen and watches the golden letters appear: the 15th Annual Hunger Games.

It starts with reaping, as always, but YN skips that part—she doesn't like seeing herself in those dirty rags, although, as papers would later state, ''nothing could make this girl ugly, even if a potato sack was put on her body.'' She likes interviews better. Luckily, the wait is not very long; soon enough, her favourite host pops up, his hair shimmering with sea green.

''And now, our dear viewers, I am more than pleased to announce our next tribute from District 1—please let her hear how excited we are to meet her!'' His voice booms through the theatre as the crowd erupts into applause.

YN moves gracefully, a beaming smile on her face matching that of a host. Her gloved hands wave at the supposed people in front of her as if they were guests at her birthday party. But most importantly, dress. The one she chose herself, arguing over it with her stylist for the last few hours, the one that fitted her perfectly. Capitol enough to appeal to the audience, district enough to highlight that she isn't one of them—she is something new, undiscovered, and worth keeping an eye on. It's almost not a dress at all—the sparkling, sheer fabric of beautiful white, with stars gathering at her chest and bottom to finish the ''almost naked'' look. And the crowd goes crazy for it. People shout, and the splashes of the cameras blinding her create a new melody that is so unfamiliar to YN's ears. Admiration. The thing she craved for so long.

''Alright, alright,'' Lucky Flickerman smiles, gesturing for the crowd to settle down. ''We don't want to scare her off now, do we?'' He turns to her, a microphone in hand. ''What's your name, sweetheart?''

''YN Y/L/N. And I am afraid you can't scare me off, no matter how hard you try. The thing is, I am here to stay,'' she jokes, cocking an eyebrow at the man beside her.

''Oh, how I love your confidence! Now tell me—we heard you are a volunteer—the first in the history of District 1! Are there any special ties to the girl who was supposed to stand here tonight, or what's going on?''

''Well, I was dying to see you in person, of course—no pun intended.''

Oh, there weren't any ties to the girl, or the boy, for that matter. No, YN simply wanted to go at her peak chance of winning—countless years of secret preparation in the factory; working a night shift after school and full days of weekends; hours of studying every plant and animal known to mankind—all to ensure that she wouldn't waste her chance like most kids here did.

''That's an honour coming from your lips; we are happy to see you in the Capitol, Miss Y/L/N. Since you came here by choice, what strategy are you planning on using in the arena? Maybe something tied to your district's craft?''

''If you promise to keep this between us, I'll confess—I will use my charms to make everyone fall in love with me and watch them fight by promising the winner a kiss—and then I will take it from there.'' YN turns to face the lights, staring directly into the camera for a few seconds. The crowd laughs once more, some going so far as to cheer and whistle in excitement. ''But in all honesty, I think I have a fair shot—I would win in a day if it meant the unlimited supply of those amazing cupcakes with sprinkles on top.''

''Well, in that case, you should definitely get a good rest this night—you are not the only one who got your eye on them! Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for the Cupcake Games tomorrow, and don't forget to sponsor this lovely girl right here if you want to see her win! And now, a short word from our sponsors.''

Cupcake jokes are still funny to her, even after two years, although she got sick of them a week after her victory and was just as sick of all the titles papers came up with to fit her into the candy girl box. It served her well, for which she is grateful; the sponsors did send her a shitton of things, although mostly useless.

Next is the introduction of everyone else; YN doesn't care to look at it for more than just a few seconds, speeding it up to maximum. It's boring to no end—how do Capitolees watch it every year with such excitement? She stops to look only when her face appears on the screen, covered in crimson blood.

She counted six canons when she finally stopped to take a breath in and look at her surroundings. That was about right, although YN didn't count how many times she pulled a knife out of somebody's still-warm body and lurched into another nearby. The sand soaked up the blood fast, she noticed, stepping over the pile of what used to be her competitors and walking towards the cone-shaped something. Nobody in sight—each one of the ''better'' kids is now dead without a chance to kill each other, to kill her, and ''others'' will die like flies under the hot sun of what looked like a desert. YN noticed that some even left behind the given jackets; she collected them before stepping into the Cornucopia, claiming them as her own. Not everyone grew up in hot factories, she thought to herself, so they have no chance of knowing how cold it gets at night.

YN doesn't like how the uniform looks on her; the T-shirt hangs around her frame too loosely. It's evident that she didn't eat enough back then, but it was tolerable. The dried blood looked worse; with her stoic face and eye colour, the streams looked too grotesque, almost unserious; it didn't fit the look she was going for. Her hands itch to wipe it before YN remembers that it's non-existent now—the girl on the screen is just a recording. She forwards a little more, looking for the commentary of the first night from the hosts—their excitement and praise never get old—but hears knocking at her door just as she is about to press play. YN glances at the clock—it's too early for the prep team, so it must be someone else—and turns off the TV just to be sure she heard it right.

When the knocking continues, she shouts a quick ''Come in,'' after checking her reflection on the now dark screen. ''Ah, Maggie!''

''How many times do I have to repeat that my name is Mags, not Maggie? Not Mags with fangs either, to be clear. Just Mags.''

''But everyone calls you that! And I want to be special,'' YN whines, laying back on the sofa.

It's Mags. YN likes Mags. Mags is the only girl besides her on the victors' list. Mags is the one who is always down to eat lunch together or to watch the new collection in the magazines. She is funny and down to earth, and, most importantly, Mags doesn't take bullshit from anyone.

''Even more special?'' Mags smiles, opening the fridge to look for something edible. There isn't much; they both know that YN would never eat something to ruin her figure. ''I saw your photoshoot on the street today. It's beautiful.''

''Thank you,'' YN smiles. She doesn't remember which one of her campaigns was supposed to air today, but it doesn't matter. ''Are you here for the promo again?''

The curly-haired woman nods, not looking up from the shelves. ''I hate it. I wish they would just leave me alone, so I can go home and forget about all of this.''

YN is always weirded out by such comments from Victor from 4 but never says anything. Not everyone was born to be in front of the camera; if that were the case, her talent wouldn't be so special anymore. ''It's our job, Maggie. They'll never leave us alone.''

''I know.'' Mags sighed, planting her body on the sofa beside her.

They are different, but YN thinks it's better that way. They are the same age, both 20, and that's about the only thing that ties them together. YN watches as her friend's chest rises and falls as she stares at the ceiling, her long, curly hair in some type of twist. YN would never style it like that, but Mags doesn't ask, so she stares at her in silence, trying her hardest not to compare them. She knows what type of conclusion will sparkle in her brain, but she doesn't want to admit it. Mags is her friend, her only good friend, so something inside YN fights hard to leave her alone. It's an unusual feeling, almost foreign, but YN wants to make an exception. She thinks Maggie deserves it.

''Are you okay?'' the woman asks her, finally snapping out of her trance. ''You are less talkative than usual.''

''Oh, yeah—just a little tired from work, that's it.''

Work. It's not the type of work people can really get tired from, and if anybody thinks otherwise, they never worked a day in District 1. Sometimes, YN can still feel the burning cloud of steam hitting her face when she closes her eyes. The work she does in Capitol is child's play—photoshoots, interviews, promotional campaigns, and runways. She is the only one with this kind of hectic schedule, the only one who is interesting enough for the general public to want to see her everywhere they go. Multiple shows a day wasn't uncommon; photoshoots until five a.m. were basically her usual routine; she did so many of them that she never remembered the brand name for more than an hour.

''Well, I hope I don't interrupt your me-time,'' Mags notes. ''Panem knows you need it. ''

''You worry too much about me. Better tell me about how life is in 4—anything new?''

There is probably nothing exciting, but it feels nice to listen to somebody talk with such love for their home as Mags does. It's also a great opportunity. YN catches every subtle expression and every movement of her friend with attentive eyes, making sure to parrot them later. She noticed from the recording today that her speech misses a certain effortlessness.

-

Curl and twist, curl and twist—YN has learned the pattern by now, sitting in front of the gigantic mirror, surrounded by a team of stylists. Hair, make-up, nails, and toes—five people work hand in hand for her to appear for two minutes on the long podium. The backstage is loud, and a lot is going on—last-minute changes, alterations, and quick touch-ups. YN doesn't bother to look around; she closes today like a face of the collection, and after she is done with this podium, the day is finally coming to an end.

''Oh, YN, darling, here you are!'' The bald man in his forties appears on the horizon of her peripheral vision, clasping his unnaturally white hands together. ''How are you doing, my little star? Anything you need?''

She is irritated to no end; her team booked seven shows for her today; she hadn't had anything to eat in the past six hours; and the loud music makes her head throb. But she doesn't voice any of that—nobody really wants to know how she is feeling.

Just like she guessed, the man doesn't wait for her response. ''There have been some changes in the order today, sweetheart. Jenovia will be closing today, and you will walk in her dress instead,'' the man says, turning to face her styling team. ''Change the hair to fit, and take off the blue in her make-up—it won't match. Good luck!''

''Do what he says,'' YN announces, her mouth twitching just a little. She is furious. To have that blonde bitch Jenovia walk in the best dress of the collection YN inspired? Over her dead body. Or, should she say, over Jenovia's? She will figure it out but do so later. Now there are only four girls before her, so she needs to be ready.

''Three, two, one! Go, go!'' the stage coordinator shouts, opening the curtain for her.

Right and left, hip and hand, followed by the strong clicking of her five-inch heels. The music is even louder here, with the beets vibrating through the runway and pouring into her bloodstream. She doesn't pay any attention to the glass floor underneath her. Surprisingly, her training before games helped her model more than one could guess. YN doesn't see anyone but the blinding lights lining the podium—not that she needs to see the hungry faces of the spectators. It doesn't matter what piece of fabric covers her body; they are looking at who wears it. Final pose at the centre—no smile is her go-to. Hold and turn is the golden rule.

''Here you are!'' One of the seamstresses grabs her hand, pulling her into a small, curtained space with countless clothes on racks. ''Calio wants you to hold a purse for the backstage photo and lose the belt. Where the fuck is the golden belt?'' she shouts, searching for one. ''Wait here; I'll go find it,'' she finally announces, running away before YN has the chance to suggest anything.

YN looks around, carefully moving the laying rags with her foot. She mentally goes over the outfits labelled with names, rating them one by one, until her eyes stop on the white dress. The closing dress, the one she was supposed to model. Underneath it are velvety black high boots.

The idea comes to her mind quickly: she steals a needle from the nearby table and carefully places it inside the shoes, making sure it looks like an accident.

''Finally,'' the woman returns with a belt in her hands, oblivious to YN's half-smile. ''Put it on and go; they are already waiting.''

''Of course, thanks.''

YN isn't sure how much time has passed before she hears a scream, standing up from her place in the corner with a blanket around her exposed shoulders. Surely enough, Jenovia is on the floor, crying crocodile tears—a needle inside her heel deep enough to make a few of the girls around her gag.

''What the fuck happened?'' It's Calio, the boss here; he was ordering her around before.

''I don't know,'' all the blonde girl can manage before bursting into tears one more time.

''Well, can you walk?'' he asks, kneeling to take a look.

''No,'' Jenovia whispers, her hand holding her bloodied foot.

The bald man sighed, more annoyed than concerned. ''We need a replacement. You,'' he points at YN. ''Take it off and change into the dress. Quick!''

YN does what she is told in no time; she doesn't want to wait until Jenovia suddenly gets better or the man finds a better-suited girl to close. After a few minutes, she is almost ready; she only needs the lipstick to finish it off.

''We don't have time!'' the man roars, dragging her to the exit. ''Here!'' He puffs out her hair and adjusts the layers of fake pearls covering her neck. ''Three, two, one! Go, fucking go!''

And go she does. A few steps on the runway, and she discovers that lipstick is still in her hands. YN puts it in the pocket of the enormously large black coat that hides the gorgeous white dress underneath. Step after step, her long black boots draw patterns on the glass. She will have no choice but to buy them; YN doesn't care if it's stupid. They helped her, so she will have them.

It's time for the final pose: YN takes out the lipstick from her pocket and applies it with two swift motions, blowing a kiss to the camera. It will definitely be a hit with the photographers. YN throws one last look before turning around and returning to the curtained exit. On her way back, when the lights lower to follow her back, she can see a little clearer. In the sea of vibrant hair colours and clothes, the platinum-blonde hair and a simple black suit stood out too much not to notice. There is only one person who could afford to look so simple—YN knows it. An opportunity of a lifetime.

She makes another stop in the middle of the podium, right in front of his seat. The coat slides off her shoulders effortlessly, and YN catches it just when the fabric is about to hit the floor. The crowd goes crazy, clapping and whistling at her tricks, but YN has no wish to entertain them any further. YN pauses for a moment, her eyes meeting icy-blue ones, before turning away and finishing the show. There is one thing the world needs to know about her: she didn't become a star overnight. She was born to be one.

-

Since the last show, she has done fifteen more—day after day, opening and closing. Her little trick got her where she wanted to be, with more money than one person could need in a lifetime and nowhere to spend it. Even now, standing in the long hallway of the training centre, she wears nothing she bought herself; all are gifted, sent, or handed by the adoring fans. Like a rag doll, with no say in how she looks or what she does, YN hears everyone say that it was ''a price of fame''. She doesn't think so; she was told what to do long before she tasted real butter on her toast.

The sliding door to her apartment moves almost without noise. While most victors complain that the lock system reminds them of prison, YN is grateful to have it. The thought of some crazy fanatic waiting for her in the dark isn't the most pleasant one. The designer bag finds its place on the floor, soon joined by the coat—room service will clean it up later. The heels slide off her feet quickly, leaving bloodied marks on her skin, but YN doesn't care enough to do something about them.

''Forgive me for joining you without an invitation.''

YN turns around, her hands grabbing the keys in her hands tighter. She mentally goes over her means of escape or fight—a mirror could easily be broken and used as a weapon; if necessary, she could also grab a nearby ottoman. The man in the chair doesn't look too impressed with her thought process. His lips curve into a smile, blue eyes staring at her with undivided attention. A suit, not very different from the one he wore at her show, was a deep brown colour.

''Mister President,'' YN breathes out, lowering her hand.

Coriolanus Snow. Light, almost white hair frames his face like a halo, with his suit hugging his waist just enough to highlight the broad shoulders. YN saw him on TV a couple of times, but seeing him in person was something entirely different. It's like the air shifts around him and changes with his presence.

''I believe we met before,'' he humours her, his eyes shining with mischief.

The light knocking on the door doesn't leave YN any time to answer. She presses a button near it, fixing her hair before opening it. YN tries to look as composed as possible without betraying her nerves—why was he here? ''Yes?''

''The dinner, Ma'am.'' the room service declares, pushing a cart in front of her.

YN nods, even though she didn't order one. ''Leave it here,'' she says, gesturing to the place nearby. When the door closes and she is alone with the man in her room again, her heart skips a beat.

''I took the liberty of ordering; I hope you don't mind.''

Even if she did, she knew better than to say anything. Instead, YN watched as the man stood up and took the dishes from the cart, placing them on the coffee table, before turning to her once more.

''Please, have a seat.''

She does what she is told, sitting down on her king-sized bed—the chair is already taken by him—and waits for the blonde man to start speaking. He doesn't right away, choosing to pour a glass of wine for her and himself.

YN watches the dark liquor pour into the glass, swirling with each drop. She isn't hungry—she rarely was—and the soup he ordered looks more like vomit than a dish, but she still takes the spoon and carefully places it into her mouth. Her lipstick stains the silverware with colour, leaving a small circle right at the end—that's when the man finally decides to speak.

''Dare I say I am a huge fan of your work ethic? Everyone who I've spoken to is very satisfied with your,'' he pauses, searching for the fitting word, ''dedication .''

''Thank you, Mister President,'' YN replies with a polite smile before returning to her soup. She watches him only from the corner of her eye. The way he cuts his steak with his ringed fingers and the way he places a small bite in his mouth before his lips close. There is a subtle roughness in his movements, a power play of some sort.

He catches her gaze and, for a moment, is silent. ''You probably wonder why I am here in the first place, outside of the amazing steak they cook here, of course. The thing is, Miss Y/L/N, that you are popular not only with the general public but with people higher in power as well. One may even say they fell in love with the way you present yourself.''

''I am pleased to know that, Mr. President, but I am only doing my job as a victor.''

''Then you will understand the weight of my dilemma. Those people who have served Panem all their lives faithfully usually don't ask for much recognition; they work because they want to build a better future for all of us. So, when they do ask for a small favour or two, I am more than happy to satisfy them. But recently, all they ask for is you .''

''I believe I don't quite understand. They want to meet me?''

''You can phrase it like that, yes. For a night or two, of course, with all expenses covered.''

It's heavy, the understanding of what Mister President really implies. The thought of someone's hand roaming her body brings her dinner up YN's throat. ''Why?'' Her voice is shakier than she would like, but she is more focused on composing the rising anger than noticing it.

''I am sorry, Miss Y/L/N, but I am afraid there is nothing I can do; I am greatly outnumbered. Unless,'' he starts but doesn't finish his sentence.

''Unless what?''

''Unless you are seen with me.''

His piercing blue eyes look at her, but there is nothing in them. Her chances are limited, and he knows it. There is something rogue in him beneath the veil of chivalry he offers. YN smiles at him. That's what this whole charade was about—he wants her. Coriolanus Snow, the most powerful man in the whole world, wants her.

''Of course, Mr. President. That's very generous of you.''

''Mister President is too official, don't you think, Miss Y/L/N? Perhaps we could find a more informal way of addressing each other?''

''Informal?'' YN asks, tilting her head to the side. If he wants her, he'll get her. ''What about Mister Snow?'' The buttons on her shirt are easy to manage—a few quick motions, and it slides off her shoulders onto the cream cover. ''Or, Sir Coriolanus?'' The pants are a little trickier, but YN learned that backstage, every second counts, so they soon also pool around her heels, the fabric hitting the floor with a slight thud.

The blonde man watches her intently, his eyes following every move of her hands. His legs are still spread wide on the lime-green chair as he slightly leans back. YN can't tell if he is enjoying her antics or not, but frankly, she doesn't care; she is enjoying it.  The way her shadow dances on the wall, the way the air shifts in the huge room, transforming it into a tiny stage. YN looks at him with mischief, with superiority, even. After all, she is the show here. Why not let Mr. Savior think it is for him?

''Come, Mister Snow,'' she says, throwing it in his face like a bone to the dog.

He doesn't have the haste to join her; on the contrary, he stands up painfully slowly. His tall figure almost seems to stretch as he raises, covering the floor lamp behind him fully. When he finally circles the table to stand above her, his presence is overwhelming. YN lets him stand between her legs, his unusually cold hand on her thigh.

''I prefer Coriolanus,'' he whispers in her ear, lowering himself enough to touch her ear with his velvety lips. He pulls away slightly, planting a kiss on her cheek instead. ''Have a most pleasant night, Miss Y/L/N.''

And then he walks away. YN watches as his figure disappears behind the sliding door before she lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Her gaze instinctively finds her reflection in the nearby mirror; there is no reason to shine if no one watches her.

[rin-and-jade]

Is This (Truly) My Reflection..? : A Post on Imposter Syndrome [Master Guide]

" Did well on a test? Must be luck. They think im smart? Man, i must've tricked them because im not. My condition is bad? Well it could be even worser than this. Im struggling? Must be a minor thing, plus everyone struggles worser right..? "

If these words hits close to home, take a moment to look in the mirror. What do you notice? Maybe you fear lots of things, having horrible self-esteem, or being a perfectionist and overthinking everything?

Fear not! They're just blotches obscuring your true reflection, let's finally clean your mirror, shall we? So let's get on with the post;

How did go dusty?

Materialistically speaking, we all know that objects also need regular maintenance to keep it's best quality and lifetime,, mirrors are one of them, especially glasses because magical smudges spawns in once in a while, pretty annoying to see with when things are not clear isn't it?

I think the imposter image also clouds you the same way, it doesn't change the facts, but it does change the way you perceive them.

But, how did they spawn in your vision? It doesn't just pop out, maybe we didn't see it coming when it's small, dust and smears are more visible when they cluster together. What this means is how criticism, out-of-reach demands, and unrealistic expectations you hear most often gets accumulated, slowly obscuring you. Make sense right?

Since the things you hear the most echoes through your chamber harder than the less frequent ones, and that nobody hear's the same thing/words automatically means there are different forms of this syndrome's manifestation, i'll list them down: (bare in mind this is read in a pov of talking to oneself)

Perfectionist - "It all has to be right" You must do it perfect, everything must go smooth, if it doesn't go like how you planned you could've done better in many ways because why can't you see it coming before? That's impossible and unforgivable, there's no toleration for mistakes. Makes you look like you're not as good enough as others.

Expert - "Until then, i may be competent" There's a lot to master or learn, only then you can call yourself worthy of a title. Because the greatest ones must know everything, they don't have any weaknesses--since that's what an expert is! What are you, who learnt most things it has to give, but still missing a lot of little gaps? Once it is all flawless and understood you can call yourself that.

Natural Genius - "I am great, as long i can wing it" Everything must be an easy feat, you must be able to do things right on first try, if not, you might be no other than an average person. Geniuses are fast learning--and they can do everything right where people least expect it. Only then you can truly be smart or intelligent, wrong deductions are associated with less bright people! So if you just make one mistake out of anything, You are just the same as them, you don't have such talent!!

Lone wolf - "It's not real effort if it's intervened" A status or level means nothing if someone helps you, because thats cheating! You should start from scratch like everyone else, asking for help will equate to not being competent or worthy. You will never be able to asses your competence or abilities if it was assisted by someone else, you need to prove being worthy by doing it all yourself!

Hardest Worker - "I should perform as the best" Only if you work the most, the hardest, diligently and with no rest, is only when you can settle down and claim your achievements. What are you if you are not as special? You are nothing but a fraud if you're not the hardest working person ever, you also don't deserve to take a break until you reach to a higher level than others! You are nothing if you are not productive, or didn't achieve any amazing outcome.

Each types has its own fixations and areas where self-doubt comes around, you might even be a mix of these 5 (pick the dominant one if can), the manifestations are endless. Note that the main theme it all has are fear of being fake/inadequate and, or causing extreme doubt, one way or another.

If you need more assurance, i have prepared links for two short quizzes to figure out if you are showing signs of the imposter syndrome! They're already tested by me, so give these two a try.

How should i clean it??

Good question, but before that, i want to mention that this inner critic is a common automatic second voice where it's created in a place of potential abuse or mistreatment for many kinds of victims. Just like how you wipe your stuffs clean can go dirty in a few days despite leaving it be, this is the same. But the more you take care of your glass, the harder the specks will stick on it. That's our goal right there: Make the critics bother you less and more weak the more we deflect them.

Now to the main point, its a tough one here, because depending on what type you have, has it's own root of cause that needs to be tackled accordingly. This post is how to specifically tackle the sense of fraud in being a system, but you can apply this to any other general things the syndrome is causing you problems at.

--

Dear Perfectionist, here's how you can clean your mirror:

Understand that CDDs have no 'right' way of how it'll present the symptoms to you. Like, for someone to have a cold who have a sore throat for the early onset, while you're having runny nose,, does not mean you are the odd one out for not being the same as other's manifestation.

Nothing is constant, or the same, in frequency or intensity. You don't have to suffer 24/7 to finally accept you have a CDD or anything else. Just like for those with chronic pain, who doesn't experience pain for a day, does not mean they are cured of, or not having it. One minute of feeling okay still can happen to those with illnesses.

Perfectionism seeks outward assurance to fit whatever it finds 'right' or it's prime example as reference, which is the opposite of what you truly need: Acceptance. Comparison can be helpful, but oftentimes it causes counterproductive results. Your experiences are already real and it uniquely belongs to you, no amount of external validation will fill you, accept as how you are.

--

Dear Expert, here's how you can clean your mirror:

Having CDD means having a very covert disorder, it is not that you're a fraud for not knowing, or have proof of what caused you to be one, or know every parts and places in the innerworld, or need a perfect book filled with documentation on anything you can find. You do not need to 'master' or understand how your disorder truly works in order to feel like you have it--because guess what, you do have despite it, buddy.

You cannot rush things! Take things slow and steady, a microwaved meal may not taste good but it sure gets served in a mere minute, but gourmet are made from long and tedious work that trusts the process instead of the final result. Many systems rush to develop a better communication without fully learning what type of communication they have, like communicating with vibes instead of the stereotypical type for example.

Nobody ever figure things out by a 100%, so ease back and embrace uncertainty and the unknown. If the greatest researchers still can't make sense of how our galaxy works, then you should not be guilty or feel incompetent for not being able to figure it out, we are not perfect ofcourse, there are limitations to what we can know of our CDD.

--

Dear Natural Genius, here's how you can clean your mirror:

Having a disorder does not mean you immediately know what it does, will do, or how it'll turn out. Never feel bad about learning from scratch, you also don't have to get things right first try because it might be a new topic you're unfamiliar with. If you once think you have DID, but turns out to be Polyfragmented the longer you learn and research, it is a very natural thing to experience as CDD's have many similarities between each other.

You can't keep relying on being unprepared, but expect to do it perfect. It is not a negative thing to always recap, or learn it again, and whenever you do get things wrong, it is a valuable information to learn from, it's not your enemy. The lightbulb isn't invented at first try, but after hundreds and thousands of tries, and the worth still never gets devalued.

--

Dear Lone Wolf, here's how you can clean your mirror:

It is never cheating to ask for help, or get insight from another person. It never means you are not competent if you need some external help, rather like how you cannot see crumbs in your face until someone points it out. One can do an okay amount of progress, but if with many, it can progress even better and faster.

You must dismantle whatever makes you think of this way, things like hyper-independence are caused by a deeper root, you must delve and explore why are you only deemed worth, or feel okay, if you do everything yourself. We grow better when we surround ourselves with many other things.

--

Dear Hardest Worker, here's how you can clean your mirror:

healing is a journey, i understand that you want to get over with the whole CDD's symptoms and it's problems and start getting into final fusion/functional system, that the fluctuation with everyday's progress may frustrate you, but everyday doesn't have to be succeeding something or have an eureka, progress is never linear. You will still get there one day, don't fret on it too much okay?

Worries may not leave you alone fully, and just so you know, your worth or validation isn't tied with productivity. Whatever guilt or doubt you have that is causing this, i hope you can incorporate more self-compassion. For the alter with role jobs, you all deserve to have a break and have fun outside of those jobs, and rely with other parts for help. You're doing enough.

Why does it happen? Where's the takeaway?

Well, imposter syndrome relies on many biases/distortions and possible fallacies, i'll tell you some in hopes of helping you get out of its grip better than your previous attempts after learning the awful trick of theirs:

Confirmation bias: When you take a part of a fact to confirm your current image of you have, whilst downplaying contradicting and or disregarding other pov to maintain it.

Mental filter: Fixated on the negative aspects or flaws while missing out on the bigger picture or contextual information it has. Leading to false judgement of one's situation/ability.

Overgeneralization: Where a person assumes an experience from one event will apply to another different event. Or base an answer from a limited evidence or current failures. For example, interpreting a single mistake or setback as evidence that they are incompetent or unworthy, despite having a track record of success in other areas.

False consensus bias: Believing that others share the same negative opinions or doubts about oneself, even when there is little evidence to support this assumption. For example, one may believe that everyone in their workplace or academic environment is highly competent and confident, leading them to feel even more out of place and undeserving.

Fundamental attribution error: Where one underemphasize situational and environmental factors for the behavior of itself/someone else while overemphasizing dispositional or personality factors. For example, people who cut lines in traffic is a jerk, but if you cut traffic it's because there's something important. The pure opposite can be true in this specific example: Sarah receives praise from her supervisor for completing a project ahead of schedule and with excellent quality. However, instead of attributing her success to hard work, skills, and knowledge, she discounts the positive feedback by attributing the outcome to external factors. Saying "I just got lucky this time," or "My team members helped me a lot, so it wasn't all my effort." instead.

--

So there a hecking ton of information i put here.. But these things are very important to learn about, because the imposter syndrome is a multifaceted problem that has to be addressed in more than one angle.

I hope, everything that is written from start to end, can be used as your chemical cleaner, wiping cloth, along with your handy guide on how to take care of your mirror professionally,

Happy cleaning everyone!

- j

[coyzie]

~~Spoilers for tma & tmagp~~

This is a follow up from my last post, which you can find here. You don’t need to have read it, but it’ll help explain some of the stuff I’ll talk about in this theory.

Basically, in my last post I presented the theory that “The Protocol” is fire, and that fire has been used to destroy major supernatural threats for centuries. Stepping away from that for a minute, let’s look back at tma.

After the original series ended, some fans noticed something interesting about the podcast’s logo.

What most people assumed to be broken glass in the background is in fact a web, a spiderweb, a spiderweb made from cassette tapes. The ending to tma was literally right there the whole time! But other than it being a sneaky design choice, why am I bringing this up? And what does it have to do with my fire theory? Well, let’s now look at the logo for The Magnus Protocol.

Here we can see the O.I.A.R logo on a computer screen, most likely one of the computers in the office. There appears to be sparks scattered across the image, and if you look closely you can also see faint dark smudges across it too. So, what does this mean? Well, we know things are started to heat up at the OIAR with Sam investigating the Magnus Institute, Alice having supernatural encounters, Gwen meeting with externals, and whatever the hell is going on with Celia. It’s safe to say that it’s all going to go horribly wrong and something very bad will happen at the office. For example, maybe an external will attack the OIAR as hinted by Lena in ep 16. It is my belief that Starkwell will have to step in to stop whatever horrible things unfold at the office by initiating The Protocol. Meaning, those aren’t sparks in the tmagp logo, they’re embers! And the dark smudges are smoke from the fire. The series will end with the OIAR dramatically burning down, possibly killing some characters in the process (we all know how Jonny loves to kill off characters.)

Or maybe Colin just snaps and sets the computers on fire idk, let me know what you think.

[wallieclock]

Third times the charm

-

Look guys! Can you BELIEVE Juanaflippa came back and they're all finally happy ? (ver. without frame+background in read more)(also me talking about my designs abit because i am 💥💥💥💥autistic)

-You may be wondering why Mariana isn't in his one-punch cosplay? It is because I drew it and hated it. I'll draw him in it one day

-The missing gloves are because i forgot

-You may also be wondering why I gave Flippa a halo but no horns. It is because her face already felt cluttered to me, But still wanted an indication that this was post-second death

-They all have little jewelry that clicks together because they are familia (Mariana's necklace is the biggest piece, than Charlies bracelet than Flippas)

-Charlie gets square eyes because he is. Slime

-^^^ I see charlie as like a full slime that can change shape REALLY well. When he gets stressed/isn't around people for a while he gets.... smudgy(During his murder arc he looked human and had human colors but they were all smudged like if you took a wet canvas and poured water on it) (during exile he was pretty much all green and didn't keep shape very well)

-Mariana's heart pin says '#1 bitch wife' the other one is just sunglasses emoji. I genuinely dont know why.

-Charlie's glasses and communicator are broken because he is :D

-Mariana's scars are from setting himself on fire

-Not many notes on Flippa. She's perfect (a bit horribly traumatized but whatevs)

-First time drawing them both so I would change some things (make charlie more slimy, give mariana a scarf or smthing to replicate his cape)

These guys have. A hold on me.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Handfuls of Laurel

Sigh Not So | Secrets Hid Away | Shed Tears Aplenty | Fire Down Below | Rolling Down | Won’t You Go My Way? | The Seas No More | The Nightingale’s Song | Bones in the Ocean | For She Was Afraid | Time for Us to Leave Her | To Unchain Me | A Good Time Coming | I Long to Hear You | The Low Road | Handfuls of Laurel |

For @whumptober no. 31, emptiness

CW: Implied noncon, creepy whumper, nonhuman whumpee, captivity

-

The sun shone warm through the foggy glass windows of Areyto’s beautiful prison, but with his captor’s hand between his shoulder blades, heavy as stone, he couldn’t look up to see it.

Instead, he felt the cool, solid tile against his forehead and the palms of his hands where they were pressed flat by his shoulders, elbows bent. His knees were pushing into the tile hard enough that he knew he’d have bruises later, but bruised knees were more or less a constant in his life, and he barely noticed them by now.

Instead of thinking about his captor’s damp touch and the way he whispered vile praise, Areyto thought about the sweet-green smell of the ferns, flowers, and fruit trees around him, and the way the water in his pool lapped gently against the sides, just a few inches from his fingers.

An ache throbbed within him and he thought distantly of the rotten fruit that fell from the little trees kept in pots in here, how he was also marked and smudged with the browns, yellows, and purples - but no one ever came to whisk him into a basket and toss him out to feed the pigs.

Would that feel like freedom, being tossed in the trough?

Would it feel like anything at all?

The magic that trapped him so completely within his own skin was fading, becoming less powerful day by day as no one reinforced it, but it wasn’t weak enough yet for him to disobey his captor’s demands and direct orders.

Soon, but… not yet.

Not ever, now that the new magician was here.

He’d gotten lucky with what happened to the last one.

He shifted, just barely, moving his painted-over hand to one side, inch by inch, in time with his captor’s hip. He shivered with repulsion when he felt sweat drop from his captor’s forehead onto his back. When his fingertips just barely touched the saltwater that his captor was merciful enough to allow him, he exhaled. A gift, his captor said, that could be revoked any time he wished.

So Areyto stayed still, and told himself to be grateful that his captor had been too hurried this morning to care if his prisoner enjoyed his attentions or not, that Areyto was at least allowed to feel nothing this time.

He was allowed to feel disgusted, and for once not with himself.

There was a groan, pressure beyond any other inside him, and then his captor raked fingernails over his ribs on either side, pulling little more than a distant hiss from between the siren’s gritted teeth. Then he was gone, and where Areyto had been too full, he now felt horribly empty, scraped out and with nothing left of him.

His captor ran a slow hand down from his neck to the small of his back, humming happily at the sight, and then stood and tied the sash of his robe. He was humming a little tune to himself, jaunty and carefree.

“Playing dead fish today, are we?” He asked, good humored and satisfied.

Areyto would have torn him limb from limb if he could, but even his fury was subdued, now, banked embers instead of blazing fire. He kept his eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the water at the ends of his fingers, until he heard the rustling as his captor walked away.

“Well,” His captor continued, voice getting quieter as he moved away, “It hardly matters. You will clean yourself and then dress in the clothes I left by the door. Wait for my return.”

Areyto didn’t even bother to look up. He just turned his head to the side and lowered his hips. The tile felt so good. Very little did, any longer. His eyes traveled idly and he watched his captor run fingers down the scratches he’d carved into the inside of the doors, the way the man’s mouth twisted with irritation.

Some nights, as long as his captor was asleep, he found himself able to try - briefly - to escape. Some nights the magic that wrapped him so tightly loosened enough to allow him the first halting steps towards a freedom that he could barely remember ever having had.

Then the net would snap tight again.

“Yes, master,” Areyto murmured. He blinked, slowly. His mind felt like it was mired in mud. “Why?”

“You have no need to know why I give you commands,” His captor snapped. “You only need to obey them. You have half an hour. Then Babbage will come in here and fix your ridiculous hair, you will make him forget you as soon as he is done, and you will come to breakfast with myself and the new magician.” He left before Areyto was forced to whisper his obedience, which was a sort of relief.

If he only had a little more time alone...

But the new magician was here, and Areyto had ruined any chance of bringing her over to his side, getting her to free him.

He’d gotten too scared and too desperate and felt some semblance of hope. He'd been impulsive. He’d tried to sing her into helping him, but the spell had been broken before it had fully wrapped around her, and now... He’d lost what had felt like his last chance. She was someone new who he hadn’t been commanded yet to turn into another enemy, someone who had - however briefly - looked at him like a person and not a thing to be used.

She had touched him so gently, and he could still feel her fingertips along his jaw.

He had made a terrible mistake.

The last magician had been a cruel man who hadn’t sedated him. He’d taken the chance when the pain from the magic had risen to a higher crescendo than what came from disobeying commands. Even that had been a mistake, he'd been half-conscious and mad with the agony the spell wrought as it resettled. The magician had been torn limb from limb before he knew what he had done. This mistake was worse, because he should have known better. Now she’d think of him what all humans thought of him, some sort of evil mindless animal, and she would do as his captor asked. With her would vanish his small slim hope that something - anything - might get better, that he even might dream one day to be free, to go home.

When she had told him not to sing to her, he hadn’t listened.

Stop trying to force me, and I will help you.

She couldn’t have meant it, he had been sure it had been a trick, nothing more. He’d kept pushing, knowing that he couldn’t trust a human to mean a word they said, but… if she had been honest… well he’d ruined that, hadn’t he?

One hundred and fifty years, and he couldn't wait a few days more to grasp at what help he might have found.

And this morning, his voice once again refused to craft a single note without permission. His captor had whispered silence into his very bones while he took him. He felt the slime of his captor’s touch, too. At least he could fix that problem-

Areyto simply rolled into the water.

Saltwater stung along his ribs and in the torn places, but he ignored it, drifting down until he hit the bottom, laying there on his back and seeing nothing above him but a foggy hint of light broken by water.

He felt like a canyon deep beneath the ocean, a place so dark not even the anglerfish lights could show, inhabited only by the absence of life. He had died a long time ago, but his body had never been allowed to follow his mind.

He would have to dress, in a moment, and wear the hated human clothes that itched and felt strange on skin meant to stay bare. He would have to sit while the idiot butler cut off all his hair, and say yes, master over and over again, stare down at the plate while his captor ate and drank and was merry and bright.

He would have to hope his performance of empty humanity was enough to earn him a few fish tossed into the water once his captor was done.

He would have to do all of that, over and over again, in a monotonous emptiness that would never end until he was finally allowed to die.

But not yet.

For now, he could stay here in the water, and who could tell the difference between saltwater and tears?

-

Taglist: @grizzlie70 @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings @there-will-always-be-blood @latenightcupsofcoffee

[yellowkitkieran]

To Have and to Heal (Part 11)

Masterlist

Read part 1 here

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: Single working dad Martin Odegaard is navigating the ups and downs of parenthood all on his own, and he’s struggling. That’s not to mention football, life and... love?

TW: Descriptions of death, car crash and loss

Chicken parmesan is a staple in Martin's diet. With his homemade tomato sauce and a bit of fresh mozzarella, it's healthy enough to be a regular weeknight meal for him without having to classify it as a cheat meal. He's memorized his favorite recipe and always keeps the ingredients stocked in his fridge, which he's grateful for now.  It’s easy to make as well, meaning he can operate more or less on autopilot without needing to focus too much on what he was doing.

Kieran picked up Atla from school, for which Martin was eternally grateful. From the moment Arteta dismissed them from training, Martin had exactly two hours until you would arrive at his doorstep, and he wanted to have everything plated and ready to go when you got there. He should've had more time, but Mikel insisted on rerunning one particular drill multiple times until it was perfect. Martin had thought it flawless the first three times but apparently not; it had cost him an extra half hour to appease the gaffer. 

Now Martin flies around his kitchen, breading the butterflied chicken breast with practiced skill while his tomatoes sit uncut on the counter. He tackles those once the meat is in the oven, slicing and chopping until he's happy with the size. Into a simmering pot they go, combined with tomato paste and a blend of spices that he eyeballs rather than properly measures. In his mind, food turns out better when it's seasoned from the heart and not with a measuring spoon. 

Once Martin has a moment to breathe, he sets about tackling the scattered art supplies and clean laundry piled around the house. Between his recent shoddy mood and the overtime he's put in at training lately, he has had little time to keep up with Atla's clutter. Normally Martin wouldn't touch it. He likes his house to feel lived in, preferring a manageable amount of disarray to a clinically clean home. Tonight is a different story. He wants to impress you; everything needs to be perfect.

Martin is still fixing his stray hairs in the hallway mirror when the doorbell rings. He spots a smudge in the glass as he swears under his breath- not perfect, but as perfect as it’s going to get. 

"Hi."

"Hello." Martin can't take his eyes off you. He loves it when you dress comfortably like this, in well-loved sneakers, a pair of jeans and a red top that matches the bottle of wine in your hand. Martin gestures to it, "you didn't need to bring anything. I've not had that brand before, where's it from?"

"Oh um," you fidget on your feet, tucking the bottle in the crook of your arm and tugging the sleeves of your top over your hands. "It's from Norway? It's from some place that has a huge greenhouse, the person at the store was really excited about it. I'll be honest, I heard 'Norway' and was already sold on buying it."

God, you're adorable. Martin could kiss you, if it weren't for the fact that you're probably still cross with him. And that you deserve more than a rushed peck right now. And also, the fact that you're standing outside his house waiting to be invited in. 

"Oh, please come in. Sorry, I forgot my manners there." Martin steps aside to allow you in. He politely ignores the way your eyes widen as you take in his house, allowing you to judge him as you please. He's never had an eye for decorating and he fears that much is apparent. Suddenly Martin is all too aware that the curtains in the dining room clash horribly with the pattern on the seats at the table. He sighs internally at the dried paint pallet he forgot to grab off the coffee table by the sofa and the pair of tiny pink socks peeking out from under it. 

"Don't mind the mess," Martin says off hand as he takes the wine and pours two glasses. "I didn't have time to properly clean up. We got held late at training and of course I picked a dish that takes way too long to prepare, so I didn't have time for too much else."

Your slender fingers brush Martin's when you accept the glass he holds out. The sparks that sing up his arm nearly knock him off his feet. In that moment, Martin will do anything to have you forgive him. If you grant him the opportunity of a second chance, he won't squander it; he'll do everything in his power to treat you with the respect you deserve. Because that smile on your lips right now? Martin's craved like an addict, and now that he's seen it again he never wants to see any other expression from you. 

"Thank you, Mar. I don't mind the mess, really. I'm too busy trying to figure out what smells so delicious to look anywhere but your spotless kitchen- is it italian?"

Martin is so grateful that you've fallen into a normal conversation that he nearly forgets to reply. "Oh- it's just chicken parmesan, one of my favorites. I hope that's alright? I can make something else if not, or I could maybe order takeout quick… I'm sorry, I didn't even think to ask if you'd like it-" Martin cuts himself off, cheeks flaring. He's acutely aware of how his fingers itch to fidget with something. He keeps his hands tucked into his pockets, playing with a stray coin that somehow made it through the wash without falling out.

"It's alright," you laugh and Martin's anxiety ebbs with the sound. "Chicken parm sounds great, it smells amazing too." You reach out and touch the side of Martin's forearm, the contact as soft as butterfly feet on his skin but it's enough to have him sighing. "Thank you for cooking. I really appreciate it."

"It's not a problem, I needed to do something to show you how sorry I am. I was out of line-" Martin stops when you shake your head, that blissfully forgiving smile on your face. 

"Let's just have dinner first, okay? Then after, we can talk. Does that sound alright to you?"

Martin swears you're perfect. He's done denying it; he's enjoying this too much to pretend he doesn't feel pulled to you like waves to a shoreline. Martin would like to take you there actually- the beach. He'd love to see you building sandcastles with Atla, then splashing in the water when the blazing sun gets too warm. Maybe he could suggest it as a date this summer-

When you wave a hand in front of Martin's face, he realizes you've been speaking without him hearing a single word. At this point, you're causing enough distraction that Martin should be terrified… except he's not.

"I'm sorry I'm out of it- come sit and I'll get everything served up." Hearing his mum's content praise in his head, Martin pulls out a chair for you and pushes it in once you've sat down. Then he plates up a healthy portion of buttery green beans onto a plate for you, alongside a piece of chicken that, honestly, makes his mouth water. He hopes it's as good as it usually is. 

"Here you are," Martin murmurs, one hand braced on the back of your chair as he sets the meal in front of you. He takes a seat across from you, settling in and placing his napkin over his lap. He feels like somewhat of an imposter, pretending to be fancy when he feels anything but, though the shine in your eyes as you wait for him to speak makes his breath hitch. 

"Um, bon appétit? I hope you like it." Martin waits until your attention is on your food to carefully cut into his own meal. Yes, his hands are shaking; no he's never been this nervous over a dinner. Not even when he met with the big wigs at Arsenal to discuss a move from Madrid. 

Martin nearly chokes when you moan after the first bite. "God this is amazing Martin, I didn't expect you to be such a great cook!" Martin finally takes a bite himself, delighted when the perfectly melted cheese and crispy breading hits his tongue. Normally he isn’t one to brag, but this may be some of his best work to date. 

With his nerves eased, Martin falls into comfortable conversation for the remainder of the meal. You ask for seconds, so he delivers. You're happily surprised when he brings out a cheesecake for dessert- and he's rewarded with your beautiful laugh when he tells you how he had to fend off little fingers from snagging a bite this morning. 

Once your fork is down, however, Martin knows it's time for the serious bits. He's dreaded this all day, creating a script in his head of exactly what he wants to say. He's not ready, but he's as prepared as he'll ever be. 

"So," Martin starts, "first off I have to thank you for giving me a second chance. And for trusting me to make up to you for my actions last week."

Martin hates himself for the way your eyes fall to the ivy patterns on the tablecloth. He hates that he can see the fear that brims in you now at the reminder of how angry he'd been. All he wants to do is set it right. 

"I trust you because I know it was a one time thing, right?"

"Yes- yes absolutely," Martin murmurs quickly. "And I promised you that I'd explain- can I show you something actually?"

"Oh- yes, sure, you can." Martin stretches a hand out, heart pounding as you hold him on edge. It takes a few seconds for you to decide but eventually your soft palm slides against his, your fingers curling to wrap around his own. It's right. It's home. It's perfect. Martin can't hold back his smile, so he lets it unfurl as he leads you upstairs, going slow so you can take your time looking at the photos scattered on the wall. 

"All of these are just you and Atla," you note absently, turning to Martin like you expected more. You probably did, considering his closeness with the rest of the team. Martin's nod sends a lock of hair tumbling free to fall across his forehead and he doesn't bother fixing it. 

"That's a recent change," he explains in a voice full of gravel. "So is this room here. It was Maria's studio." Martin points to the white door at the end of the hall, the one he spent far too long avoiding. 

"Your wife," you murmur softly, squeezing Martin's hand when he nods, throat too tight to speak. "You've never told me her name before." 

"I uh, I don't talk about her too much. It still hurts, you know?" Martin's smile feels forced, but he's grateful for the steady support your hand provides him. "Come on, come with me." 

You don't speak as you let Martin lead you to the only closed door in his house. The brass knob is cold, but he was expecting that. He pushes it open, a million memories rushing in with the first step he takes. The wooden planks creak softly beneath his feet as he leads you to the center of the room, getting lost for a minute. 

Over the past week, Martin has channeled his extra energy into transforming this room from one filled with ghosts to a place where his daughter's creativity can run wild. Where towering stacks of cardboard boxes used to sit near the window, now sits a wooden toddler-sized easel. The half painted canvases that were haphazardly piled where he's standing now are neatly stacked on an art rack, waiting for Atla to complete them someday. And on the wall that the room shares with his own bedroom is the collection of paintings he loves most: Norwegian fields, family portraits, and the last painting his late wife ever created. 

"Oh, Martin, these are beautiful." You keep a respectful distance, admiring the artwork from afar. "Did Maria paint all these? They're wonderful… I see where Atla's talent stems from."

"This one is my favorite," Martin murmurs, pointing to the portrait of a smiling baby girl perched in his lap. "It's the last one Maria ever finished. It's the only one I have of Atla and I together."

Martin draws a deep breath, chest rattling with the effort of holding back tears. "I've not talked about this with anyone except the grief counselor- so please just bear with me."

The fingers of your free hand curl around Martin's bicep to provide five pinpricks of safety. Your touch, the pressure of your fingers on his tense muscles, grounding him, keeping him present, as if saying I'm here, I'm listening and I'll let you speak. A silent promise to stay by his side. I'm not going anywhere. Your closeness, the smell of your rosy shampoo mixed with generic laundry detergent, the quiet unsteady breaths, heavy with anticipation, the floor creaking under your weight as you shift from one leg to the other, most likely a byproduct of nerves. 

You, your proximity, feels like a single match in the otherwise pitch black darkness, the same darkness that always clouds the man's mind, serving as a guiding light, always promising to bring him back home. Home to Arsenal. Home to you. Home to safety, home to Atla. 

And somehow, in this otherwise dreadful moment- Martin has never been more grateful for you. 

"The reason I hate storms is because that's what killed her. Not directly, but it was the storm of the century that night, or at least that's what I was told afterward. She was coming home from her art lessons at the senior home across town… I told her to cancel, but Maria was always the woman who would never cancel a commitment once she made it. I loved that about her."

Martin has never spoken about loving Maria in past tense until tonight. 

"The uh… the stoplight down the street got knocked down with the winds. There was a ton of construction a little ways away, I guess they were just finishing up for the night. A- faen what is it… the big things with all the wheels- a truck? A truck- filled with sand or dirt or whatever it was had just left, headed towards the main road to get out and get home." 

Martin pauses. The night replays in his brain the same way it has thousands of times. It's haunted him, trying to imagine exactly what happened that night, his mind drawing a dozen different scenarios each more gruesome than the last.

Martin knows he couldn't have saved her, but he wishes he could've eased her pain. Been a loving face for her to see in her final moments.

"The truck driver didn't see her. And since there was no signal, he didn't think to look… He- he blew right through it. He slammed right into her car as she was going through. Not his fault- how would he have known? He was just trying to get home to his own family."

"Mar…"

Martin is aware of your arms wrapped around his middle, though he doesn't remember it happening. He can't take his eyes off that painting of him smiling down at Atla, happy as can be. His vision tilts and shifts as tears well in his eyes. Martin is dimly aware of the paths they streak on his cheeks. 

"There was pieces everywhere. Shattered glass like that stuff at parades- confetti? And broken plastic… blood, so much blood. The driver was crying- all I remember was this… numbness? I was cold, and wet- Kieran was there I think, or he was at the house with Atla… its all blurry."

"The doctors said it was almost instant, that she didn't feel much at all. I just hope that's true, I hope she didn't realize what was happening. That painting, the one I love so much? It was untouched in the crash- the car was mangled but that painting was perfect, not even a drop of rain on it when I pulled it out. Maria made it that night, from a photo reference she'd brought with her."

Your sniffle is what tears Martin out of his head. He wraps his arms firmly around your shoulders, holding you to him while you muffle your sobs in his chest. "That's why I hate storms, and that's why I freaked out. I know it's not an excuse for how I acted, but maybe it'll help you understand why I reacted how I did. And I'm working through it, I promise- I made an appointment with a woman who specializes in helping people overcome their fears, I'm seeing her later this month. I'm gonna work on it, because I want you to know I'm serious about this."

The only noise is Martin's breathing and your soft crying. He's not sure how long he stands there cradling you, but he'll do it for however long you need. Like he wishes someone had done for him years ago.

"Serious about what," you ask minutes later, pulling back just enough to wipe your eyes. Martin wants nothing more in that moment than to kiss away the tears on your cheeks, to erase the heartache you feel on his behalf. 

"About you, us, this relationship." Martin cradles your jaw in his hands, holding you with the softness one would use with a delicate flower. “No one has seen this room yet, not even Atla. I wanted it to be a surprise for her. But before I did that, I just… I needed to show you. So you would understand. I’m still healing- but I’m trying to heal quicker so I can be someone you can lean on.”

“Martin… Hey, look at me.” When Martin does as you ask, everything crashes over him at once. The crushing, soul splitting despair he felt on the night of the accident, the spark of affection that ignited a flame in his chest the first time he heard you laugh, the relief of finally sharing his story with someone. 

But finally, in the deepest part of him, he lets go. Martin allows the love he held for Maria to loosen it’s deathgrip on his heart and allows you to creep in. It’s worrisome, how easily you sneak in and nestle yourself into him, but he doesn’t care. He meant what he said; Martin is willing to try for you. He wants this to work.

“Thank you for trusting me with this.” Your thumbs rubbing along Martin’s jaw ground him. “I don’t want you to rush through recovery for my benefit. I hate seeing you struggle, of course I do, but I’ll wait as long as it takes, alright? Don’t feel like you need to put yourself on a timeline for me. I’ll wait, Mar, okay? Just keep trusting me.”

And Martin believes every word. He trusts you to be patient. You'll be at his side on the good days and the bad ones, when the residuals of his grief threaten to pull him under. It won't be an easy road, or a short one. Recovery will be barred by landslides and long stretches of obstacles. 

You are the light at the end of his tunnel. You are the goal he will work towards- you and Atla. Being a better man for the women in his life, both past and present. 

[assortedvillainvault]

Hi! I'd like to make a request, please. It's a Disney Hades x Fem! reader; She's a introvert, quite quiet and all – also shy with affection in general as she's not used to it. But is sometimes quite sassy; likings to make horrible jokes ( it could be in an early stage of the romantic relationship; Or her shying at first, opening up more as the relationship progresses; Or friends to Lovers. Do what your heart desires! Would like to record my love for your writingis; it's captivating!

I do like me a shy self insert every now and again - lets face it, not many of us would exactly be confident in this scenario.

Forgive me if I switch it up a little, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers stops for absolsutely no-one, not even Death. I'm aiming for your tear ducts as I punch this out.

Disney Hades x Shy!Dead!Female!Reader

So. You're dead.

You thought it would come with more fanfare, but you slipped from life into the styx with naught but a swoop of vertigo and the feeling of swimming in a mass of cold slimy sardines.

When the current nudged you toward the shore you didn't think twice, you clawed your way straight out of there and sat, shivering, on the shores of the Underworld. The blue brazier light reflecting off the wet walls and broiling river was oldly peaceful, casting your translucent soul in a gentle, if dispassionate, light.

Until Hades was slam dunked into the styx himself and the Underworld entrance thunderously sealed by an emormous bolt of lighting.

You weren't stupid enough to hang around an angry god and ran to hide immediately.

After several days? Weeks? Hard to tell with no sunlight - you found a routine.

The few souls and monsters being used as guards were easy to avoid. You mastered moving silently as a ghost pretty much instantly, years of self imposed distance and quiet sneaking making the transition easier than you expected. With nothing else to do, you began to explore.

Caverns larger than Athens, strings of glow worms, the gentle trickle of water, rooms of every crystal imaginable, the roar of distant waterfalls as the rivers looped around the realm of the dead, it was all breathtaking.

...it was all quiet. All lonely.

It was all the domain of one trapped, angry, depressed as all fuck son of Cronus who seemed to be making it his eternal life's mission to find you and sling you back into the river.

Close escape after close escape, relying more on his crazed muttering and random slings of fire to slip away as he gritted his teeth and all but screamed in near frustration.

This was a job for imps and contracted souls, but Hades was the picture definition of stir-crazy and frankly losing his marbles.

He hated this place. He hated the dark, he hated the souls, he hated hated hated hated-

You find him later sat on the shores of Acheron, heat making the air swim around him even as his flame remained stubbornly blue. He was staring blindly at the cavern ceiling, and something thick and golden dripped from his fingers.

A tiny gasp escapes as you realise he's burned so hot in his latest tantrum that the sand around him had been blasted to glass. Drops and smudges of ichor -godblood- were scattered around him.

He wasn't moving to fix it.

One ear had twitched. He knew you were there.

"The fuck you want?" you frowned as the flat syllables hit the still air. "'Cos if it's out, we're both fresh out of luck."

You shuffled. "...bit of conversation might be nice, I guess." You mumbled.

Hades said nothing for a while.

You met up in another cavern sometime weeks? later. This one was made of amethyst, and you hid behind a pillar while he idly flicked crystals from their towers and yammered bitterly. You said single words here and there, letting him vent.

And again, behind the curtains of Acheron's waterfalls.

And again in the plains of Asphodel.

And again, and again, and again...

It's nearly a year since you died and you're listening to the Lord of the Dead skim stones into a bottomless pool and snort out bad puns like there's no tomorrow. You're cracking back jokes just as bad from your hiding place behind a boulder.

The stone skimming stopped. "...Heh. Y'know, this is nice." His cloak rustled as he sat himself down again. "Honestly for a figment of my imagination you're not so bad. Least I'm going mad with a laugh."

...what?

"Oh yeah nah, I know you can't be real babe, I mean lets face it - no soul has ever endured my company when they had the option not to, and I've never gotten a good look at you, only heard you - and trust me I know what sleep deprivation does to me, oy you should have heard the shit I was hallucinating once when I pulled two months of no sleep..." he waved a hand and you felt your heart break a little bit without knowing quite why. "...so, yeah, thanks I guess, cute little voice, for keeping me company. You're probably the nicest mental breakdown I've ever had."

You're still as a stone in your little hidey hole. You step out from your hiding place. Stride to the shore, sit gently next to a god three times your size and very deliberatly do not look at him.

He's finding the wall of immense interest himself.

"...You're welcome, Hades."

It's a short beat before he exhales shakily. "Yeah, I...yeah."

He's a God of the Dead, he knows exactly what he's feeling when wisps of your soul drift against his arm. But for the minute he can't, won't process that.

You're ok with being his little hallucination, for now.

[discountdemonwarehouse]

Kinktober 2024 - Prompt 20 - (Modified) Salirophilia

Summary:

Terzo and Vinnie take pleasure in disheveling each other.

AO3 Link

Read below the cut

I am doing a twist on darcyphilia, choosing salirophilia instead.

Darcyphilia is eliciting erotic pleasure or arousal from making someone cry or seeing or hearing someone cry.

Salirophilia involves deriving erotic pleasure from ruining or disheveling the object of one's desire. It may involve tearing or damaging their clothing, covering them in mud or filth, or messing their hair or makeup. It does not involve harming or injuring the subject, only their appearance.

---

        The whole day had been full of things running behind and rushing. Terzo’s appointments and meetings had all run over and into each other, and Vinnie’s tasks for the day had not gone well either. They had rushed to get ready for a dinner event; Vinnie getting very frustrated when one of her stockings wouldn’t stay up, and Terzo being frazzled to the point he forgot to set his face paints. They’d made it to the event moments after they were supposed to arrive to be ready to greet guests. Sister Imperator had given them a dirty look, waving them into their places. Through the event things had continued to be problematic. Vinnie’s transferproof lipstick was definitely coming off on her drink glasses, she’d gotten a run in her stocking when it sagged and caught on a chair. Terzo had quietly teased her about enjoying the disheveled appearance and she’d glared at him, telling him this wasn’t the time or place for that to be happening. She also pointed out his face paints were starting to smudge around the edges, the moment he’d realized he hadn’t set his paints.

        They left as early as they allowably could. Copia teased them about wanting to go fuck, and they’d both glared at him in irritation. Walking in silence, they made their way back to the papal suite. Vinnie was ahead of Terzo on the stairs when she felt his fingers on the back of her leg, followed by a quiet ripping noise. “What the– Terzo!” she hissed, realizing he’d stuck a finger into the run in her stocking and ripped it further. “The impulsive thoughts won.” He answered plainly, fingers stroking her leg. She sighed, knowing the stockings were already ruined anyways. His fingers caressed her leg, sliding over the edge of the stocking to her bare thigh. “We should keep walking. Maybe if we make it to the apartment, the day will stop sucking.” “Mm. Agreed.” Terzo walked with her up the rest of the steps, hand on her hip.

        Reaching the Papal Wing, Terzo swung her gently against the wall, kissing her. Vinnie made a small noise of protest, the door to comfort being so close. “Shhh, just be affectionate and spontaneous with me for a moment.” He murmured against her lips. “Then we can go get comfortable.” “Fine,” she mumbled back, sliding her arms around him to kiss him again. “I know, it’s such a chore,” he teased before pressing his lips to hers. Her hands slid into his hair, mussing it as they kissed. She lightly massaged one of the spots on his scalp she knew helped him relax, and he growled into the kiss appreciatively. He pulled back slowly and his eyes opened to meet hers, before scanning her face. A satisfied smirk spread across his face. “What?” Vinnie asked with a small head tilt. “Your lipstick has failed horribly, amore . And my paints are not staying on my face either.” She frowned. “So I look like a clown?” “Not quite,” he chuckled.

        Vinnie looked at him, and smirked as well. “You look like a vampire mime.” “A mime?! How dare you!” He gasped. He drew himself to his full height. “I am Papa Emeritus Terzo of the Satanic Ministry, not some lowly mime!” Vinnie snorted as she tried to suppress the giggle. Terzo grabbed her, nuzzling into her neck with the intention of smearing his paints on her. “I’ll show you a vampire mime,” he huffed against her neck. She gasped quietly as he bit lightly at her skin, hands grabbing her ass firmly. One hand slid down to her ruined stocking, gripping the lace top and pulling to partially separate it from the rest of the stocking. He moved his mouth down her neck to her collarbone, leaving gray and black smudges of paint in his wake. “Are you just smearing paint on me now?” “ Sì . I’ve decided I want you ruined and disheveled tonight.” “Oh, you have, have you?” “Mhm, it will make the fuckery of the whole day worthwhile,” he promised, still kissing her.

        His hands were gripping her ass again, pulling her close to him so she could feel his cock stirring. “I love seeing you looking desperate, marked, and needy for me,” he whispered. “Is that what this is?” she laughed. “It could be,” his fingers teased the hem of her dress before grabbing her intact stocking and pulling it until it ripped. “Terzo,” she laughed again, “Not in the hallway.” “Fine,” he growled. “We’ll go into the apartment.” She was almost surprised he didn’t throw her over his shoulder, as he led her to their door and into the apartment. Vinnie squeaked in surprise as he pushed her up against the door, his hands sliding the straps of her dress down her arms before grabbing the front and pulling down. His eyes blazed as her breasts came into his view and he leaned down to nuzzle and kiss at them, doing his best to leave paint on them. Vinnie moaned softly as he started nipping at her flesh, his hands pushing the hem of her dress up now. “Do not rip these panties!” She snarled, pushing his hands down. “I actually like them and they fit perfectly.” He harrumped but left them in place.

        Vinnie tugged at his shirt to pull it free of his slacks. “Don’t rip my buttons – I’ve pissed off the wardrobe people a few too many times with that.” “You don’t know how to fucking sew on your own buttons?!” “Er… That would require me to find the buttons…” he admitted sheepishly. “Terzo!” She giggled a little. “Quiet, minx! Let’s go.” He pulled her along to the bedroom, his free hand working his buttons as they went. Soon they were on the bed; Vinnie’s panties discarded on the floor, her other clothes still as in place as they had been before, and Terzo’s shirt was open, his pants pulled down enough to free his cock. Vinnie’s attentions had transferred her lipstick and some of Terzo’s paints to his body as she’d kissed him, trying to dishevel him as much as he had her.

        He rolled her under him, trailing kisses down her body until he was between her thighs. Terzo nuzzled his cheeks against her thighs, rubbing more of his paints off on her. “Now, time to make your thigh clamp around my head to see just how much paint I can get on you,” he murmured, nipping at her skin. “Is there even any left at this point?” “There’s more than you think on my face. It can take a few layers to get them to not be streaky.” “You need better paints.” “Probably,” he said nonchalantly before licking teasingly at her folds. Soon Vinnie’s hand was grabbing at his head, tugging his hair as he worked skillfully on her. Her head tossed back and forth when he stroked her g-spot, causing her hair to fall out of the simple styling she’d had it in for the evening. She panted, groaning, hips lifting and legs tightening around his head. When he finally rose up to position himself at her entrance, his face was nearly bare with a number of gray smudgy patches. Vinnie’s upper body was a mix of black, gray, and red, with smears of gray on her thighs above the ripped stockings. “I love you like this,” he murmured to her. “You always love me,” she smirked. “ È vero ,” he murmured. “I love all your forms, even the creepy animals I’m not fond of.” “Hey, I haven’t learned to be a wolf yet, but I’m work–” Terzo growled, kissing her to silence her and thrusting into her so the only sound she’d make was a moan.

        Later they paid close attention to each other in the shower, scrubbing the grease paint from their bodies. “Do you think we got any on the sheets?” she asked suddenly. “I fucking hope not because I don’t have the energy to deal with that.” “Me either.” “We’ll sleep on the fucking couch if we need to change the sheets,” he promised vehemently. “We could go to the flat in Edinburgh,” she offered as an alternative. Terzo paused in his scrubbing. “I could go for a bacon butty… Or some chips. Or both. Who plans the food at the events these days? For a place that’s supposed to be celebrating sins, gluttony seems to have fallen off the table - pardon the pun.” “Maybe someone thinks the Papas need to eat healthier in their advanced ages,” she teased. The stained washcloth smacked her in the thigh as he scowled at her, and she laughed. “So, to Edi then?” Terzo’s stomach growled, and he nodded. “Definitely.” “You missed a spot,” Vinnie informed him as he turned to rinse off. “I’ll get it.” “How the fuck did paint get on my ass?!” He asked as she scrubbed his left buttcheek. “Thank fuck we’re going to Edi.”

[adaisybyanyothername]

Daisy Johnson

A therapist (that doesn't later have an alter-ego that kills people)

Pie (they never got to eat it in S5 :-(

Don't Blame Me by Taylor Swift

Your On Your Own, Kid by Taylor Swift or Uh Oh by Chloe😂

Yes!

l'd say besties, but we both have a habit of parentifying/sibling-fying people so... probably siblings cause found family needs😅😭🥹

Pop-Tarts

Anything healthy & vegetable forward

Mulan (it would strangely make her think of May… I guess they have similar voices 👀😉)

Star Wars (it’s canon ;-) … and also Disney owned😂

Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. … I think she’d relate🤣 jk MasterChef or New Girl

I do own some of the “as worn on TV” stuff so that obviously😂, otherwise I’d like to introduce Daisy to the boyfriend tee with leggings that have pockets

An old vintage band that she knows nothing about (maybe it’s Deke Squad and she didn’t even notice it in the Multiverse)

Disney World but I think she’d like Disney Land more once past the hype of living out childhood dreams

I’d love for her to take a ballet class with Nat & Yelena, and we already know she’s great at boxing & parkour obvi … also dare I say soccer vibes?

Mario-Kart

lol I swear I didn’t see the next question Good, she’d know all about the combos, drifting, secret passageways (maybe even have a few of her own hack/mods), etc.

Grief & Love, Resilience “You’ve always been capable of more than you imagined.” Sarcastic/witty coping mechanisms for self-defense & deflection…

Super-Powers & Daniel Sousa😂 or computer skills

Any — she’s never had that so every single one of them would mean a lot to her. I think birthdays especially like making a (horrible but filled with love) cake for Jemma, or actually celebrating her birthday now that she knows when it is.

Harry Potter, Hunger Games (I think these are both canon), Percy Jackson for sure (esp. with the latter 2 known), & Throne of Glass (my own opinion slipping in here lol)

Any cute mom & pop old-school diners, nothing that resembles Kitson😅, anything with plenty of junk food or take-out🙃. In & Out would be a must-have!

No; first off I never would, second off no I could not, third off if I wanted any chance it would have to be emotional and that would hurt me just as much😭

Yes… I’m pretty sure she has already in canon too🤣 + I would only assist whatever crazy plan, without question. I’m up for any “bad girl shenanigans”

Extremely well! HC: they have massive battles for funsies sometimes or at least a few occurred on base or the good ole’ bus days.

I mean we already know there was an Iron Man incident😂 and of course she’d look up to Black Widow & love her old’ buddy Daredevil.

“Phlebotinum!” — Cheating it’s canon lol… I bet she picks up a few of Sousa’s cause she finds them so funny it becomes a running joke like “a trout in the milk” or some extra hip ones like “yaas Queen”

My photo wall in my room (there’s barely any wall left visible at this point)

10 … but my guilt complex & general exhaustion would dial it down to a safe 7.6🤣

We could go to the salon & she could do my hair (cause I used to base my hair off of the new seasons looks cause she’s just always so on point 💅💁‍♀️👏 ) and I could show her a better eyeshadow technique then the smudged goth grunge😂 (nothing against it though🫶)

Very random character ask game

If you could give this character one gift what would it be?

If you could cook/bake something for this character what would it be?

A song you associate with this character

A song you would like to introduce this character to

Would you get along with this character in real life?

Would you have more of a besties or siblings relationship with this character?

A food you think that they would like

A food you think that they would hate

What do you think their favorite Disney princess would be?

Which would would they like more, Star Trek or Star Wars?

Name a TV show that you think this character would like

Name one article of clothing that you own, that you think this character would wear?

Name a graphic t-shirt design that they would wear

Name a theme park that they would like to visit

What sport do you think that they would like?

What video game do you think they would they like?

Would this character be good or bad at Mario Kart?

Name one trait that you share with this character

Name one trait that WISH you shared with this character

What random family tradition do you think that this character would enjoy?

What book do you think this character would like?

What restaurant do you think this character would like to eat at?

If you were to land a hit on this character do you think that you would do any damage?

Do you think that you could successfully pull off a crime with this character?

How do you think this character would do in a Nerf gun fight?

Name a superhero that you think this character would like

Name a weird saying that you think this character would use

Name a something about yourself that you think that this character would find cool

On a scale from 1 to 10 how much chaos could you and this character get up to while alone?

Free space

Feel free to mix and match characters and fandoms and to reblog!!

[dragonprincess18]

We Must Be Over The Rainbow

You would think being reborn and chucked into a different universe would be a lot more fun than this.

“Ugh!”

The taste of rotten meat and putrid fruit and rancid trash stuck in my throat, going down like it was crawling against my gag reflex, how could anything taste so bad?!

Coughing once that bite of disgusting mush cleared my airway for sweet, sweet oxygen, I threw the rest of that damn fruit away from me before it could try to kill me again, eyes watering reflexively with tears.

How did I go from getting run over by an asshole driver to swallowing that?

Was this some sort of divine punishment for a horrible crime I don't remember committing?

“Oi!”

My vision was blurry and indistinct, like my glasses had fallen off, but I immediately saw a splotch of red getting closer with that irritated voice that sounded strangely familiar.

But it seemed too…

Off?

“Quit being a crybaby! It wasn't that bad!”

Wasn't that-?!

“Yes, it was!” I shot back, too angry in the moment to realize my voice also sounded off, younger and higher than I'd gotten used to over the years after puberty.

“You don't hear me complaining!”

All I could see were slowly-defining blobs of color, a bright red and a pale skin tone and a gray lump that was surreptitiously kicked away by a dark leg, and pointed accusing.

“But you won't take another bite!”

“I'm just not hungry!”

“Liar!”

The cramp of hunger in my own stomach certainly said so, and I rubbed the tears away furiously.

“Quit being a crybaby!”

“Jerk!”

Vision clearing in a way that was disorienting, I glared up at the scrawny, dirt-smudged redhead and found amber eyes glaring back from a face I only recognized in abstracts.

Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.

Because I was looking into the face of a Eustass Kid that was decidedly young and decidedly female, and why did that feel normal?

Kid scoffed, kicking an empty can and mumbling under her breath, clearly not any more even-tempered than I remembered the male version being in the original anime, and this was a hell of an acid trip.

Maybe this was my dying brain trying to inject some levity in my last moments?

Synapses firing and getting muddled by medications from paramedics?

A startled yelp snapped my attention back to the present, and a little snort got caught in my nose at the sight of Kid flailing as she tried to shake off metal bits of trash, cursing colorfully.

“Shit, what the fuck-?”

Then reality hit me like a sledgehammer.

We both just ate Devil’s Fruits, and I had no idea what mine was.

“Fuck.”

“Hey, you’re too little to swear!”

“Then so are you!”

“Am not! I’m bigger than you!”

“A bigger idiot!”

“You little-!”

I immediately flailed backward, trying to dodge her grubby hands, and…

Well, I'm not really sure what I did.

I just felt everything stretch and squeeze and shift around and landed on the ground much smaller and fluffier than I had been a few seconds ago, and Kid was freaking out.

“What the fuck-Tori! What did you do?!”

Shoving myself up, I stared down at tiny, brown-furred paws, felt long ears twitch and looked back at a fluffy, cream-tipped tail, and realized Kid being a girl was not the only change in this topsy-turvy universe.

Shit.

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

“I can’t believe you two.”

Let me tell you, even a pre-puberty female Killer had a hell of a Disappointed Mom Voice.

It felt like deja vu, in a weird way, as if memories of this body were in watercolor bubbles that popped into my mind at random moments, the sort that had me calling Kid ‘gremlin’ like it was a well-used needling nickname and also had me sheepishly apologetic under Killer’s exasperation, even if I couldn’t see her expression through heavy blonde bangs and the faded blue handkerchief tied over the lower part of her face.

“How do you find two Devil’s Fruits and then just eat them without knowing what they do?”

And, on a reflex I already knew well from having an older brother, I threw Kid under the passing bus known as Accountability.

“Kid did it first!”

“Oi!”

Killer just let out this long-suffering sigh, like she was already too old for our bullshit at less than ten years old, but I was too busy ducking away from Kid’s lunge and the following flying soup cans to pay much attention.

“Get back here, you little shit!”

“Killer, Kid swore!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Shit’s not a swear!”

“Is too!”

“Smartass!”

“Killer, she did it again!”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Killer dropped her head in defeat as Kid screeched and lunged to get her hands around my throat before I ducked between her legs and ran.

“You two are hopeless…”

[wooyoungbf]

me vs panicking over my glasses not being on my desk before realizing tht i have them on

[weird-rottmnt-headcanons]

Headcanons That Bounce Around In My Brain Like The DVD Logo

Raph

-Taught himself Japanese after the Shredder arc. Is actually really good and is more fluent than Donnie. Loves to brag about this to Donnie. In Japanese.

-Loves to sew. Even though he has big, meaty hands he's surprising good at it.

-He has a very rigid sleep schedule. He goes to bed at 8:30pm and wakes up at 4:30am. His brothers tend to find this kind of annoying.

-He is the most animal-like of his brothers. He growls a lot, though most of the time he doesn't notice it. It's just a fun quirk of his.

-Can bench 345. Is super proud of this and will rant to you about lifting if you ask.

Leo

-He has a skincare routine that he refuses to ever break or tell people about. He wants to be the prettiest brother.

-He's far-sighted but 100% refuses to wear contacts or glasses.

-A HUGE Queen stan. He has posters, a lot of vinyls, and even dressed up as Freddie for one Halloween. His favorite song is probably Killer Queen.

-Has an amazing memory but plays dumb half the time. He'll pretend not to remember your name, but will absolutely remind you of the dumb thing you said 6 years ago.

-His favorite video game is Slime Rancher. But, if you ask him he'll say it's actually Portal 2. This is a lie. It is not Portal 2. He has never played Portal 2.

Donnie

-That is a KPOP stan if I have ever seen one. He runs a secret stan account on Twitter. Only Leo knows of this. He also teaches himself the dances in his free time.

-Randomly screams out of nowhere. It is a stim and his family understands. Do they think it's weird? Yes. But, they let him do it because it makes him happy.

-Watched Crash Box as a kid. While it scared the rest of his brothers, he was obsessed. (He did skip the Revolting Slob segments.) His fav segment was Phsyco Math.

-Chronic Picky-Eater right here. For most of his life he never even touched spaghetti.

-Actually is the only one of his family who doesn't get really bad seasonal allergies. He says it's cause he's simply better than everyone but really he just takes Vitamin C gummies.

Mikey

-Gives himself sharpie tattoos in their bathroom. Once gave himself an entire sleeve that sadly smudged when he was forced to go out in the rain.

-Had a horrible Warrior Cats phase (along with Raph but his was not as bad.) He has a warriorsona named Rainbow Paw. He was 8 when he made it.

-His favorite movie is Finding Nemo. He once made Raph sew him a Nemo costume for Halloween.

-Watches Drag Race religiously with April. His favorite queen was Crystal Methyd.

-Steals Donnie's contacts when he's mad at him. (ok I can admit this is based on what my brother does)