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enwoso · 5 months ago

Note

not sure what your plans or chronologically for the grumpy universe

but could you write something where tiny is a teenager and she’s going through a rebellious phase. out late, parties, that sort of vibe

TEENAGE TERRORS — alessia russo x teen!reader

buckle up she’s a long one! i didn’t really know how i was going to end this so the ending is a little iffy but ENJOY!

lil psa, not wanting to disappoint anyone but this is probably one of the only ones i’ll write with lovie as a teen just as its a little bit more difficult to get the dynamics right. i’m sorry, i still love you all🤍

grumpy masterlist

you were now sixteen, however you were still your mums little girl.

your mum had since retired from football and had moved into working still within the football scene: part time football pundit for the international matches but still giving back to the local clubs making sure that girls sports was supported in a way they should be.

since you were now able to look after yourself, your mum was rarely around during the week. always being out the house sometimes before you even woke up having to be somewhere for a meeting.

but it worked out well as you would be at school, and then after that she would pick you up from school and drive you to football training and sit and watch you flourish in a sport that had quite literally been your entire life.

you still lived in london, but you had moved slightly further from central london from the first home you lived in when you moved to london all those moons ago. still going to all of arsenal's home games at the emirates both men's and women's.

hoping one day that would be you, you on the field playing for your club.

your mum still very much good friends with her teammates she used to play with, most coming around on a weekend to visit when they had the time. but most importantly, ella was around at every chance she could.

you could have sworn at one point she had moved in for a little bit while her boyfriend had been away on a work trip, alessia sometimes wondering when ella was around if she had one child or two.

alessia had a lot of trust in you, she didn't think she had to worry about you being lead down the wrong path.

you were naturally quite clever, your grades in school were very good, your teachers would never really have a bad word to say about you, maybe the fact you were a little chatty in the wrong moments, and you had a good group of friends which alessia had met and there impression to her was good.

but you also had a strong head on your shoulders. you weren't the type to let others tell you what to do.

but with that you were a teenager and your mum should've maybe been a little more tentative in what you did with your spare time.

it was easy to slip things past your mum as for one she wasn't exactly the hardest to convince — something you more often than you would like to admit used to your full advantage.

which is why when you started coming home late, being out every weekend at someone else's house for party's your mum didn't exactly pick up on anything. your mum just thought you were having fun, she trusted you that you knew what was sensible and what wasn't.

but maybe the trust each time you were late home, or came home smelling of alcohol was being stretched further and further like a rubber band to the point where it could break at any point.

which is what lead to the weekend, you were off to another party.

"mum! i'm going out now, i'll see you later" you called out from the hallway as you touched up your hair in the large floor mirror that hung in the hallway.

your mum sat in the living room watching a series on the large tv that took up a large part of the wall, a small glass of white wine in her hand as a small way for the blonde to unwind after a busy week.

"wait, lovie. c'mere!" your mum called out quickly at the sound of the door keys being rattled around. you huffing slightly at you checked the time on your phone before poking your head into the living room.

your mum turning so that she could see you a sad look adorning on your mothers face, "you never said you were going out? i thought you were staying in, we were gonna do a movie night remember?"

you eyebrows knitted together with confusion, ok you may have forgotten to tell your mum your weekend plans but you couldn't just cancel your plans with your friends now, it was too late.

"i- uh. i did i told you in the car on the way back from training on wednesday!" you lied, you were now getting a little impatient as your mum hummed, she still not really remembering if you had or not a lot having happened since wednesday night.

"we can have our movie night another time, i really need to go now. i'll be back later mum" you spoke fast and your mum could sense the urgency that you had to leave.

"right, what time will you be back?" your mum asked, as you thought for a moment not wanting to say to early but also not too late that your mum would complain.

"about eleven maybe" you shrugged, the maybe coming out a little quieter, more of a whisper.

"ok lovie, but no drinking please you have an important match tomorrow, have fun but be-"

"-sensible i know mum! bye i love you" were the last words spoken to your mum as you dashed out the room and the front door before alessia even had a chance to blink.

you managed to make it to the party just on time, it happened to only be a few blocks from your house but you as always you underestimate the time it's going to take for you to get ready.

you got to the party, there being a lot more people than you expected. it taking you a little while longer to locate your friends over the booming noise of the music and the amoung of people inside the house.

but luckily you were able to find your friends, your four friends englufing you in a tight squeeze as they fiilled you in with what you had missed since arriving late.

you loved your friends, you would do anything for them and they had been there since pretty much the beginning and the five of you were pretty much inseparble.

there was emilia who was definetly the most outspoken out the four of you, you not too far second in that race, she would say anything and everything on her mind. but like every teenage girl she had two sides to her lovely and like butter wouldnt melt on the outside but deep inside her she was a total bitch.

there was olivia, she was emilia's ride or die, the two of them knowing each other since preschool and one thing about olivia is she would do anything for emilia even if meant she or others would get hurt in the process.

then there was isabella or bella as everyone called her, she was the newest addition to the friend group havign just transfered schools, but she was too nice for her own good meaning she was a little naive to her surroundings and some peoples meaning.

and finally your best friend poppy, the girl you trusted with your entire life - quite literally. the two of you had been joined to the hip since your first day at school, clicking instantly. you considered the girl as a sister. alessia always thinking you and poppy reminded her a lot of her and ella when they were younger.

once you had caught up with your friends the night went on you were just enjoying socialising, you always up for meeting new people although it was a little hard in a dimly lit room and blaring music over the top.

"what you drinking tonight then russo?" emilia asked you with a dopey smile, a red solo cup in her hand as she slouched next to you on the couch. you were most definitely the only one there that was still sober.

"just sprite" you shrugged, holding you cup up as emilia let out a little laugh.

"why you being boring russo, just have a drink let your hair down" emilia giggled as she began to sway slightly from side to side with the music but she definitely wasn't in time with the beat like she thought she was.

you shook your head, "i can't, i have a match in the morning and i promised my mum-"

"oh why are you so bothered about all that stupid football jazz. your never gonna make it pro, you would have already! just face it your never gonna be the big name your mum was!" emilia slurred so casually, the words just rolling off her tongue like she was just repeating words she had rehearsed for days.

emilia was off squealing at some boy as she dragged him to dance with her all before you could even process what she'd said. your body just slumping into its self.

"you okay?" a voice said over the beat of the loud music which felt even louder now, your ears ringing. you looked up, your eyes slightly watered as you nodded. it was just poppy.

"yep” you popped your lip looking at the floor before turning to look at your best friend, “can you get me a drink?" you looked up hopeful, as poppy looked at you with knitted eyebrows, confusion filled her face. you didn’t drink.

"what? another sprite?" she asked as you quickly shook your head, "no, something else, vodka? anything. just make it strong?"

"are you sure your okay?" poppy asked again, it was unusual for you to drink never mind ask for a strong drink. your best friend beginning to be slightly worried about the sudden change in your behaviour as you sighed frustratedly.

"yes! just get me the fucking drink poppy!" you snapped as poppy quickly left her red solo cup next to you, mumbling she would be a few minutes.

and to your luck, she was back a few minutes later a red solo cup in her hand, handing it to you. a clear liquid in the cup as you peered into the cup.

"it's straight vod-"

you didn't bother listening to what poppy had to say, instead chugging the vodka. the feeling of the burning down your throat, the same feeling hitting your stomach as when emilia said those words to you.

but right now you wanted to forget that, forget everything, you wanted your mind to be clear, just like the colour of the liquid your just downed.

you felt your head begin to get lighter with each drink you had, before you were starting to not even be able to walk straight never mind put a sentence together.

the night just flushing into a blur, as for the first time you felt free. like nothing mattered. nobody knew your name or used you for your last name. you were just y/n.

lovie🩷 -> hey alessia, it's poppy, y/n's in quite a state and she was about to start walking home by herself but i don't think that's a good idea so my mum is going to drop her home when she picks me up.

mumma🤍 -> hi poppy, is she okay? did something happen?

lovie🩷 -> she's conscious but i don't think she knows what's going on, she had quite a few drinks. i'm not sure what happened one minute she was smiling the next she had a face like thunder.

mumma🤍 -> not to worry poppy, i'll talk to her in the morning. thank you for looking out for her.

"lovie?" alessia looked in shock horror at the state you were in, slightly embarrassed as she looked up thanking poppy as well as flashing a thankful smile towards her mum who was behind the driving wheel and had so kindly brought you home.

“sorry she’s in such a state, i did try and get her to slow down after the first one but she just ignored me” poppy apologised with a wince as alessia nodded with a sigh, your stubborn side which you definitely didn’t get from the blonde.

“it’s okay, i’m not angry. just a little disappointed but thank you for looking out for y/n, your a good friend to her — even when sometimes she may not deserve it” alessia slightly laughed at the little bit knowing poppy had put up with you since your first day of school and knowing you can be difficult at time especially with the strong head on your shoulder.

alessia said her goodbyes to poppy again waving to her mum as she drove down the street, turning to you with a sigh as you leant against your mum and the doorframe.

“c’mon then lovie” alessia began to move you away from the doorway as you held a dopey smile on your face. rambling out some words that alessia was convinced were not english.

"hey, only my mum calls me that-" you slurred out quietly as your eyes began to shut. a big sigh coming from alessia as she called out to ella who was in the living room.

"woah- where has she been?" ella winced as she took in your form as you were slumped up against your mum, alessia shrugging.

"i need to get her to eat something, and a bottle of water" alessia told ella as she nodded in agreement helping alessia get you into the living room at least.

you were carried to the living room by both your mum and ella, the two placing you down as you sighed contently at the feeling of the soft lounge. your body drifting in and out of sleep as each minute passed.

“i’m just gonna make her a sandwich” alessia whispered as ella nodded, staying sat beside you. “yeah i’ll stay here”

a small giggle came from you out of nowhere as you head drooped to one side of the head rest on the couch, “you sound just like my auntie ella, she has a proper thick manchester accent”

ella just sat and listened as you continued your slurred ramble, a smile creeping in her face as you spoke about ella and your mum. clearly not being with it enough to know that’s currently who you’re in a room with.

“she’s pretty cool, she was an awesome footballer too. just like my mum” a sad lopsided smile crept on your face as tears slightly built in your eyes. an eyebrow rising at your words from the brunette sat beside you as she hummed.

“my mum was an amazing footballer, my dream is always to be even half the player she is-“ a sniffle came from you as if you were about to start crying, ella patting your shoulder.

“i’m sure you’ll carry on her legacy” ella smiled at you, but as you were squinting to see if you could recognise who your were talking to but you couldn’t really make out the facial features. it all just being blurs of colours.

a yelp came from you as you screwed your eyes shut, startling ella a little as she looked at you with panic in her eyes, “oh my god, my mum gonna be so annoyed at me” you covered your face with your hands.

at this point alessia was coming back into the room, a bottle of ice cold water and your favourite type of sandwich made in her hand. the blonde about to open her mouth to say something but ella waved at her not to say anything to allow you the chance to carry on your drunken confession.

“but, the drinks just looked too good and it helped i forgot about what she said” you mumbled as you carried on talking with your hands over your face. ella and alessia looking at each other with blank faces trying to figure out what you were saying.

“i felt free like i was floating on fluffy clouds- oh is this sandwich for me?” you spotted the food on the plate on the coffee table out the corner of you eye.

“yeah eat it lovie, and there’s some water there too” alessia pointed as you hummed tucking into the sandwich still not aware of your surroundings and the fact you were in your living room at home.

alessia tapping ella on the shoulder and letting the brunette know that she was gonna get your bed ready and get you some pjs out so you could change. ella just waved the blonde off letting her do her thing of what she needed to do.

after around an hour later and the two finally got you to bed, after a few little mishaps like you tripping up the stairs and you falling asleep with your toothbrush in your mouth as you brushed your teeth in the bathroom.

but finally the two had gotten you into bed and safely asleep, alessia’s head spinning. why had you gone out and got basically black out drunk, the night before an important match. there had to be a reason. this wasn’t like you.

"oh god" alessia let out a shaky breath as she lent over the kitchen counter her head in her hands. mum guilt washing over her.

"she'll be fine less, she's a teenager. this is what they do. we were once like that too-" ella tried to help comfort her best friend with a light hearted joke towards their past of them being teenagers. it not being too dissimilar.

"yeah but tooney, this isn't the first time this has happened." alessia sighed looking up at the brunette who was stood in the dimly lit kitchen.

"this is becoming every weekend and i thought maybe when she came back late smelling of alcohol the first time, it would be the last but it's happened nearly every single time since" alessia explained as tooney's face turned into a small frown, she didn't realise that wasn't the first time.

"i thought i could trust her, ella" alessia whispered, ella knew the blonde was being serious that's the only time alessia would call her best friend by her proper name. a worried look was etched across the blondes face.

"you can less, tiny is a smart kid" ella nodded pulling the blonde into a side hug as alessia whispered, "i hope your right."

the next morning had rolled around and you woke up with the biggest head ache and no recollection of the events that happened last night, the last thing you remember was your conversation with poppy.

anything else after that, you had no idea. hell you didn't even know how you got home or when-

not even realising you were home until your eyes scanned around the dimly lit room, noticing the framed photos you had from football. some with your teammates, your family, and some with some of the lionesses past and present you'd met.

a tight knot building in your stomach as you looked at it a little longer, the words lingering in your head of what your friend had said to you.

huffing you didn't want to look at the photos any longer, you pushed your covers off you and walking your way down the stairs. the bright light of the sun shining through the windows hurting your eyes as you made you way into the kitchen not even realising your mum was stood waiting for her coffee machine to finish.

"morning- why are you not ready? we have to leave in fifteen minutes?" your mum asked as you turned grabbed a glass from the shelf filling it with ice cold water.

you ignored the question your mum was sending your way instead reaching out for the cupboard in which you knew your mum kept the medicine — rummaging through the box until you found something that would help sootheyour seething headache.

"lovie? i'm asking you a question" you mum pushed but still was talking in a soft voice. you shrugged, "don't wanna go" you mumbled as you took the time to take the medicine before placing your glass in the sink.

your mum was taken back by your response, you never missed football. not matches. not training. hell you'd even beg your mum to let you play even if your leg was hanging off. football is everything to you — or so she thought.

"why?"

"not feeling too well-" you began but were cut off by your mum, "the one thing i asked you not to do was drink and you knew you had this match this morning which you know is important-"

alessia started her rant but you just sighed and walked out the room heading towards your room. your mum realising you weren't in the room any longer, following your tracks towards your room. "y/n, i'm not finished talking-"

"yeah well i am, just leave me be mum! i don't want to go to the stupid football match okay, i quit!" you snapped as you yelled from your bedroom door slamming it shut. alessia stopping in her track, your words hitting her right in the chest, as the slam of the door echoed in the hallway.

stupid football? that wasn't the lovie alessia knew.

the lovie, alessia knew was football crazy and since she could walk had a ball at her feet.

the lovie alessia knew would spend hours in the garden trying to perfect a skill even if it was pouring of rain.

the lovie alessia knew would have to be practically dragged of the pitch and away from the football after training otherwise you would spent all night there.

the lovie alessia knew, loved football and wanted to play for her club and country.

alessia didn't understand what had happened, yeah your behaviour at the minute hadn't exactly been perfect and the blonde would be lying if she said she wasn't loosing a little bit trust in you with each time you came home late.

your actions speaking louder that maybe what you were doing in your spare time wasn’t as innocent as you tried to perceive it as. your show last night was the real eye opener for alessia.

she slumped down on the stairs as she let out a breathe. she didn't know what to do or even say.

the blonde was brought out of her thoughts at the sound of knocks echoing through the hallway. alessia pushed her self up from her seat on the stairs making her way to the door and pulling it open.

"ay we ready! where's our superstar?" ella called out as she walked in not catching the gloomy look on her best friends face at the side of the door as leah walked in behind her just as excited as the two began to recite your chant.

the two were dressed head to two in the colours you wore, ella minus the arsenal jersey. but leah was decked to the nines in gunner merch.

ella and leah made it to nearly every one of your matches, ella of course didn't make it to as many as she lived in manchester but any matches you had close to there or any time ella was in london she made sure to be at your matches with alessia.

leah on the other hand would be lucky if she missed one match a season, she always made sure to be there. leah had a close connection with the academy it being one she spent the first years of her footballing years too.

"oh- what's happened?" ella smile dropping as she looked at the sad look on alessia's face, leahs head turning around as her smile too dropped. the vibe going completely flat.

"it's lovie, she's quit football-" alessia said quitely, so quiet it almost came out as a whisper, as she walked past the two going to sit on the couch in the living room, ella and leah following alessia like lost puppy's as they came to terms which what the blonde had just said.

"what do you mean she's quit?" leah asked sitting down and taking the arsenal scarf from around her neck, it being quite warm in the room. alessia just shrugged she didnt know what the cause of you sudden outburst was, but what she did know is that something had caused it or rather someone.

ella coming and sitting next to the alessia as a sigh came from her, "she can't just quit- tiny is the future of football.."

"well she came down, i asked why she wasn't ready and she said she wasn't feeling well and then i followed her cause she walked away while i was still talking and then bascially yelled in my face that football is stupid" alessia sighed putting her head in her hands, ella running a soothing hand up and down the blonde's back.

"stupid football, that does not sound like tiny at all" leah was in disbelief, the girl she was hearing about was not the tiny that they knew and loved.

"tell me about it"

"have you tried asking her about it" ella suggested, it seeming like a silly thing to ask as she thought that alessia would ahve probably done that first but it was always worth a suggestion.

a shake of the head came from alessia, "no thought i'd give her a chance to cool off first"

"good thinking less, but it's worth a try even though she may not say anything. try and see if you can get something out of her" leah gave a sad smile to alessia who nodded taking the much needed advice on board.

the three sat a little more trying to get to the bottom of why you were acting a little weird and why you suddenly after bascially dedicating your entire life to football wanted to quit.

"but you know tiny too, more than we do, thats she capable of changing her mind more times than the weather" ella jokes as both leah and alessia let out a small chuckle. she wasnt wrong, you were known to be very indecisive.

"well we'll be off, let us know what happens and if you need anything" leah slaps her hands off her knees standing up, ella nodding and agreeing with leahs words.

"i will, i'll keep you both updated" alessia gave a half smile as she held the front door open, for the two to leave as they left still dressed in their football attire. leaving a little less excited then when they arrived.

alessia waving the two goodbye as leah drove away, the blonde shutting her door as she lingered in the hallway glancing up the stairway. planning her next movements.

make you some lunch as you hadn't eaten yet and the blonde knew better than to try and talk to you empty handed.

"just me.." your mum whispered as she lightly knocked on your door, "i brought your favourite- cheese toastie" as she put the plate on your bedside table not a mutter of a word from you as your mum walked through your room.

you just lay still in your bed, blankets wrapped around you as you held your little esme the elephant. yes the same one you'd had since you were little, it all worn with there being a little tear in the ear.

your mum sighed as she sat at the end of your bed, "how you feeling now?" she cooed as you still remained in the same place staring at the wall, the only thing to be heard was your light breathing.

alessia felt as though she'd hit a brick wall. her brain trying to think of things that may get you to talk to her but ultimitately she knew it would be a long shot. you and your stubborness. something you defiently didn't get from the blonde.

"you can't ignore me forever, lovie" alessia joked lightly hoping it may help to lighten the tense atmosphere inside your room, you glancing over at your mum perched on the end of your bed.

"i can try" you mumbled if the room hadn't of been as silent as it was alessia would have most definetly missed what you said.

a hum coming from your mum, "you can try but then who knows that you don't like blueberries cause you don't like the way they feel in your mouth, or that when your anxious about something that you bite the inside of your lip, or that you like having ketchup with almost ever meal-" alessia trailed off as you perked one eyebrow up turning onto your back.

"i'm sure i'd find a way to survive" you mumbled as your mum nodded her head slowly, humming a little at your words.

"what's happened lovie? why do you all of a sudden want to quit football" your mum asked as you moved your head slightly to the side, you knew this was coming. you just didn't think you were ready to admit out loud why you wanted to stop playing.

"just do, 'm not gonna make it anywhere anyway.." you whispered your throat going slightly tight as the words left your lips. alessia felt her heart tighten a little at your confession.

"lovie, you don't seriously believe that do you?" alessia asked a little bit of seriousness in her tone of voice, a part of her thinking maybe these weren't your words, but rather someone elses.

"and what if i do-"

"has someone said something to you lovie?" your mum has this gut feeling in her stomach and her gut was rarely ever wrong, it was if it was her sixth sense. "like did something happen at the party you were at?" your mum continued to push for an answer as you lay still with you eyes facing away from your mum, worried that if you did look at her that the tears would start to fall.

you stayed silent for a moment, contemplating your next move. before slowly moving your eyes to make contact with your mums as you bit your lip. another few seconds passed before you nodded your head to your mum previous question.

"oh lovie" your mum pouted as she crumbled moving from her seat at the end of the bed to quickly engulf you in a much needed hug as the tears began to fall. your mum comforting you as you cried in her arms letting it all out as you began to relay the events of what happened at the party, what emilia said to you and then how you just began to drink to get rid of the pain.

alessia's heart breaking for you, being told such harsh words from someone you considered to be a very close friend. it wasn't fair and the world was a cruel place. your mum wishing she could wrap you up in bubble wrap and protect you from anything you came in front of.

"she doesn't deserve to have you as a friend and you don't need people like that in your life lovie. thats not what a true friend does-" your mum comforted you as a few stray sniffles came from you as you knew what your mum was telling you was right. emilia didn't deserve to call you her friend.

"and anyways she won't be saying that when your on the big stage, playing for your club and country!" your mum smiled softly as your furrowed your eyebrows. "you really think that'll happen-"

"of course! you could play rings around some players you come against" you stayed in your mums arms a little more as she continued to comfort you as she continued to build your confidence and ego back up that clearly had took some serious damage.

"you'll always be my favourite player, y/n russo." your mum smiled sweetly at you as she placed a kiss to your forehead. you knew the topic of your recent behaviour and how you spent your spare time would come up and alessia definitely knew she needed to have a chat with you about that but right now you needed love and comfort which is exactly what you got as you sunk into her warm and loving arms further.

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patriotictf · 2 months ago

Text

"Oh my god, this can't be real," John muttered to himself as he stepped into his new apartment. The space was adorned with distinctly MAGA-themed items - red hats, banners with "Make America Great Again" slogans, and a couple of Trump-Pence signs, all immaculately arranged.

John, a staunch liberal and openly gay, felt a pang of disgust. How had he ended up here?

"This is a nightmare," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

John stood motionless for a moment, taking in the room's overpowering display of conservative regalia. Then, a thought struck him. Maybe he could just remove all this stuff. After all, it was his apartment now.

But as soon as he attempted to take down one of the MAGA banners, he realized something strange was happening. The banner refused to budge. It seemed to cling to the wall, as if the very paint was glue.

Frustrated, John tried again, putting more force into the pull. But the result was still the same. The banner seemed stuck in place, mocking him with its stubborn resistance.

He tried another item, attempting to remove a small MAGA badge from the dresser. But just like the banner, the badge defied movement. It felt glued to the surface, no matter how hard he tugged.

John's heart began to race, a mix of confusion and panic setting in. These items were immovable. Why? How was this possible? And more importantly, what was their purpose here?

He sank down onto the bed, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. This had to be a prank. Someone had planted these items here as a cruel joke, or some weird form of psychological experiment. There was no other reasonable explanation. Or... was there?

John scanned the room again, his gaze falling on more Trump-themed items - a red "Make America Great Again" mug, a framed photo of the former president, and even a small American flag with the slogan "Keep America Great" stitched onto it.

Each item seemed to stare back at him, its presence like a slap in the face. As if the room was mocking his own political beliefs and identity.

John felt a wave of anger wash over him, but it was swiftly followed by a pang of fear. Was he trapped here? Stuck in this MAGA-themed prison, with no escape?

He stood up and began pacing, the room feeling smaller with each step. He needed to think, to figure out what the hell was going on.

Frustration grew within John as he attempted to leave the apartment, only to discover the door was impossibly stuck. No matter how much force he applied, it remained sealed, as if it had been fused to the frame.

Panic set in as he tried to use his phone to call for help, but no signal could be found. He was completely cut off from the outside world.

He turned on the TV it was on Fox News. As John frantically flicked through the television channels, he was met with an unsettling sight. Every channel was broadcasting Fox News, without exception.

No matter how many times he clicked the buttons on the remote, the channel stubbornly remained on Fox News. It was as if the TV itself had been calibrated to play only this particular station.

Frustrated and bewildered, John tossed the remote onto the coffee table, the clatter echoing through the room. He couldn't escape the barrage of conservative news and commentary, no matter what he tried.

He plopped onto the couch, a sense of helplessness washing over him. How was this happening? What strange reality had he stumbled into where every electronic item seemed hell-bent on playing Fox News on repeat?

John clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. He loathed Fox News with a passion, every segment feeling like a personal affront to his liberal beliefs. The thought of being forced to watch this drivel on a constant loop was enough to drive him insane.

He considered unplugging the TV entirely, but a sense of unease held him back. What if this was all part of some twisted plan? Unplugging the TV could have unintended consequences. He couldn't risk it.

The hours passed slowly, the TV's constant barrage of conservative news and opinion pieces wearing down John's sanity. The words "Trump" and "MAGA" seemed to be chanted over and over, a maddening chorus that filled the room.

He tried to distract himself with other activities - pacing around the room, flipping through books, even going on his laptop - but nothing could drown out the endless stream of right-wing rhetoric.

By nightfall, John was beginning to waver. He argued with himself internally, trying to hold onto his liberal principles, but the constant exposure to right-wing talking points had begun to chip away at his resolve.

He found himself agreeing with some of the opinions being broadcast, nodding in approval at times, and occasionally even finding himself agreeing with the hosts. This realization terrified him.

As he sat on the couch, John clutched his head, the internal struggle raging within him. He could feel his core beliefs being shaken to the core. Who was he? What did he truly believe?

The TV continued to blast, the host's voice droning on about the virtues of conservative values and the importance of preserving "true American" principles. Each word seemed to sink into his brain, implanting seeds of conservatism that began to take root.

John found himself agreeing more and more with what he was hearing. He started to understand the conservative way of thinking, nodding along to the rhetoric, and even feeling a pang of disappointment when they switched topics.

The liberal ideology that he had always held so dear was slowly fading away, replaced by a growing appreciation for the values being espoused by Fox News.

As the night continued, John could feel his core beliefs crumbling under the onslaught of right-wing propaganda. He was becoming increasingly receptive to the conservative narrative, no longer able to recognize the liberal values he had held for so long.

His mind was changing, slowly but surely. Fox News was rewiring his very identity, molding him into a supporter of the MAGA cause.

As John finally succumbed to exhaustion and dropped off into a fitful sleep, the room around him began to change.

Unseen forces began to take hold, slowly altering his physical form. His features sharpened, his body becoming more toned and muscular. The remnants of his once-liberal appearance faded into memory, replaced by a more rugged, conservative look.

John's hair too changed, falling out leaving him bald as a dark beard begins to grow out of his face.. His skin tone darkened subtly, taking on a more sun-kissed, masculine hue. tattoos form on his neck? thoat, arms. and hands.

As he slept, the physical transformation continued, shaping him into the epitome of a conservative man.

John's wardrobe transformed as well, even in his sleep. The liberal attire he once wore was replaced by more conservative clothing. Jeans became camo pants, his shirt became black with Make Men Men again writen across it, and boots took the place of loafers. Tattoos emerged on his body, each one reflecting a traditional, patriotic image.

He wasn't merely changing; he was being sculpted into a new person entirely.

The physical changes were drastic, but so were the mental ones. As John slept, his mind was being indoctrinated. His liberal beliefs and values were slowly being overwritten by conservative ones. He was dreaming now, visions of a strong America, traditional values, and unyielding patriotism filling his subconscious.

By the time John began to stir, he was a changed man. The physical transformation was complete; he looked every inch the conservative he was now.

His beliefs, too, had undergone a complete metamorphosis. He no longer held onto liberal ideals. In fact, he despised them.

As he sat up, groggy and disoriented, he found himself staring down at the tattoos on his arm, each one a testament to his new persona.

John's eyes flicked up towards a mirror hanging on the wall. The sight of his reflection sent a jolt of surprise through him. He couldn't believe the person staring back at him.

His appearance was that of a stereotypical conservative man. His bald head, the beard, the tattoos, the clothing - everything screamed "MAGA." He looked like a completely different person.

As he stood there, staring at his reflection in disbelief, John struggled to come to terms with his dramatic transformation.

He touched his bald head, feeling the roughness of his shaved skin. He ran his hand over his beard, tracing the thick strands that grew from his once-smooth face. He looked down at his clothing, seeing the MAGA shirt and camo pants that clung to his newly-toned body.

It was a nightmare come true. John tried to deny it, telling himself this was all just a dream. But as he pinched himself and felt the pain, he realized the horrifying truth: this was all too real. He was trapped in a body and mind he no longer recognized.

His heart raced, panic starting to kick in. He had to get out of here, find a way to reverse this nightmare. But when he moved towards the door, he found it still sealed shut.

John froze as a thought suddenly appeared in his mind, seemingly out of nowhere. It was like a strange inner voice, a thought that wasn't his own. It told him to "accept this."

He fought against it at first, resisting the idea of surrendering to the changes. But as the thought echoed in his head, it grew louder and more insistent.

For a long moment, he stood there, wrestling with his inner thoughts. The voice demanded his compliance, and it was becoming harder to resist.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of struggle, John's resistance broke. He couldn't fight the inner command any longer. He had to "accept this."

He took a deep breath, the realization sinking in. This was his reality now. He was no longer the liberal man he once was. He was a conservative, down to his bones.

With a mixture of resignation and acceptance, he stood a little straighter, embracing his new identity.

But as he made the mental shift, John felt another, more subtle change taking place. His emotions began to reshape themselves, shifting towards the conservative values now ingrained in him.

The panic and disbelief that consumed him moments ago faded away, replaced by a sense of conviction. He no longer felt the need to fight against his new identity. In fact, he felt a growing sense of comfort and even satisfaction with it.

The voice in his head grew louder, reinforcing the new emotional landscape within him. The liberal ideals he once held dear were replaced by a staunch conservatism, fueled by inner feelings of patriotism, tradition, and strength.

John began to understand that his transformation wasn't limited to the physical. It was a full-blown mental and emotional restructuring, shaping him into the perfect American conservative.

The more he delved into this new mindset, the more a sense of calmness washed over John. His past as a liberal seemed distant and almost alien.

Now, he had a deep understanding of conservative values and beliefs. He felt a strong connection to America, its heritage, and its future.

Most strikingly, John felt a growing dislike towards liberals and progressive ideals. He had become the very thing he once despised.

John opened the no longer locked door, stepping into the blistering Florida sun, squinting against the bright light. He slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses. As he felt the heat on his skin, his new conservative beliefs began to solidify further.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the humid air. It felt like a homecoming, as if this new persona of his had been waiting to emerge.

With a determined stride, John walked down the street, a sense of comfort and certainty guiding his every step.

As he walked, the city seemed to come to life around him. He passed by people of all ages - some young, some old - but what struck him was the sense of unity that pervaded the air.

He saw American flags flying proudly, MAGA hats on people's heads, and bumper stickers supporting conservative values on cars.

This was his world now. A world where patriotism was celebrated and liberal ideas were left behind.

#transformation #lib to con #muscle #bald head

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cosmicdahlias · 5 months ago

Text

You Know What You Do To Me

a ford x reader fic

MINORS DNI

You work as Ford’s assistant, you’ve been teasing him by acting like a little harlot. You went too far and now you’re going to be punished for it.

warnings: smut, oral, mdom

i’ve really enjoyed writing these fics! it’s been so long since i’ve been passionate about something like this 😭

It was another afternoon working at the Mystery Shack. You were dusting shelves, thinking about later tonight. You had two jobs, by day you sold overpriced knickknacks for your boss, local con artist Stan Pines, and by night you worked for his brother, Stanford. Before he even came back through the portal you were a big fan of his work, Dipper regularly lent you the journals during your breaks. You pored over the material, longing to meet the author.

When you met him it was a typical day, typical as things get in Gravity Falls. You were helping Soos fix up the place after the town had turned upside down, he filled you in on the cause. A portal, Stan had a brother who had been missing for 30 years, and more importantly this brother was the mysterious author you so desperately wanted to meet.

You were in the process of nailing a shelf back to the wall when you heard a door open behind you. You turned to see a man who looked nearly identical to Stan, but better posture, and somehow… cooler. You knew instantly this must be the man behind the journals. Your heart skipped a beat, not just from the excitement of finally getting to see the author, but because you couldn’t get over how handsome he was.

He looked at you and you felt yourself turn into a puddle. You could’ve sworn you saw his cheeks flush slightly, but convinced yourself you were seeing things.

“OH MY GOD THE AUTHOR IS LOOKING RIGHT AT ME!!! BE COOL!!! BE COOL!!!” You thought rapidly.

He made his way over to you and extended a hand to you, six fingers, the symbol on the journal’s cover made so much sense.

“Stanford Pines, you must be one of Stanley’s employees.”

“Y/n. You’re… the author of the journals.”

“You’ve read my journals?”

There it was again, the faintest tint of red on his cheeks.

“Yeah, multiple times. Your nephew lends them to me sometimes. I’ve always been into the weird and paranormal.”

“Well it’s always a pleasure to find someone who appreciates my life’s work.”

In the weeks that followed Ford would ask you to become his assistant. He insisted he was getting too old to do these things on his own. You loved working with him, unraveling the mysteries of this town. It gave you a sense of purpose.

The tension between you two was more than palpable, but neither of you had been willing to admit it to each other yet. Your time together was filled with stolen glances and flushed cheeks.

As you finished dusting a snow globe your mind wandered to your mentor. You had been pushing the limits lately, trying to get his attention. You wore more and more revealing clothes, you would drop your pen just to have an excuse to bend over in front of him, you would find reasons to stand close to him. You could tell it was driving him crazy, he would awkwardly excuse himself and disappear for ten to fifteen minutes, returning breathless.

But you started to think yesterday might have gone too far. You were sitting to the right of him as he was writing in his research notes, you pulled up your skirt slightly, slipping a hand down to your-

“Y/n, can we talk?”

You jumped, Ford had a habit of moving silently. A valuable skill when you’ve spent the last 30 years in other dimensions constantly staring death in the face.

You let your heart rate settle. “Yeah, sure.”

“Good, follow me.” He motioned you with his hand.

You both walked down the stairs to the basement where his lab resided, he turned to face you.

“Look, y/n, I know what you’ve been doing.”

You turned scarlet. You decided to feign ignorance.

“What do you mean?”

He exhaled a deep breath, massaging his temples. “Don’t play this game with me, you know exactly what you’re doing to me. Wearing shorter and shorter skirts, giving me bedroom eyes, finding any reason to bend over in front of me, and then yesterday-” he paused “yesterday you went out of your way to drive me crazy. You sat next to me, hiking up your skirt and you-“

He drew a shuddering breath, stepping awfully close, his chest almost touching yours “teased your clit over your panties, knowing full well you were in my peripherals. And you did that on purpose, stopping whenever I looked your way just to torture me, not letting me savor such a gorgeous view. I thought about you all night, I came with your name leaving my lips. And now-“ he pulled out a chair “you’re going to sit in front of me and touch yourself.”

“Ford-“

“No, you were so eager to do it yesterday, what’s stopping you now?”

You felt yourself grow wet under his words, you sat yourself down in front of him.

“Take off your panties, go ahead, take them off.”

You slipped the fabric down your legs and off your ankles letting them drop to the floor in front of you.

“Spread your legs, let me see you. Pull that skirt up.”

You obeyed his instructions.

“Now, slip a finger in your cunt and use your wetness to stroke your clit.”

You let your finger travel down to your dripping pussy, you traced little circles on your clit. You let out a sigh, Ford was watching you touch yourself, you had dreamed of this.

A growl rumbled in his throat, he watched you hungrily. His cock strained in his pants, he wanted to touch himself, but he couldn’t, not yet. You moaned softly, your brow furrowing in concentration.

“Faster, don’t stop.”

You picked up your pace, rubbing frantically, your moans growing louder, echoing through the lab. You hoped no one upstairs could hear you.

“Tell me how it feels.” He demanded.

“Mmmh, Ford, it feels so good.” You whimpered.

“That’s right, I know it does.”

He stepped close to you, a hand on the back of the chair, looking straight at you. You could smell him, fresh pine and leather. Your breathing became shallow and erratic, you were getting close. Ford could sense it.

“Are you going to cum?”

“Y- yes.”

“Good, look at me.”

You locked eyes with him, he stared at you intently. The feeling on your clit was becoming overwhelming, you were going to cum, dear god you were going to cum for him.

“Nhhh, ah hah, Ford.” You pathetically whimpered out, you couldn’t form a real sentence if you tried.

You felt yourself right on the edge, god you loved this, you loved putting on a show for him, you gritted your teeth in anticipation.

“Stop.”

“Wh- what?”

“You heard me, stop touching yourself.”

You withdrew your hand, your orgasm ruined.

“Why did you- I don’t understand.”

“You’ve been teasing me for weeks, with yesterday being the final straw. Now you’re going to see how it feels. Actions have consequences and you’re going to learn that. You don’t get to cum.”

He pulled you up by your arm, he grabbed your face and kissed you sloppily in pure hunger and desire. He let you go and dropped his hands to his belt buckle, undoing it.

“You need to see what you’re doing to me.”

He slipped his pants down enough to reveal his thick, hard cock. Fuck, he’s big. You bit your lip instinctively.

“Stroke my cock, now.”

You wrapped your hand around his shaft, your thumb massaging the head. He let out a groan of approval and you began pumping his cock. He started kissing and sucking on your neck, he was going to mark you so everyone knew you were his property. He started to buck into your hand, a bead of precum forming at the head. He throbbed, moaning into your neck.

He took your face in his hands again, god you loved when he looked at you.

“Get on your knees and take my cock in your mouth.”

“Yes sir.”

He throbbed at “sir” no one had ever called him that, he liked it. He made a mental note to encourage you to keep saying it.

You dropped to your knees and took his full length in your mouth.

“Fuuuck baby you’re so good at this, no one’s ever taken me all the way down before.”

He grabbed a fistful of hair and began fucking your mouth aggressively. You choked and pulled back. He chuckled.

“Oh poor baby, guess I spoke too soon, I’m sorry sometimes I forget how hard it is to handle a cock like mine.” He taunted while stroking your chin with his thumb. “I’ll try to slow down, it helps if you make an effort to breathe out of your nose.”

He resumed face fucking you, this time with a slightly more gentle rhythm, but you still felt the inclination to gag. You attempted to steadily breathe out of your nose and felt the urge subside. He clenched his jaw and picked up his pace again, you were really struggling to take him, he liked it that way.

His hips stuttered and bucked against your mouth. He could feel his orgasm rising.

“Baby slow down, slow down you’re gonna make me cum.”

You decided to ignore him, continuing to work your mouth on his cock.

“Stopstopstopstop. Stop!” He growled.

He seized your hair and pulled you off of his cock, knocking you backward. He reached out a hand and pulled you to your feet, then raised a hand and brought it down hard on your ass.

“You need to listen to me, next time I won’t be so nice.”

You savored the idea of being left with a six fingered welt. He lowered his hands to your hips and spun you around. He pressed himself against your back, his hard cock throbbing on your ass. His hand gripped your throat and he whispered in your ear.

“I’m going to fuck you senseless until I finish inside of you and you’re not going to cum, do you understand?”

You nodded fervently.

“Good, you’re so cute when you listen.” He said while slipping his thumb in your mouth.

He bent you over his desk, papers falling to the floor, one hand gripping your shoulder, the other on your hip. He pressed the tip of his cock into you before forcing the rest of his length inside of you. You started to scream out in pleasure, but Ford instinctively clasped a hand over your mouth.

He slapped your ass again. “Quiet, stardust, do you want everyone to hear you?”

He began to pump his cock inside of you, his hips slapping against your ass. You tightened around him and he groaned loudly.

“God I love the way your pussy squeezes my cock, it’s so fucking perfect.” He panted between thrusts.

He fucked you with a brutal intensity. He was doing this for his own pleasure, not yours. Like he said, you didn’t get to cum, not after what you had done yesterday. He pulled out and you whined, paused for effect and slammed himself back in. You threw your head back, moaning his name.

It felt so goddam good to finally fuck you like this after all the moments he had to steal himself away from his work to just to stroke his cock because you were incessantly teasing him. He had imagined you bent over his desk like this thousands of times. The image of you taking his cock like a good little whore was all the could picture whenever he caught you staring at him.

His grip on your shoulder and hip tightened, nails digging into your flesh. He was fucking you faster and faster, he wanted so badly to know what cumming in you felt like. You started to move your hips back onto him. Oh my god he couldn’t believe you wanted him this badly.

“Goddammit yes baby fuck back on my cock like that, you’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

You whimpered in approval.

“Would you like that stardust? Huh? Do you want me to cum inside of you?”

All you could manage was a weak “Uh huh.”

He panted like a dog, he was gonna breed you like one. Sweat began go form on his forehead, his glasses fogging.

“You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted this, wanted you. When I first met you I thought you were so fucking beautiful. I spent that night stroking myself to the cute Mystery Shack employee. I thought it was just a lonely old man’s fantasy that you would ever show me any interest, but then you started working for me and you would look at me with those eyes. God those eyes, so full of lust and want.”

You felt his cock throb inside you, he was close.

“I’m going to fill you up, have you dripping with my cum. Tell me you want it, I want to hear you beg.”

“Please, I need your cum in me. I need it so bad.”

“Call me sir.”

“Ahhh, hah, please sir, cum in me.”

He moaned loudly as he fucked you with a ruthless intensity. He buried himself deep in you as he came, your name escaping his lips. He didn’t stop fucking you, the feeling was overwhelming but he couldn’t help himself.

For a while there was nothing but the sounds of your heavy breaths. He began to slowly pull his cock out of you, cum spilling onto the floor. Jesus fucking christ he needed to draw this later.

You stayed bent over his desk, legs shaking. He grabbed you by your waist and pulled you onto his lap as he sat in his desk chair.

“Are you alright? I didn’t take it too far, did I?” He said stroking your hair.

“N- no, it was incredible.” You said between haggard breaths.

“Good, now here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to go upstairs and finish the rest of your shift. You are to keep your panties off and let my cum slowly drip out of you. And then later tonight you’ll stay here and I’ll reward you by letting you cum on my tongue and cock, if, and only if you heed my instructions. Do we have a deal, stardust?”

Your heart thumped wildly in your chest. Having Ford to yourself all night? Holy fucking shit yes.

“Deal.” You smiled.

“That’s my baby.” He said cupping your chin and pressing a kiss to your cheek.

You ascended up the creaking stairs back to work. Mind still buzzing with the moment you had just shared with Ford.

“There you are. I was startin’ to think you ditched, but then I- whoa, what happened to you, kid? You look like you’ve been hit by a bus.” Stan said in his gruff voice.

You caught your reflection in the window, your hair was a mess. You quickly attempted to fix it.

“Ah, uh, I was just helping Ford fix some stuff.”

Stan stared at you for a second before a smirk creased his lips.

“Oh yeah I bet he fixed you real good, kid.”

You turned beet red “No, that’s not what I-“

He laughed. “Look, I’m just happy you two finally hooked up. I was gettin’ real sick of watching you two ogle at each other like horny repressed teenagers. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a bet to settle with Wendy.”

“Great, Stan. Thanks for not making things awkward.”

#ford pines #ford pines x reader #ford pines smut #ford pines fanfic #gravity falls #my fics

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charliemwrites · 7 months ago

Text

Chapter 1

Content: Violence, Murder, Horror Elements, Masturbation, Kidnapping, Threats, Mild Pet Play, the One (1) use of an ableist slur

It’s the middle of October when Soap convinces you to go camping.

Autumn has sunk its teeth deep into the countryside, bleeding green from the trees and leeching warmth from the days. Deep shadows and lengthening nights are cold enough to condense breaths into pillows of steam. All of the little critters are fattening up and bedding down for a frigid winter, prepared to be snowed into burrows and dens until spring pries away the ice.

Your hip already aches through the first half of your morning exercises. The ghosts of splintered shrapnel prick beneath tender scar tissue until the rust of sleep flakes away. Lying on hard, cold ground sounds like a one-way ticket to agony. You’d much rather be one of those fluffy bastards curling up to hibernate. You tell Soap this on Monday when he initially proposes the idea.

Besides, you add, trying not to chug your coffee, Soap’s in no condition to be fucking about in half-frozen woods either. Not with his finicky nerve pain.

On Wednesday, when you meet up again, he takes a different route. It’s been too long since you two last dipped into a civilian-appropriate but military-adjacent activity. Paintball, knife-throwing, base-jumping…

Your bed is starting to feel too soft and too big again. The city is loud but not the right way. The tedium of self-imposed routines is starting to grate on nerves still tuned for combat. If you don’t get out before the trap of winter snaps closed, you might go mad. You can see it in Soap’s eyes too, a manic glint behind glass blue.

But still. Camping feels too much like what you’ve just left – the shrinks probably wouldn’t approve. Not that you’d ask them.

On Friday, Soap offers a compromise. His grandfather (“Seanair”) left him an old hunting cabin out in the countryside. Nothing luxurious, but it’s got a fireplace, cots, kitchenette, bathroom. It’ll be more like holing up in a safehouse than roughing it for a mission. More importantly, it’ll be gentler on your battle-worn bodies.

That next Monday, you meet him at the café with supplies packed and an honest anticipation for a week off the grid.

“Yoohoo! Any murderers about?” Soap calls. “Any armed psychos? An angry raccoon, perhaps?”

You scowl, caught behind him in the doorway. “I thought you checked it out already?”

“Aye, but ye ne’er ken,” he reasons, shrugging. He shuffles in as you nudge him. “We’ve the luck o’ the devil, you an’ I.”

You snort as you start kicking off your shoes. “True enough, I s’pose.”

“Course, I like our odds against any weirdo wi’ a knife, don’ you?”

You shrug. “Maybe. Not so sure about a raccoon though. Think we’d be fucked.”

“Och, tha’s right. I remember your lectures about rabies.”

“Good.”

You snicker at his grimace, likely feeling the phantom sting of vaccines.

The cabin is cute, honestly. There are only three rooms – the living room/kitchenette, the bedroom, and the bathroom. The bathroom is small enough that you could stretch your arms across the width of it and touch both walls, but it’s got a working shower so you’ve no complaints. The bedroom has a dresser and a nightstand, plenty for you and Soap.

While you set to work putting the groceries away, Soap putters about opening windows and making up the beds. The two of you don’t immediately have much to talk about, considering how often you see each other and the long drive out. It’s alright, though, you’ve long grown comfortable in stretches of silence together.

Once settled in, you suggest a walk to explore the area. Part of it is genuine interest in appreciating nature before the sun sets early. But there’s also a large, paranoid part of you (sounding like your old captain) that demands you get your bearings. Just in case.

There’s a loch about a mile from the cabin, a beautiful sheet of dark glass big enough for decent fishing. You’re able to see the row of holiday homes on the other side but wouldn’t be able to see any people on their docks out there. You and Soap follow a deer trail for a way, exchanging stories of your respective childhoods.

No surprise that John MacTavish was a wild child with a rebellious streak that got him in trouble more often than not. He gets you laughing bright and easy before long, and for once it doesn’t feel like playacting as a Normal Functioning Person.

When the sun starts to skim the evergreens, you return to the cabin. You start up a pot of cheesy mac while Soap gets the fire going, pyromaniac that he is. Once it’s burning nicely, he starts closing up the windows. Not too soon either – the temperature is starting to dip and twinging at your hip, unhappy from sitting in the car so long.

The two of you hum over empty carbs and excess dairy by the fire, a glass of scotch for each of you. When you’ve had your fill, he washes the dishes, you pour another round, and the two of you settle together on the old sofa.

“Almost been a year,” Soap says after a while.

You sigh through your nose, stare into the dwindling pool of amber in your hand. “Three more weeks.”

“You miss it too.”

Against your will, your eyes slide sideways, to the hand he’s clenching and unclenching on his thigh. There’s a wicked line of scar tissue beneath the sleeve of his shirt where the surgeons salvaged what they could. Mostly successful too, apart from the damaged radial nerve that ruined his career.

“So much, Soap, fuck.”

You didn’t mean to say that. You’re supposed to be the healthy one here, encouraging this necessary and healthful change to your lives.

As if reading your mind, Soap hums, bumps his elbow into your ribs. “No shame in it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t even know what I miss.”

“Feeling useful, I reckon. Feeling… necessary,” he muses, subdued.

It’s insightful but too accurate. Too selfish. You rub your thumb over the lip of your glass.

“I hate that I can’t keep an eye on Price and Gaz,” you say. “Feels like I’m always waiting to hear the worst, ya know?”

“Yeah,” he whispers roughly. “I ken.”

The two of you end up falling asleep on the couch. Soap, sitting up with his sketchbook, and you folded into the corner against the arm, book pages fluttering between lax fingers. At some point, the cramped position aches enough to wake you. Your eyes flutter open, low fire throwing long, deep shadows across the wooden wall.

Something is watching from the window.

You jolt up, hand reaching for the gun you no longer carry on your thigh. The movement jostles Soap awake as well. It involuntarily draws your eye, just a fraction of a second. But the haunting shadow is gone by the time you turn back.

That’s not enough for you. You roll to your feet, hiss as your knee threatens to give. But you manage to get your balance and snatch your combat knife from your boot as you storm towards the door.

“Kit? Kit! The fuck is going on?!” Soap calls.

“Saw something!” you reply.

There’s a flashlight hanging by a hook next to the door. You grab it as you burst out into the chilly air, tensed for a fight. A quick sweep of the front yard and immediate tree line reveals nothing. Steps soft and careful, you approach the side of the house, expertly gripping your knife.

“On your six,” Soap breathes behind you.

“Copy.”

You round the corner, eyes scanning the trees, the brush. There’s no movement, no suspiciously rustling branches. You tilt your head, listening for anything past the normal sounds of the night. But there isn’t even an unusual silence in the dark world around you.

“Just a dream, then,” you sigh.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Unusual, though. Your nightmare-induced hallucinations usually conjure guns in your face or teammates bleeding out on the floor. Not strange figures at the windows. Still, you can hear the explanation of your shrink trying to soothe you. Middle of the night after drinking, in a new and atmospheric environment. Plus, there’s been all that fuss on the news about a serial killer; nowhere near you and Soap, mind, but still. Subconscious or some shite.

“Let’s do a sweep anyway,” Soap says.

Your chest warms. “Alright.”

Naturally, there’s nothing. Soap only gives you a one-armed hug as you return to the cabin. One final check of the interior – since you did leave the door open when you rushed out – and then the two of you turn in for bed.

The next day starts lazy and slow. A strange reprieve from your body’s military-trained urge to wake early. It’s nice, though, to snuggle beneath the covers with Soap’s soft snores only a few meters away. You play pre-downloaded games on your phone while you wait for him to wake, enjoying the lie in.

Breakfast is enjoyed on the little porch out front; you bundled up in a woolen throw while you sip coffee. It’s shaping up to be an unusually sunny day, and you agree to a longer hike around the loch before lunch. When you return, you settle on the porch again to read while Soap chops wood.

Which, well.

You don’t mind a bit of entertainment between pages… or paragraphs… or…

Soap hasn’t neglected his physique at all since the discharge. All corded muscles, broad shoulders, and tapered waist. Watching the bunch and release of his arms has always been a guilty pleasure of yours, and so blessedly indulged during training sessions in the 141.

You try not to sigh and drool over it (him) like a repressed Victorian.

“Ach, fer fucks…”

You snap to attention, book set aside. “Is your arm acting up?”

He’s set the hatchet down, grabbing at his elbow with a pinched expression.

“Aye,” he grumbles.

You trot to his side, pleased that he still instantly submits to your care. He lets you manipulate his arm, prod along the nerve pathways and bunched muscles that are spasming in pain. His groan has no business being that low or rough or close to your ear. But you ignore it like you always have, focus on getting him right. Barely even register when he sets his jaw on top of your head.

A few minutes pass in silence while you try to massage away the worst of the flare up. When he finally sighs, slumping into you a little, you gently squeeze his forearm.

“Bampot,” you huff.

“Aye, I ken,” he mumbles. “’S why I have you.”

You click your tongue. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive. Next time let me help.”

“Not on yer life.”

You pinch his side, grinning wickedly when he yelps and jerks away. Little shit. Your favorite little shit, damn him.

He allows you to help carry the firewood to the rack next to the tiny shed. It’s round back of the cabin, covered by an old blue tarp. Soap is in the lead and sees it first.

“Oh, well isn’t that pure dead brilliant,” he huffs.

“Hm?”

You peak around him and blink at the rust-colored splatters decorating the side of the shed. There’s a dark patch in the scraggly grass as well and drag marks into the trees. Clearly, some prey fell victim to the circle of life here. Recently, too, from the color of the blood.

“What do you think it was?” you ask. “There aren’t wolves here.”

“Nah, but coulda been a fox.”

You scrunch up your nose. “This close to us? Usually foxes steer clear of humans.”

“Feral dog, then, maybe.”

Maybe.

It’s a lot of blood for anything a dog or fox would risk taking down, though. Even a feral one.

“C’mon, let’s get inside. Need a coupla pills ‘fore mah arm starts taking the piss again.”

You help him stack the firewood and then follow him back to the cabin. And if you linger on the blood, your random dream, and the lingering sensation of eyes on you… well, nothing new for you.

It pours all of the next day. Soap says it’s good timing, that he won’t have to wash the shed himself. Both of your injuries are acting up, though, and you spend the day trying to find different positions to appease the ache in your hip. At one point, he has to help you to the shower, your leg feeling too weak to support your weight. It’s frustrating, but you’ve had nearly a year to learn to cope.

Soap lifts your spirits, though, like always. Convinces you to play Scrabble and keeps insisting that he’s just using Scottish words. It ends the way it usually does – you and him wrestling like children, trying to trap the other to determine the winner. You only just manage to get a hold of him, though he puts up a good fight. He eventually admits that “daylich” isn’t actually a word and he didn’t deserve the triple word score.

Then he breaks out a pack of biscuits as a peace offering and all is forgiven. The two of you nibble on those while watching a movie on your laptop and then shuffle off to bed.

Long after Soap has fallen asleep, you’re awake. The memory of his body against yours always leaves you feeling branded. Like the heat of him burns right through your clothes. It’s been… probably too long since you last got off. Way too long since someone else got you off. And yeah, you had a couple of shameful secret wanks around teammates back in the day, but things are different now. You’re not high on adrenaline in the military anymore. No excuse for shoving a hand down your pants.

Still, your thoughts spiral as you finally start to doze. Rough hands on your hips, your thighs, your throat. Gentle but teasing at the true strength they possess. A hot tongue along your cheek, treating you like something to savor… or to devour. A shadow looming over you, dwarfing you. Phantom sensations that you crave as much as you shy away, wanting it but knowing you shouldn’t.

The throbbing between your thighs rouses you. Sleep-addled, you give in. You’d be embarrassed of how wet you are if anyone else were to know. And of the soft, needy noise you make when your brush your fingertips between your thighs. But Soap is still snoring steadily, and the pounding of the ongoing rain makes you brave.

You stroke slowly and gently over the bundle of nerves at first, mimicking those dreamt touches. It’s almost as maddening even when it’s your own hand. Sleep is half-dragging at you, though, and you speed up, drawing tight little circles at the top, teasing lower to stoke the heat burning in your gut. Your breathing picks up, little breaths past an open mouth.

It’s really not going to take much. Not with how long it’s been, how much you want it, vague thoughts of your darkest fantasies flickering through your hazy mind. You tilt your hips down, get the pressure of your heel against your empty, aching hole. You rock a couple times, high-pitched noises caught at the top of your throat.

You come imagining a big hand around your neck choking off those sounds. Have to slap your free hand over your mouth as you shake and writhe through it. Drag your nails up your bare thigh just to balance out the unbearable pleasure. And then you go limp against the pillows, panting and shuddering through aftershocks.

When you extract your hand from beneath the blankets, you blink at the wetness coating your fingertips for a moment. If someone asked, the excuse you’d give is not touching anything with your wet hand. But truthfully, you’re just indulging in impulsive hedonism as you suck your own fingers.

“Fuck,” you whisper to the shadows.

Then you climb out of bed for a proper cleanup, ready to finally fall asleep and definitely not think about how much quicker you came knowing that Soap was right there the entire time.

It’s raining on and off the next day. You and Soap take a little walk during one of the dry patches, though it’s cut short with how sore your hip still is. Soap collects more firewood from the shed, keeps the flames well fed while you putter about. Nap for an hour, start rereading one of your favorite books, watch a scary movie with him, make American flapjacks just for the sake of it.

Even though you should be feeling stir crazy, Soap has always made for good company. The day passes pleasantly into an early night, the sun standing little chance against the thick cloud cover.

You and Soap are settling in with scotch when frantic knocking interrupts the peaceful quiet.

“Help!” a ragged voice screams. “Someone please help me!”

You hardly exchange glances before the two of you are up. Soap goes for the door, gun in hand. You scramble for the ever-present medical kit that earned your call-sign, left out on the counter.

Soap yanks the door open; a man tumbles in. Middle aged, lanky build, bleeding from a long cut on his forehead. His ankle is twisted at a damning angle. You scan him for obvious weapons, but his t-shirt and muddy boxers reveal nothing but bruising and scraped skin. His hands are empty as they scrabble at the floor, trying to drag himself inside. Soap slams the door closed and locks it.

“Please!” the man cries again. “You have to help me!”

You drop to your knees beside him, already popping your kit open.

“We’re going to help you, sir,” you say evenly, “but you need to calm down.”

“You don’t understand,” the man gasps as you help him sit up. “H-He… he’s out there.”

“Who?” Soap asks, grip shifting on the gun.

“S-some psycho,” the man answers. You work easily past his shaking, getting a look at his swelling ankle. Definitely broken… with force. “In a mask.”

You blink, shoot Soap a look. Have the two of you fallen into some weird horror movie by accident?

“What did he do?” Soap asks.

“H-he attacked us with a big bloody knife.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” you ask. “Who else was with you?”

“The lads – my friends – my brother. Oh, god…” He pales further. You brace him, eyeing the packaged shock blanket peeking from your kit. “Danny is dead. There was so much blood.”

“How many?” Soap asks, voice hard. “How many of you are still alive?”

“I-I don’t know. I barely got-got away. Oh, god—”

He dissolves into tears and whimpers. You rip open the blanket and drape it around the man, then scoot down to his ruined ankle. Over his head, you frown at Soap. Something is missing here. This man was with at least three other people, but one man attacked them? There’s something to be said for shock and surprise and fear, but still…

“Soap?”

“Gonnae see if I can find survivors,” he says. “I’ll send ‘em your way if I find any. You stay here, take care of this ‘un.”

“That’s stupid,” you argue. “You can’t go by yourself!”

“No different than recon, aye? Not gonnae engage, but we cannae leave anyone bleedin’ out there.”

Your mouth twists. No, no you can’t leave civilians potentially wounded with a killer out for blood. Discharged or not (war criminals or not… and you both are, technically) you’re both too dutybound for that.

“RV here in ten and I’ll have the car ready for exfil.”

“Affirmative.”

He crosses to you, knocks your foreheads together – a pre-mission gesture you never thought you’d receive again. You close your eyes for a second, squeeze the back of his neck. Then send him off with a firm nod.

You lock the door after him, then return to the man.

“Are you two military or something?” he asks.

“We were,” you answer, “medical discharge.”

“Oh brilliant! You’re telling me that my only hope is a couple cripples?!”

You level him a flat, unimpressed look. “I’m a medic with more kills than you’ve got chest hairs, understand? Shut up and brace. I need to wrap your ankle.”

He whimpers and whines and curses while you set and compress it. Nothing you haven’t heard before, vehement as it may be. Ungrateful, though, you think vaguely. Save a guy’s life and he’s calling you all sorts of derogatory names while you try to salvage his ability to walk.

“You done?” you ask, interrupting his latest stream of expletives. “I need to hear if someone is coming.”

That only shuts him up for a moment before he’s piping up again. “Do you have a weapon?”

You tug your pant leg up to show the knife strapped to your calf.

“Do you even know how to use that?!”

“Look, I know this is a lot for you, so maybe you should stop talking for a while.”

His face twists, brain turning to anger as he tries to cope with his own fear and new trauma. You don’t pay him any heed, wiping off his head and closing the still-weeping cut with butterflies. All you can hear over his wheezing is the rain outside. No footsteps or screams or, most importantly, gunshots.

With the worst two of the man’s wounds seen to, you take stock. You’re not dressed for any sort of confrontation in lounge pants and socks.

“Here. Start treating your legs and arms,” you say, pressing gauze and wound wash into the man’s hands.

“Where are you going?!” he protests.

“Need to prep to leave,” you explain. “Shout if you hear anything.”

He doesn’t look thrilled, but you’re already up and hurrying to the bedroom. You climb into a thick pair of cargos – relieved that your fashion sense hasn’t improved since the army – and a thermal shirt. Your pistol is waiting in the side pocket of your duffel, loaded and holstered. The weight of it is comforting against your thigh; you’ve missed it.

You grab the bags and carry them back to the door, check your watch. It’s only been four minutes. If Soap isn’t back in another six, you’re going out to get him yourself, injured civilian be damned. Everything you’ve gone through together; you’re not going to lose your best friend to some overdramatic wanker with a knife.

“What are you doing now?!” the man asks.

You give him another once over. He’s done a decent job prioritizing the worst scrapes and cuts, they look clean enough. Most importantly, he seems less faint than when you left. Giving him something to focus on must have helped.

“Checking the car. We’re leaving as soon as Soap gets back,” you answer.

“A-at least give me something to protect myself with!”

You try not to sigh in annoyance. What good would he even be, unable to walk and shaky on adrenaline? Still, you take pity and tug the knife from your boot, offer it to him handle first.

“Not the gun?” he complains.

“No.”

You jog out to the car, gun in one hand and duffels in the other. It’s raining again, getting harder by the moment. There’s a steady, sharp pain radiating throughout your leg, threatening to knock it out from under you. You grit your teeth as you toss the bags in the backseat and move to the ignition.

And the car doesn’t start.

“Shit.”

You don’t waste time trying it again. It should be in perfect condition; it must have been tampered with.

When you approach the house again, you hear shouting from inside. You pick up the pace, nearly skid across the wooden floor when you get there. The man is huddling up by the couch, white knuckling the knife.

“I-I heard something!”

“Where?” you demand, scanning the immediate area. Thank fuck that Soap’s seanair believed in minimalism.

“In the back.”

You frown. “The only way in is through windows back there, and those are locked.”

Right?

“I know what I heard!”

“Stay here, then.”

You click the safety off and pad the short hallway to the bedroom. Don’t bother announcing yourself, or any idiotic “who’s there”. You kick the unlatched door open and sweep through the room just like you would for a raid. The tiny lamp on the nightstand is still on, illuminating the sparse space.

You check under the first bed, then sidestep and tilt your head to check the other. Nothing.

“There isn’t—”

The window is open. The window is fucking open. How?!

You spin on your heel, just in time to see a hauntingly familiar mask bent over the gurgling body of the man. There’s no hesitation as you raise the gun and fire twice, but the killer has already rolled out of the way. Well fuck that.

You rush from the bedroom, fire another two into the couch as you round the corner. He’s a fast fucker, waiting by the wall adjacent to the hall as you exit. And he’s fucking big. Slams into your side – your bad side – like a tank. It fucks your balance, and you go down with a snarled curse, winded as all his weight lands on your much smaller frame.

On training and instinct, you slam your elbow back. There’s a crunch, a grunt of pain. But damn him, he doesn’t let up. A big hand finds yours on the gun. You yelp as he squeezes hard enough to feel the bones bend. The gun fires – bang, bang, bang. His head is right by yours, the hard edge of his mask pressing into your temple, panting in your ear.

You lash out with your other arm, though your aim is off. Instead of hitting his throat, you get his jaw instead. You plant your boot on the floor and push, trying to get out from under him. Instead, he rolls with your back against his chest. The gun clatters as he snakes a thick arm around your throat. You grab at his forearm, but you know you have no hope of matching him in strength.

You scrabble for the knife in your boot, but it’s gone.

Fuck, you gave it to—

The cabin ceiling is getting spotty.

Your fingers brush the killer’s leg, find a familiar shape tucked at the side of his boot. You snatch up the knife and drive it into his calf. He growls, but the arm on your throat blessedly disappears. You suck air, blinking past dark edges. Twist onto your front and blindly fumble for your gun.

Manage two shots right to his chest. He falls limp. You wait a beat, two. He doesn’t move again.

You click the safety on and holster the gun. And then, out of morbid curiosity, crawl closer to the body.

“Holy hell,” you breathe as you get a good look at the mask.

He’s wearing a skull over a black balaclava. Not just a prop either you realize when you tap at it. It’s real. Human. Thin cracks spiderweb along the front orbital bone, the corner of the eye socket – from where you elbowed him, you think. Beyond them, his eyes are closed and still, the skin painted black.

“Big scary fucker,” you murmur. And if you’re a bit admiring… well, it between you and a dead body. A couple dead bodies. Can’t forget about the other guy. “That was almost fun.”

“Kit!”

You jolt, barely able to hear Soap’s voice over the pounding rain, but relieved to hear it. A hiss escapes between your teeth as you get to your feet, hip protesting. You have to grab at the couch to catch your balance. Then brace yourself and walk carefully towards the door.

Your fingers are just centimeters from the doorknob when an arm wraps around your neck again. You flail, try to kick off the door, but it hardly even makes him stumble. Then there’s a sharp pinch in your arm, sibilant shushing by your ear, and the world goes dark.

The world comes to you in bits and pieces.

Something soft under you. A slight ache in your hip. Fabric around your bare legs. Voices? You think you recognize the rumble of Soap’s brogue, but not whoever he’s speaking to.

Soft golden light creeps past your fluttering eyelashes. Soap is sitting across the room on… a big floor cushion? You blink a couple times, adjusting your slightly blurred vision. But yep, that’s him, sitting on a gigantic pillow. And… is that his throat mic?

“Mm… John?” you call, rubbing at your eyes.

“Aye, Kit. Nice ‘n slow now. We’re alright.”

You hum and push yourself up, limbs heavy. Once you’re sitting, Soap speaks again. Gentle and calm.

“You remember what happened?”

You pause, frown. It comes to you in a slow trickle. The trip, the forest, the cabin… and then it floods back. The injured man at the door, the killer, the struggle. The ambush as you were going to meet Soap at the door.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

“Aye.”

You give him another once over. That’s not a throat mic; it’s a collar. A thick black leather thing, complete with a silver chain that trails off somewhere behind him. You stare for a second, bewildered.

“Don’t be jealous. You match.”

Your head whips around to the hulking figure in a doorway to your right. He’s just as imposing as you remember, tall and fucking built, dressed in all black and mask still on. The soft lighting casts spooky shadows across the eye sockets.

The words process a moment later and your hand darts up to your neck. Sure enough, there’s a wide leather band around your neck. You’ll give it this, though – you didn’t even notice it until he said something. Not too tight, comfortable even. Clearly made with long-term wear against skin in mind. There’s a chain attached to yours too and you follow it to an anchor in the wall.

“If it’s any consolation, ye look right bonnie,” Soap calls.

You snort. “’Course I do.”

The killer shrugs off the wall. You watch as he saunters closer in long, heavy strides. No point in scrambling away or trying to run – you’d have a limited radius of escape if he didn’t grab you first. Besides, you’re not about to cower to some spooky bastard with a couple dirty tricks up his sleeve.

He crouches down well within your reach, clearly not concerned about you lashing out. You tilt your head in defiance, meeting his eyes for a moment before he flicks his gaze down. He reaches out, gloved fingers catching your chin. Not hard, but firm enough that there’s no arguing when he tilts your chin up.

Fabric brushes the sensitive skin of your neck, above and below the collar.

“Pretty kitty,” he purrs. “Glad I didn’t bruise this lovely neck.”

Two fingers press against one side a little harder, edging beneath the leather. You recognize the gesture as you swallow. He’s checking your pulse. You’re proud that it’s still steady and unhurried.

“Not scared?” He doesn’t say it like it’s a question.

You arch your eyebrows. “Should I be?”

His eyes flicker. “Not if you behave.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, resisting a sneer. Past his shoulder, Soap is watching with a smirk. Unharmed, you note again. He’s fine. You’re fine, despite slight soreness from the brief struggle. If there was something to be concerned about (apart from the obvious) he would have let you know right off the bat. So, you take a calculated risk.

“Yeah? And what do you consider behaving?” you ask.

The corners of the killer’s eyes crinkle. You knew enough masked men back in the military to recognize a hidden smile. He’s amused by your snarky question. Another good sign.

“Good pets obey their masters.”

You blink, breath leaving you in a soft rush. It… makes sense. Just not the answer you expected. Stupid, maybe, given the collars, leashes, and dog beds. You’ll have to blame the lingering drugs.

“There are so many shelters, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you blurt, bewildered.

The man snorts, hooks a finger under your collar and gives an almost playful tug. An entirely instinctive part of you catches its breath. You’re glad he’s not measuring your pulse anymore.

“Those can’t talk back,” he answers simply, shrugging.

Soap barks a laugh. “Well, you’ll get what you asked for with us then.”

You grin crookedly, showing all your teeth. “And then some,” you agree, reaching up to tug the hand from your collar.

He jerks harder this time, unbalancing you towards him. You catch yourself on both hands, feel a blaze of heat across your nose and glare up at him through your lashes.

“No touching, kitten,” he says. “You’ll have to earn that.”

You try not to roll your eyes, not quite willing to push your luck too far yet. But it’s a near thing.

“Sure, let me get right on that,” you scoff dryly anyway.

He clicks his tongue, but no further retribution comes save for one last warning tug. Then he’s standing, towering over you again.

“I need a shower. You two settle in.”

And he just walks off. Like he didn’t just take two former SAS operatives as human pets. You wait until you hear distant water before turning to Soap.

“What happened?”

“Ambushed me,” he grumbles, sitting back against the wall. “Snuck up as I was trying to get you untied. Bastard is trained.”

Soap’s pouting, even though there’s an entire police case of victims who weren’t as lucky as him.

“Trained like us, you mean?”

“Aye.” Soap pauses, looking at the floor pensively, brows furrowing. “Means he had every reason and way to hurt us.”

You nod. “He had me in a hold and his knife hand free. Could have done anything with it. Let me stab him instead.”

Soap hums. “And, well, there’s a basement. Could have brought us there too, I reckon.”

He glances at the doorway the killer was lingering in when you woke. You get what he’s saying – or not saying, as it were. The two of you are hale and whole only because the killer decided to make it so. Because, as all evidence seems to suggest, he wants pets.

“You figure he means it? About… us?” you wonder.

Soap shrugs. “He’s no reason ta lie.”

That’s what you’re worried about.

“News says he’s a sadist,” you point out. “His idea of a pet might be...”

“Aye, but then why do all this?” He gestures to the big soft beds, which you know must have been a bit expensive for their size and comfortability, and the well-made leather collars. You’ve even got a blanket at your feet for the cool air. “Nae, I think even sadists miss a bit ‘o companionship now n’ then.”

You hum. Makes sense, in the part of you that’s seen the worst humanity has to offer and risen up to greet it. You’ve seen plenty of shit, plenty of people, and the things they’re capable of. But even “monsters” go home to family, to hobbies, to entirely wholesome things that they enjoy just because.

That’s the hard part about war. Seeing the most depraved and evil examples of humanity and reconciling that they have qualities one can recognize in themselves.

“The plan, then?”

“Say we go along with it for now,” Soap says, shrugging. “Not like we could get free as we are anyway.”

You hum in agreement. The chain is clipped to the wall anchor by a thick padlock, and feeling at the collar earlier, you know it’s the same on the other side. The collar itself is too high-quality to come apart without something sharp. So you’re stuck. Even if you did will a lockpick into existence, you’ve no intel on the rest of the house or even where you’d go from the house.

“But listen, Kit, I’m no’ gonnae let anything happen to you. If this gets violent, I’ll tear the walls apart with my hands if I hafta.”

You smile, wish suddenly and fiercely that you could hug him. He looks like he could use it; god knows you could.

“I know, John,” you soothe. “I will too.”

He nods, jaw twitching, then sighs and sits back again. The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, digesting the plan. You take an actual look at the room you’re in – a den, it seems like. A fireplace in one corner, a decent sized couch to your left. Beyond it, you can see a clean and modern kitchen. There’s a coffee table, end tables, lamps, a goddamn rug. It’s downright cozy; like something out of a magazine.

“Nice voice, though, aye?” Soap chirps suddenly, snapping your gaze back to him.

“Soap.”

“Och, don’t ‘Soap’ me,” he grumbles. “You look me in the eye and tell me tha’s no’ a voice made fer sex.”

And damn him, you can’t.

“Can’t say I was thinking about his voice when he was waving a big knife at me.”

“He can wave his big knife at—”

“I’m gonna kill you myself—” You snarl, balling up your blanket and chucking at his stupid, wiggling eyebrows.

“Oi, you two,” aforementioned sexy voice chastises from the hallway.

You wrinkle your nose as Soap grins at you, a shadow in the corner of your vision as the killer comes into the room again. He brings a cloud of clean water and bergamot. He smells good.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you hiss, dismayed.

“Problem?” the killer asks.

He’s got the mask on again (or still? You hope he doesn’t shower with it on, that’s unsanitary) but you can hear him arching an eyebrow. Stubbornly, you turn away to glare at Soap some more. It’s obvious he realizes what you’re referring to from the way he smothers a snicker, though.

Shithead.

You don’t get away with it for long before a hand is pulling your jaw up. Rough only because you resist for the briefest fraction. Once he’s got your face where he wants it, though, your captor’s grip isn’t painfully tight.

“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer, kitten. Understood?”

Your hand twitches to grab at the hold but remember what he said about touching without permission. Stubborn as you may be, you’re not actively trying to incite violence against you or Soap. The plan is to go along with… whatever this is. So you swallow a bit of your pride.

“Understood.”

He hums like that’s not quite the answer he wanted, but it’s acceptable for now.

“Now, is there a problem?” he asks again.

“Apart from the kidnapping?” you snip. “Everything is right as rain.”

He snorts, smooths his thumb over your chin, slow and dangerous. You go still, refuse to falter but careful not to provoke further.

“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” he muses almost to himself.

“Must have expected it,” you reason honestly, “know you watched us for a few days.”

He tilts his head, eyes eerily unblinking within the unholy shadows of the skull. “Longer’n that, pretty thing.”

You open your mouth but don’t know what to say. Longer than the days at the cabin? How long? And how did you and Soap not notice?

Your spiraling thoughts are interrupted by fabric gliding over your bottom lip. His thumb threatening to slip past. You snap your jaw closed, nearly catch the tip of his finger in your teeth. He chuckles and finally releases you, making for the nearby couch.

He settles in with sigh and flicks on the TV. There on the screen is a flashing headline:

Another Ghost Victim Found.

Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #serial killer ghost #serial killer au #scottish cabin in the woods #scitw

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covenofagatha · 14 days ago

Note

it's me!! worm anon!! (confession: i wrote the whole thing on the train and had to squeeze my thighs together multiple times. horrible time to have to go to work)

i got a little scared ngl cause i thought i got too freaky.... glad to know so many people enjoy it 🤭

anyway, just wanted to chime in with the FOURTH installment of my brainworm (sorry covenofcovenofagatha), but consider this:

(cockwarming obviously, power bottom reader, dirty talk, jealousy, breeding kink, daddy kink, the usual)

after agatha riles you up (maybe because she's been getting a bit too close to someone else, and you decide it's time for *her* to get punished), she's left restrained on the bed, and you're sitting prettily on her cock. the rules are simple: she's not allowed to move, and more importantly, she's definitely not allowed to cum before you do.

you, however, are. you take the opportunity to remind her how full you are, so full of her, and how good she fills you with her cock. you play with yourself, rocking yourself against her while you play with yourself. one hand moves to squeeze your tits (and you don't forget to remind her, "wish it was your hands on me, daddy, but i guess you'd prefer __") while the other hand reached down to rake your nails under you, over the dip between her thighs, running them over her balls.

she's writhing beneath you, begging you to stop teasing, and her sounds just make your walls clench a bit tighter, resulting in her moaning louder as her cock *throbs*, and the cycle starts again. you're not sure how much more she can take, but she's holding out considerably well.

cooing at her, you mock her condescendingly, "daddy, your balls are so full, is that all for me?" and "what's got you so worked up, daddy?", while she mumbles incoherently about how you're most definitely getting punished for this, and she's going to spank your ass till you turn red.

maybe you decide that she needs to make you cum for each time she flirted incessantly with someone else, each time agatha showed up in her post with her arm snaked around their waist. and if that happens to also edge agatha all three or more times (you doubt she'd be able to hold out any longer), it's *just* a coincidence. she's reduced to mumblings, "i'd all the way up so you'd leak all over the house, bet i'd breed you so good baby", eliciting a "daddy, please, you feel so good in me", driving agatha absolutely insane.

the breaking point (and agatha) comes when you do for the final time, and you babble nothing but "mine, mine, mine", and finally, "cum for me, daddy, you're mine, fill me up with your cum, breed me" as you bounce on her cock. she groans before she holds true to your promise, and fills you with so much cum that it trickles out of your sensitive cunt, and agatha rushes to swipe it with her fingers (finally broken out of her bindings) and stuff her fingers into your mouth to suck as she ruts into you.

.. anyways, hope everyone has a happy lunar new year... i know what I'll be doing tonight...

-worm anon, with lots of love 💜

Oh my god 🫠 you have me absolutely speechless

I don't even know if the story I write is going to be able to be hotter than this request jesus but I'm going to try my best (you need to start writing if you aren't already)

Um yeah I'd say it's safe to say that people enjoy it

#asks #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut #brainworm

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planetdream · 2 years ago

Note

I just stumbled across your skz & dildo training post and I think it turned my brain to MUSH and like hhhhhh;;; now I’m imagining what they would be like with throat training, especially the meanies like seungmin?? Teasing you as you turn into you a teary, drooling mess? Or fucking your cunt while making you take it? Goodbye

[mentioned post] oooo okok was gonna structure this like the prev post but the thoughts took over

chan...oh my god... he likes to make you watch while you're taking the dildo into your mouth. likes to sit you all pretty like in front of a mirror while he sits behind you, slowly guiding the dildo into your mouth. likes to hear the way you gag and to see how your tears fall when it reaches further than you've had it before—will praise you for the way you gag and how pretty you are when you shed a tear, amongst other things, of course. still likes taking his time with you but sometimes he wants to make you take it. (likes to place his free hand around your neck, if he's not playing with your clit, feeling how deep the dildo is in your throat)

as mentioned, minho likes pushing you close to your limits—and throat training does not change that. however, minho really assumes the role of a teacher. he's comforting, guides you well, and makes sure it's an enjoyable for you most importantly. he makes sure you're not feeling discomforted, that you're breathing properly, etc. he's still stern but not quite mean because he wants to take things slowly. it's not until days later, when you're a bit more confident with what he's taught you, that he slips into mean dom mode; forgoing the dildo and using his cock instead.

fucking you while making you take it? that has changbin written all over it. likes having you damn near in mating press, just needs to be face to face, chest to chest [bc he loves u n he's horny </3] tries not to be too rough with you so he opts to go slow; alternating the timing between his thrusts into you and working the dildo into your mouth. makes you cockwarm the dildo in your mouth while he's fucking you, hand over your mouth, delivering quick and deep thrusts because feeling you clench every time you gagged was driving him crazy.

with hyunjin, i think he's sweet. a little impatient and would rather have his actual dick in your mouth, but using the dildo means he can whisper sweet things and kiss on you, so he'll take it. he doesn't want you to choke too much but he loves seeing you all cute n messy for him—so he'll help in anyway he can to get rid of your gag reflex. the more you can take down your throat the more proud hyunjin is. is in love with kissing you after you've taken cock in your mouth <3

jisung walks in on you with your mouth around a cute pink dildo and he's stunned. kinda just stands there in shock for a bit. then he's suddenly bold for two seconds to ask if he can help before resorting back to being all shy (and slightly panicked). doesn't expect you to say yes nor does he expect you to say you wanted to try sucking him off (despite the fact that you've had sex with each other many time before). once he's calmed down, he'll take the dildo and help inch it into your mouth. practically drooling when he sees the look in your eye.

felix loves giving you little kisses against your throat while he's training your throat. is just...so enamored by the way you look, and the fact that you're doing this for him <3 gives the best praises and care, really preps you for when it's his cock. might start by thrusting his fingers in your mouth before you even get to taste the plastic of the dildo. if you want him to guide the dildo into your mouth and do all the work while your just take it? it's more than his pleasure to do so. he likes to wear the dildo on a strap or use the suction part on a wall and guide your head up and down.

now seungmin really wants to know how deep you can take it, and if you can take it deeper. regardless, he's going to help you. similar to minho, seungmin takes on the role of a teacher—but he's strict, condescending. wants to see how much of a mess he can make of you. will you cry? gag and choke around the dildo until you drool? and will you keep coming back and begging him to give you more? will put his fingers in your mouth with the dildo to see how wide he's fucking you open. probably chooses a size assortment of dildos to use on you.

jeongin is a menace. he's on a power high; wants to tease you and make you work for it. his heart races ever time he tells you to do something and you follow his orders—do you really want to learn how to take his cock in your mouth, or are you just a slut? he makes you stick your tongue out, slapping the tip of the dildo on your tongue. he has to make it extra messy and wet, so if you're not producing saliva quick enough for him, he'll def help you out yk.

#[💌] ˚｡⋆#✰˚. !! dream.hardhours #☁️ — daydream.skz #stray kids smut #bang chan smut #minho smut #changbin smut #skz smut #hyunjin smut #han jisung smut #lee felix smut #seungmin smut #jeongin smut

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homestylehughes · 1 year ago

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jack Hughes- noise

noise- jack hughes

summary: where jack is the only noise you ever want to hear.

wc:725

PSAAAA: hiii!!! if you clicked on this story thank you so much!! I'm new to writing on tumblr so I'm still learning!! so pls be nice ( I promise I'll get better) anyways hope you enjoy, let me know what you think below (omfg I'm sorry this is so long I'll stfu now<3)

fic below:

time is moving slowly, each time i look at the clock. time is moving slower and slower. I used to love being alone, i used to love my noiseless life, or the noises that i found simple and easy. like the noise of my ac blowing when doing my homework. or the occasional noise of my favorite records i’d play, and dance too around my apartment at 2 am. now i have a different type of noise in my life, jack hughes.

if you would have told me a year and half ago, i be waiting to hear noise fill up my life and apartment; i’d tell you you’re crazy. my noise being jack hughes. there’s nights like these where i really want him here, to feel his noise.

the devils lost to the Sharks tonight 6-3. after coming off a 3 game heater, i knew this loss would be hard for them. for him. i waited for him to call, to hear the noise of his ringtone, for it to ring through my ears. constantly glancing at the clock on my wall, as i see the time ticking by, slower and slower. i just wanted to hear my favorite noise. after most losses, jack didn’t come over. i respected that, i knew he needed space sometimes, and i would always give that too him. but right now i was missing my noise, i wanted nothing more than to grab my keys and head out the door, drive 40 minutes to his place. i wanted nothing more than to call in 15 times, spam him with texts, to let him know that i missed him and that i’m here for him. that i missed his noise.

the game ended 3 hours ago. i keep looking at the clock, time is still moving slowly. i make my way to my bedroom, throwing on one jacks shirts. i slowly make my way to my bed, a bed that feels cold without him. i close my eyes, and try to think of something that can send me off to sleep. all of my thoughts are about jack, and how much i miss his smile. his laugh. his sassy comments. his kisses, oh god how much i miss his kisses. and most importantly his noise. my thoughts are starting to slowly fade, my eyes start to slowly close. as my eyes flutter close for the last time.

i hear a pounding at my door, i glance at my clock and the time reads 3:30 am. who’s here at 3:30 am? i slowly make my way through my apartment, turning a light in the hallway, in which i immediately regret. i turn the handle at the door, not knowing who to expect. my mind goes foggy when i see jack standing in my hallway. all my thoughts are immediately consumed by him again. all of my thoughts are consumed by his noise.

“hi” i say, as i look at jack who’s still standing in the hallway outside my apartment. “hi” jack breathes back out to me. our eyes never leave each other. i can’t take the space anymore, i can’t take the silence. i need his noise.

i pull him into my apartment and slam the door behind us. the next thing i know is jacks body slamming into mine. pulling me into the biggest and tightest hug ive ever received. we stand in my living room of my apartment, embraced in each other arms. no words need to be said between us. i slowly pull apart, too look into his eyes. scanning his face to see any sign of injury, instead all i find is love and calmness.

i grab his hand and led him into my room. knowing my bed will no longer be cold with him in it. no other words have been exchanged yet, no other words need to be exchanged. we get into bed, and jack quickly pulls me into his flush body.

i can feel his noise. i can hear his noise. the steady sound of his breathing. the sound of his heart beating beneath me. this is all i need. his noise. my favorite noise jack. my jack. i slowly fall asleep to the sound of his noise, and now i'm no longer alone. my noise, my home is back.

#nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl x reader #nhl hockey #nhl imagine #jack hughes #new jersey devils #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes x you #jack hughes x y/n

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onceuponaoneshotfanfic · 1 year ago

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Shut Up and Drive (Chapter 6)

Roy Kent x F1 Driver!Reader

4.9k words

Warnings: Language, mean & jealous Roy (in a good way), evil ex-boyfriend, rough sex, Roy feeling angsty, fingering, some cum play, hickies, Roy being kind of a dom

@agentstarkid brain rot, brain rot, brain rot

A/N: Y'all this has to be THE horniest writing I have ever done 😭

Series Masterlist

“Hey Roy, you going to Belgium?”

Roy furrowed his brows at Isaac as the captain, Jamie, and Sam all looked at him expectantly “Belgium?” he repeated.

Sam nodded. “For the race,” he added, as if Roy should know exactly what he was talking about.

The manager’s deepening frown told the boys that he did not.

Jamie sighed impatiently. “Your girlfriend, Grandad. We’re going to go watch her. She was telling us all about it in Leeds, and then when she was in Richmond, she gave Keeley the tickets and stuff to give Isaac. You’re going, aren’t ya?”

Belgium. Roy’s stomach sank a little as the guys began chattering about their plans, how excited they were to watch the race, the parties they’d been promised. He knew you had another race coming up, but you hadn’t mentioned a word of it to him. Of course, if you’d asked, he’d have gone. The Greyhounds had a bye that weekend, meaning he was completely free to go, to root for you, to share another bottle of scotch in some extravagant hotel suite. It would make sense for you to ask him to go; after all, he was clearly interested in racing, and, more importantly, he was clearly more interested in you. He’d tried not to read too much into the lack of invitation; but fuck, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping for a simple hey, come meet me in Belgium during one of the many texts you’d sent him.

And now, hearing that you’d explicitly excited his team… well fuck.

“Come with us, Roy,” Isaac insisted.

He cleared his throat, desperately trying to play it off. “Dunno. Probably got Phoebe, need to catch up on shit at home-”

Another sigh from Jamie. “Come on, Coach. Just admit you want to see your girlfriend and fuckin’ come with us!”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Roy hadn’t meant for it to come off as a harsh growl, but that’s definitely what came out of his mouth. “Once again, we barely fucking know each other.”

The smirk on Jamie’s face was nothing short of punchable. “Then why d’you text her all the damn time?”

“Do not,” Roy lied.

Of all the players, Sam was one of the last Roy would’ve expected to tease him. “You’re blushing, Roy.”

He rolled his eyes, dying to get out of this conversation. “If I agree to come,” he mumbled. “Will you all shut the fuck up?

The three players looked at each other before breaking into a trio of mischievous grins.

Finally, Isaac opened his mouth. “No promises.”

Roy Kent looked good.

Who were you kidding? Roy Kent always looked good. Your mouth was practically watering as you watched him chat with the Greyhounds he stood with in the garage, rolling his eyes at something one of them said.

So, you hadn’t actually invited Roy to come to your race, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t hoping he’d be there. After all, when you’d sent Keeley the tickets for the boys, you’d included an extra one, encouraging Isaac to invite “whoever”. Knowing Jamie had been teasing Roy about you, you knew exactly who they’d be bringing.

Watching his eyes dart around, obviously looking for you, you couldn’t resist the urge to go over and say hi. The two of you had fallen asleep on the phone a couple more times since that phone call, there’d been lots of texts sent back and forth, and Roy was even figuring out how to send selfies. And now he was here, in Belgium, surprising you. Tearing down that wall you’d built around your heart, brick by brick.

Feeling a bit like a teenage girl approaching the most popular boy in school, you turned around, so Roy wouldn’t see the way you tightened the knot of your half-down racing suit and lifted your shirt a smidge to give that little peek of skin. After giving your hair a quick touch, you turned around, ready to put on that confident smirk and go say-

“Hey there.”

Your face completely fell at the sight of that horribly gorgeous smile. “Ian,” you murmured, taking a step back, away from your ex-boyfriend, who you were sure hadn’t been in a paddock in about a year, let alone less than a foot away from you like he was now. “What’re you doing here?”

His smile widened, planting a knot in your stomach. “Here to see you, of course.”

“Oh.” Your eyes flickered over his shoulder, where you could see Roy beginning to turn his head a bit more obviously, growing anxious to see you already. “Well, thanks.”

Thankfully, one of your engineers, familiar with the panicked look that Ian Novak’s beautiful face often inspired, hustled over with some excuse to get you away from the model. As you let yourself be led away, you turned your gaze, finally locking eyes with Roy Kent. The corner of his perfect mouth ticked upwards as he offered a small nod in greeting, eyebrows raised playfully. Normally, the sight would have you pressing your thighs together and thinking of all the sinful things you wanted to do with him. Instead, you looked away from those brown eyes as quickly as you could.

Fuck. Roy Kent could hurt you, couldn’t he? If Ian Novak, devilish man he was, could manage to make you feel adored and comfortable enough that the heartbreak he gifted you was the most devastating pain you could imagine, what was Roy Kent, with his soft brown eyes and half smiles and hands that both excited and cherished you, capable of? How shattered would you be if he decided he was done with you?

Maybe you didn’t want to find out.

For the millionth time that weekend, Roy wondered what he’d done wrong. All he’d received from you was a quick hello when the guys insisted on going to say hey to you. No flirting. No bedroom eyes. No electric touches. And definitely no teasing implications about ending up in bed together.

Not exactly what he’d expected.

He kept trying to catch your eye when the two of you were in the same room, but you kept looking away every time he succeeded. This wasn’t the behavior of someone excited to see him, and especially not the behavior of someone looking forward to sleeping with him.

As he lost track of his beers and contemplated leaving the party being held to celebrate your win, he saw Jamie perk up, his eyes flickering between Roy and somewhere behind him. Before Jamie could give him a warning, Roy turned around.

It was like someone’d punched him and knocked the fucking wind out of him. There you were, stunning in a Ferrari-red dress and matching lipstick, looking up at some disgustingly pretty man, who gazed at you like, well, like how Roy looked at you. He turned back to Jamie, immediately hating the pitiful look on the striker’s face.

“That’s her ex-boyfriend,” Jamie murmured, taking a sip of his own beer. “Model.”

“The one that fucking cheated on her?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “For ‘barely know each other’ you sure know a good bit about her, Roy. Maybe-”

Roy scowled. “Keeley talks too much,” he mumbled before taking a long swig of his beer. He looked over his shoulder again; that man’s hand was on your lower back, where Roy’s hand should have been. “Looks like a prick,” he huffed.

“Oh, he definitely is,” Jamie agreed. “And that’s me saying that. Not sure why she’d give him the time of day.” He punched Roy’s arm playfully. “Especially with Roy Kent in the room.”

After rolling his eyes at Jamie’s compliment, Roy nodded towards the door that led to the hallway connecting the venue to the rest of the hotel. “Going to get some air,” he muttered, ignoring the protests of his players.

Because he was so busy skulking off, Roy missed watching you with your ex.

“What are you doing?” you hissed, shoving Ian’s hand off of your waist. “In case you’ve forgotten, we broke up, remember?”

His lopsided smile was too familiar. “Just congratulating you on a job well done. You were great today, babe.”

Babe. When Roy Kent called you that, it’d made your heart- and something else- flutter. But when Ian Novak called you that, it made your blood run cold. You reached out and pushed him further away.

“I’m not your babe.”

Slipping away from the embrace he tried, you briskly left the party venue, eyes stinging as you made your way to the deserted hallway. Who cared if you’d won and were the guest of honor? All you wanted was to get up to your room, get out of this dress, put on-

Roy’s eyes locked onto yours. He was in that same hallway, leaning against a wall and looking like the dictionary definition of melancholy. His stupid old heart nearly stopped at the sight of you, then twisted when he saw all the hurt your eyes carried. He pushed himself up off the wall as you got closer, your hands fidgeting; he wasn’t used to seeing you so… gloomy.

“’s wrong with you?” he muttered once you were standing in front of him. “Boyfriend problems?”

Your frown deepened. “Boyfriend…?” It dawned on you. “Oh, fuck. Ian.”

Roy nodded, his eyes practically made of steel. “Yeah. Ian,” he spat. “What, you get sick of him already?” He knew he sounded jealous and resentful, two things he wasn’t sure he had the right to be. But he didn’t care; not when he’d come all this way just to see you with some other prick.

“Listen,” you sighed. “Roy-”

He shook his head, not caring if you saw the hurt and anger in his eyes. “No. It’s fine. I fucking get it.” He gulped. “He’s a model. His knees probably fucking work. Probably even knows how to smile.” He cleared his throat. “Stupid, coming to fucking Belgium,” he mumbled. “You didn’t even fucking want me here.”

“I did,” you yelped, probably quicker and louder than you should have. “I mean, I do. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Funny way of showing it,” he grunted, not letting you see the way your words had his heart hammering. No, Roy was still pissed. “Ignoring me all fucking weekend.”

You nodded, face aflame. “Yeah. No, that’s true.” You took a tentative step towards Roy. “But I’m glad you’re here. Really glad,” you insisted as you pressed your body to his, eyebrows raised meaningfully.

“Yeah. Well.” He averted his gaze, knowing that the familiar look in your eye would have him dropping this little resentment.

“Roy,” you cooed, letting your hands wander up his chest, not caring if someone walked by and saw you embracing the brooding manager. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

Oof. Apparently that was not the thing to say based on the fiery look in his eye. But you’d be lying if you said it didn’t excite you, especially when he reached up to grab your jaw.

“Jealous?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You think I’m jealous?”

You gulped. Actually fucking gulped. And that little movement had Roy’s scowl replaced with the sexiest smirk you’d ever seen. His grip was firm; not painful, but definitely strong. For the number of times you’d hooked up, you’d never seen his eyes so dark, filled with a mixture of irritation and lust. It had you rubbing your thighs together, not caring if Roy noticed.

And Roy definitely noticed.

His eyes flickered over your shoulder for a brief moment before settling on your parted lips.

“Let’s go.”

Keeping his grip on your jaw, he pushed you backwards, opening a door behind you and guiding you into a deserted women’s bathroom. He quickly locked the door and moved a vanity chair under the handle, clearly planning on being in here for a while. Once privacy was secured, his eyes were on you again.

“Jealous,” he repeated, a scoff now. “Fucking jealous.”

He walked you back until your ass hit the row of sinks, the cold stone penetrating through your tight dress. His hands found the spot on your upper thigh where dress met bare skin, his fingers dipping just under the soft material to grip your flesh roughly, tugging the hem of your dress up around your hips.

Instinctively, you threw your head back at his touch, feeling electricity follow his fingertips as they brushed over your skin. Roy’s hand immediately was on your jaw again, tugging you to face him.

“Watch,” he demanded in a low voice.

With a whimper that was more from arousal than anything else, you obeyed. You watched as he brought his hands over your hips and slowly rolled down your panties, letting them drop in a little pool of lace around your ankles. He placed one hand on your hip with a bruising grip as the other hand came to your already drenched pussy. When one finger traced your slit, you had to use all your concentration to keep yourself from throwing your head back in pleasure.

“So fucking wet,” Roy groaned, adding another finger as he slowly caressed your soaking lips. “Who’s that for? Your pretty boy ex?”

Not caring about looking desperate, you frantically shook your head. “You, Roy,” you murmured, your voice breathy. “All for you.” You leaned forward to capture his lips in a kiss, to assure him with your mouth that he was all you wanted, but he shook his head.

“Thought I told you to watch.”

No man had ever spoken to you this way. Most guys tried so hard to be smooth, or romantic, or cool. No one had ever been so possessive, so jealous. No one had ever stared at you with such an intensity. And no man had ever turned you on so fucking much.

Obediently, you tilted your head back down to watch as Roy slipped those two fingers inside you, setting a rough, mean pace that already had you gripping the sinks so hard your knuckles turned white. His thumb began stroking harsh circles on your clit, adding to the overwhelming pleasure.

“You better keep fucking watching,” he grumbled before his mouth attached to your neck, kissing with more tongue than lip, leaving a slobbery path over your skin.

Even with his eyes off of your face, you did as you were told. You watched those two firm fingers pump in and out of you, curling upwards in that way Roy did that had you squirming in your now wobbling high heels. The only thing keeping you upright was this sink and Roy’s harsh grip.

Roy grunted when he hit a particularly deep spot and felt you clench around his fingers. “You really hurt my fucking feelings,” he growled against your neck, giving a soft bite to the sensitive skin. “Ignoring me while you paraded around in that little fucking racing suit. Looking like a fucking goddess.” His thumb pressed down on your clit, provoking a sharp whine from you. “Like my fucking Empress.”

“Yours, Roy,” you groaned as your hips stuttered against his hand, your climax rapidly approaching. “All fucking yours.”

And you meant it. You really fucking meant it.

“Damn right you’re mine,” he grunted, adding a third finger to your sopping cunt. “And I want to feel you come just for me.”

Apparently, his wish was your command.

Something deep within you snapped, and you felt yourself tighten around his fingers, so tight that his third finger slipped out. But he kept fucking you with his fingers relentlessly, finally moving his mouth to yours to swallow your lewd moans as you soaked his fingers with your release.

“Good fucking girl,” he mumbled against your mouth as your vision went blurry; the only thing you could focus on was the trembling pleasure Roy gave you. “His fingers ever make you come like this?”

Your orgasm rendered your speechless, so all you could do was give a little shake of your head, desperate not to lose the feeling of Roy’s lips against yours. His pumps slowed as you came down from your high; you let go of the sink and gripped his arms, needing some help with standing.

But Roy didn’t want you to stand.

“Turn around,” he growled, pulling his soaked fingers out of you. “Unless you’re fucking done with me? Hmm? Got what you wanted from me, yeah? Ready to go back to your little party and ignore me some more?”

You bit your lip as your eyes travelled down to the extremely noticeable bulge in his pants. When you looked back at his face, it was dark with desire.

“Need you,” you managed to croak out.

That was good enough for him. Not caring if he got your juices on your dress, he grabbed your hips and spun you around, pushing you down over the sink. Instinctively, you spread your legs, listening for the delicious sound of his zipper coming undone. Your entire body vibrated with pleasure as you felt his tip, already dripping with precum, press against your soaked core.

Roy brought his hand- the one soaked from your orgasm- to your face. “Open,” he demanded. When you opened your mouth, he stuck his two drenched fingers inside. “Don’t want anyone else hearing your pretty fucking sounds. Those are just for me, aren’t they?”

You nodded, moaning around his gorgeous fingers as you tasted your pleasure on him. Fuck, no wonder he was addicted to making you come, some dirty part of you thought. You were delicious.

Satisfied with the view before him, Roy slowly buried himself inside your soaked cunt with ease, his eyes staring into yours through the mirror with that same mix of lust and possessiveness.

“There she is,” he sighed as he set a harsh pace, his free hand on your back to keep you bent over for him. “My fucking Empress. Feel so fucking good. Just for me.”

A muffled “Mmm hmm” around his fingers was all you could manage as you bucked your hips back against him, drooling at the feeling of his hot skin against your bare ass. His cock felt perfect inside you, twitching and throbbing against your already spasming walls.

Eyes still on yours in the mirror, he lowered his mouth to your bare upper back and began leaving rough kisses all over your skin, sloppy and reckless, until those kisses became bites. Roy started sucking at the soft skin as he thrust into your slowly bruising sex over and over again, moaning against your back. When you clenched around him particularly tight, his tongue left a slow, deliberate trail across your skin, sending shivers down the spine he still had his hand on.

He groaned and gave a particularly stuttering jerk into you. “Should I mark you up?” he teased. “Show everyone who you belong to?” Using the fingers in your mouth as leverage, he made you nod slowly, as though you were his little toy. “Well, if you insist.” Rolling his hips harder, deeper, Roy returned to your back, sucking hard enough to make you whimper against the pads of his fingers. But the way you rocked into him assured him you liked it.

“Fucking look at you,” he moaned, giving you a bit of that hip action that had you seeing stars. “You ever been fucked like this, gorgeous girl? Bent over in a fucking bathroom, fingers in your mouth?” He brought his lips to your ear, his hot breath tickling your skin. “Bet no pretty boy’s ever done this.” He started sucking on the spot behind your ear, that perfect little spot that had you mewling as you spasmed against him.

He slowly inched his fingers further into your mouth, prompting you to suck them with the same enthusiasm you would his cock. The sensation had him twitching inside you, desperate to paint your walls.

“You look so fucking perfect,” he muttered as he returned his mouth to your slowly purpling back, adding more beautiful little dark spots wherever he could reach. “My dirty Empress.” He licked over a bite mark he’d left, one he hoped you’d have for days. “You want to come for me, gorgeous?”

Your desperate nod had him groaning. He’d never seen anyone look so fucking desperate, needy, hungry for him. After being ignored by you all weekend, to have you bent over in a public bathroom, panties on the floor, mouth full of his fingers, all of it was driving him mad. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could last, but he knew he needed to let you come first.

He needed to remind you about how he could make you feel.

He removed his fingers from your mouth, drooling a bit when he heard the little whine that escaped your now empty mouth. The hand on your hip came up to your beautiful neck, urging you to stand up with your back to his heaving chest.

When you wobbled, he tightened his grip, just enough to hold you steady. “I’ve got you,” he promised, planting a tender kiss to your neck. “’ve always got you.”

Roy brought those fingers- now sodden from both your cunt and mouth- to your pulsing clit, rubbing firm circles over the bundle of nerves.

“Roy,” you whimpered, gripping his arms with your trembling hands. “Please.”

He smiled, a real smile for the first time all weekend, as his cock continued to bruise your cunt. “Would you look at that,” he murmured, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck. “My Empress remembered her manners.” He pumped his cock as deep as he could, over and over, desperate to hit that one perfect little spot that would- “Oh, there she is.”

He watched with lewd pride as you fell apart in front of him, mouth open in a silent scream. Your whole body was drenched in sweat as you trembled, your knees buckling beneath you; the only thing keeping you upright was Roy. As your body quivered with pleasure, you slouched back over the sink, wondering vaguely how you were going to walk in the morning, let alone in the next few minutes.

“Such a good girl,” Roy cooed, his voice thick with a beautiful mix of mocking and adoration. “Now tell me what else you want.”

“Your cum,” was your automatic answer as your fingers traced over the cool faucet. “Please,” you begged, probably for the first time in your life. “Please fucking come for me.”

Roy’s devilish smile widened, setting your whole body on fire. “If my Empress insists.”

Whit his hands back on your hips, his thrusts became sloppy, no longer about making you feel good- although, the overstimulation did have your eyes rolling back. He gave a few harsh, bruising drives before you felt him fill you up with that delicious release; fuck, how you wished you could taste it. Pump after pump until you could feel it begin to leak down your thighs. You shivered when you felt Roy glide a single finger over your sticky thigh and bring a cum-covered finger to your lips.

“Taste.”

He didn’t need to order you; you would have automatically stuck out your tongue to get a taste of that tangy stickiness that now coated your throbbing pussy.

The room was filled with ragged breathing as he finally pulled out of you, still keeping a firm grip on you to keep you from falling.

Finally, you smirked at him through the mirror- or at least, as much of a smirk as you could manage.

“Fuck,” you gasped, brushing your wild hair out of your face. “I’m really supposed to go back to the party like this?”

Roy’s dark chuckle had your heart racing. “Party?” he scoffed. “Oh no, baby. I’m not fucking done with you.”

Taglist:@hotdoglamp@daydreamgoddess14@klaine-92@gibby31@anonurs@taytaylala12@unholyhuntress@thatonedogwithablog@seacactusplant@e-mmygrey@jane-dough @zara-aliza08 @sky-full-0f-fl0wers @deliriousfangirl61 @katdahlali

#roy kent shut up and drive #roy kent x f1! reader #he's here he's there he's every fucking where #roy kent #roy kent x reader #roy kent fic #roy kent fanfic #roy kent fanfiction #roy kent smut #ted lasso fic #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso fanfiction

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angel-inked · 1 month ago

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They deserve comfort

Because I said so! As much as I love writing angst, these boys need someone to look after them

Taglist: @vvkingofgaybisciutsvv @thequeenofthewinter @thedevilshardy @mollybegger-blog @wandawiccan60 @cameleonhardyfan63 @hoodeddreams13 @inkwolvesandcoffee @liliac-dreamer @potter-solomons @hecatemoon87

Just breathe

The thing about Johnny, he wasn't always bigger than the other guy in a fight, but he had always had this mean streak in him, unafraid to fight dirty and take the cheep shots when they presented themselves, anything that gave him an edge. That's why he liked Tony's place. He could angrily stalk off to the gents room unbothered after some nobody pushed buttons hardly anybody without a Vandals rocker on their back knew he had. The door undoubtedly added to the bruising after hitting the wall hard enough that it flung back into his shoulder, though he couldn't feel much apart from the unbridled tightness in his core. Once the door had slammed shut behind him, he leaned back and thudded his head against it hard enough that the sign probably fell off the other side. His fists clinched and quivered at his sides as he drew audible breaths into the tense muscles of his chest, forcing his stiff jaws to separate as the ache in his head spiked. He peeled himself off the door and moved to the sink to rinse his blooded knuckles. Water tinged pink swirled in the sink basin, disappearing down the drain, stray droplets, and a sheen only visible from the right angle were the only signs that it had ever been there at all. An angry flash of red in the mirror caught his eye. A crimson trail started at his temple and ran down over his cheek, well, that it explained the headache. A droplet fell from his jaw, landing in the basin, deluding when absorbed by a water drop and vanished into the drain pipe. A heavy sigh left Johnny's lips, pillowilng his head on his forearms, wanting nothing but to disassociate from everything.

He'd partially succeeded when the feeling of cloth being pressed against his head brought him back to himself. "Breathe, Johnny, Breathe." The light sound of Brucie's voice and the hand rubbing calming circles into his back melted whatever tension he had left in his body. He straightened up to meet his lieutenant, more importantly, his long-time friend, eye to eye. "Good god," Brucie's eyes darted all over his face, driving him to the conclusion that he looked as shity as he felt, "What the hell did they hit you with?" Brucie asked. "Couldn't tell ya." Johnny replied, matching the amused smile that appeared on the other man's face. An easy silence filled the space between them as Brucie continued to quell his bleeding wound, and they each simply enjoyed the company of the other. Brucie was the only Vandal Johnny confessed his turbulent home life to, and Johnny had been there, pulling Brucie back from drinking himself into the ground when his parents passed a week apart. Before the club was even thought of, they stuck together because it seemed that nobody else wanted them. "Come on," Brucie piped up, stuffing his now blood-stained bandana back in its pocket. "I'll buy you something to eat." Johnny shook his head, opening his mouth to protest, but Brucie wasn't having it. "I know you, you practically live off coffee and Rockets, and I'll force feed you if I have to." Johnny let his lips pull themselves into a smile. There, of course, was no real heat behind Brucie's words, but the intent spoke for itself. "Is that a threat or a promise?" Johnny asked, Brucie laughed and clapped his old friend on the shoulder as he herded him towards the door.

Worth fighting for

To say you were pissed off would be an understatement. Murderous was a better word for it. Paddy was sober and in a good mood to boot, Brendan and Tommy were even pleasant and civil with each other. How quickly things turned sour was almost impressive. Some things should've been left unsaid. You'd never seen your sister-in-law get that cross with her husband, planting herself in the middle of the yelling match going on between Paddy and Brendan as you slowly edged Tommy out of room, hoping neither of the older men turned their attention to him, more then happy to let Tess run damage control. Once the altercation was out of sight, there was the unmistakably sound of someone receiving a slap, then nothing except Tess letting loose a string of curses. And maybe it was bad of you to think this, but something in you hoped Paddy had been on the receiving end. This is why you refused to leave Tommy alone in the presence of his dad and brother. Once out on the sidewalk, Tommy gripped his short brown hair with both hands and exhaled sharply. You knew the slight pain of a hair pull was nothing compared to all the injuries Tommy had endured, but the stress response still shattered the soft spot you felt for him. "I haven't heard that since mom and I left." He murmured softly as you snaked your arms around his waist and backed him up the few steps it took for his broad back to hit the side of your jeep. "I know." What else were you supposed to say? Tommy may have been numb to the active war zone that he called his childhood home, but now he'd grown used to being away from it, to the domestic home life the two of you had built together with Arrow and Bowie, your twin huskys. The other thing you kept on hand at home, was your husband's comfort food, "Spicy ramen for dinner?" You asked softly. "Yes," Tommy answered, kissing your temple, grateful to have you in his life.

#hope you enjoy #tom hardy #Johnny Davis the bikeriders #tommy conlon warrior

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marsosims · 1 year ago

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hi, hello! hope you have a wonderful day and lots of fun with the new pack! i was wondering how to decorate/build in the new world to make it realistic bc i want to lean into the whole SEA flair without making too sterotypical i hope you know what i mean lol so some help from someone who's filipino like yourself would mean lots for me!!

Before I answer this question, I'd just like to preface that I am NOT an expert and I'm just sharing my personal thoughts and ideas :)

marsosims' tips to decorating tomarang builds

Use references. I think this is probably the most important tip that I can tell you. Use references, you won't regret it! Whether it's from google earth, Pinterest, or even drawings - you have a TON of reference materials!

Here are some illustrations: Top image is a still from the movie, "Hayop Ka!", Bottom left from Arlo Jhan Bayot, Right from Albert Tan

Here are some pictures - these ones are more or less middle class, but some shared characteristics between most of them are bright walls (usually cement, wood, and the occasional fake brick wall), fenced in yards (if you could call them that), wrought iron, and most importantly, plants.

PLANTS. GO CRAZY. SEA countries are located in the tropics, which means that they have very diverse foliage... SO like go wild if you want to (especially if building in the more rural part of Tomarang). People will also have a lot of potted plants, like:

(Bougainvilleas are usually a favorite - idk if the sims has any like it?)

OPEN LAYOUT FLOORPLANS. Most houses are open concept, and hallways for residential buildings are pretty rare in my opinion.

Another thing to note are dirty kitchens, which are basically outside kitchens that you do all of your cooking so that the smell doesn't stick to your things (this is important because as I said - most houses are open concept). Cooking inside is also pretty unpleasant because SEA COUNTRIES ARE HOTTTT.

Use tiles. With interiors, I'd say that it usually varies but a staple in most homes are tiled floors, because they are cool (not in a fashion way and more a literal way) and are resistant to floods.

I almost never see people have wooden floors unless the house was an ancestral house or the house is on the cheaper side (but even then, I usually see cement or tiled floors). If you do see some wooden floors, my bet is that they're one of those cheap linoleum / vinyl ones (idk what they are exactly)

I also never see people use carpets or rugs - probably a bit too much of a hassle to deal with (but they do exist!).

As for walls, they're usually just left as cement or wood. Wallpapers weren't all that popular until recently during the pandemic when people got bored and started putting up wallpapers ksdhbfsd

Use wooden furniture where possible! Plus points if you use glass somehow. Most things are wooden, and usually do not match with each other. It actually drives me crazy at home because none of the wood tones match, but it's comforting in a way. You can see an example of this on the image above. If things weren't made of wood, they were usually plastic :)

Display those trophies / certificates! Filipinos are VERY proud of their achievements. Feel free to display those trophies, certificates, etc. front and center of your homes, where guests can see them.

These are all the things I can think of! I'm sorry it's a little rambly kscfksdfh I tried my best o7

If you have any questions, feel free to shoot them my way. ALSOO I'd just like to reiterate that these are just based on my personal experiences and thoughts and not everything I say may not necessarily be true for every SEA person (or even Filipino). OK BYE

#marso #a #asks #building tips?#decorating tips?#idk

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shootybangbang · 1 year ago

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The Upsides of Property Damage [Part 4/5]

Authored by @verai-marcel and @shootybangbang

[Ao3 link]

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Mature

[Content Advisory]: light D/S undertones

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

[Author's Note]: Thank you guys so, so much for your patience, and so sorry for the delay! Most of chapter 5 has been completed and should be out soon. If you want to be notified when that comes out, go ahead and leave a comment down below and I'll make a taglist or something.

--------

The maintenance request form states: [Please give a brief description of the problem.]

for the past few days i've been so fixated on fucking the maintenance man that i've been having difficulty accomplishing basic tasks because every time i try to concentrate on anything even remotely meaningful all i can think about is him saying "maybe you just enjoy my company" and if this keeps up i'm fairly certain that i'm going to actually get fired from my job so clearly i need to either get laid or get evicted

This statement makes you look certifiably insane. It’s not even a request– it’s a confession . Sending this would be tantamount to seating yourself beside the grated window of a church booth and asking its captive priest whether he’d prefer you spit or swallow.

More importantly, it also exceeds the text box’s 250 character limit. You rapidly tap the delete key until the entire obscene paragraph disappears. Then you try again.

broken cabinet.

Hmm. Lacks an element of genuine contrition.

broken cabinet. sorry. :’(

[Your service request has been logged. Please allow up to one standard business day for a response.]

You glance at the time displayed on the microwave’s grease-spattered screen. 4:36PM. Morgan’s probably already packed up for the day– and taking normal operating hours into account, the earliest he could possibly show up tomorrow would be 9AM… which gives you at least sixteen hours to emotionally prepare yourself to confront him.

Morosely, you drag yourself out of your kitchen chair to pour yourself a glass of sparkling water. So this is what I’ve sunk to . Using service requests as a means of personal summons for the hot repairman. Pathetic. Shameful. And 100% necessary for the preservation of your sanity.

How many times have you pictured it now? Morgan, cornering you against the wall and wrapping his hand around your jaw… Or maybe , he’d rumble, caressing your lower lip with his thumb. You just enjoy my company . Then he’d fuck you silly, of course, in a series of lurid positions that grow increasingly obscene with each imagining.

And how many times have you pictured its inverse? Morgan, backing away in response to your hypothetical advance, his face contorted with faint disgust as he asks, “You know I was just joking, right?” Following which you’d get written up for sexual harassment by the leasing office and put on… housing probation, or something.

Being humiliated, you can handle. Albeit not very well— but you’re usually able to stay at least semi-functional. The same goes for flirtation. It’s this hopeless vacillation between the two possibilities that drives you out of your mind. Schrodinger’s boner: simultaneously fucked and unfucked. And like that quantum superposition, you’ve been plunged into a private hell of uncertainty until your reality can settle definitively on one or the other.

This has been predictably bad for your job performance. Earlier today, you’d accidentally deleted two entire spreadsheets of data whilst lost in competing visions of fornication and abject rejection, and then constructed a pivot table so incomprehensible that one of your colleagues had personally reached out to ask whether you’d recently experienced head trauma.

God. At this point, you really have no choice but to put the question to him directly. Plain and simple. Just a quick “are you hitting on me” and it’ll all be–

Your thoughts are interrupted by an urgent knock at the door.

Huh. Looks like Defying Your Blue Collar Dom is getting delivered a day early? It’s unusual for Amazon to leave packages at your doorstep instead of in the lobby, but it does happen, so…

…Oh.

It’s Morgan. What the fuck.

“But you were supposed to come tomorrow ,” you blurt, eyes wide with panic.

“That so?” Morgan asks, one eyebrow raised. He glances sidelong to the empty hallway, and shifts his weight uneasily from one leg to the other. With a shrug, he squares up his shoulders and turns back towards the stairwell. “Later, then.”

Shit. This is all going wrong. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that I– I, uh…I’m… ”

He allows your stammer to run its course into awkward silence. Then the corner of his mouth angles upwards in a sly smile and he asks, “Or d’you need a minute to put away anything else your ‘friend’ mighta left out? I can wait.”

Somewhere in the realm of missed quips, there probably exists a clever response to this. Somewhere that is decidedly not here. “No,” you reply in a small, pained voice. “She, uh– she hasn’t been around, so… y’know…”

The sentence unspools like loose yarn. Jesus Christ, this is stupid.

“You alright?” Morgan asks, frowning down at you from where he stands. “You ain’t normally this incoherent.”

His comment implies that you’ve been operating thus far on an existing, baseline level of incoherence. Biting back the urge to query exactly what that looks like, you reply with a clipped, terse, “I’m fine.”

As you lead him towards your kitchen, you nearly trip over the half-packed suitcase parked beside the door. At this, Morgan again voices his concern. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this on edge before. Something botherin’ you?”

Yes , you think to yourself. My libido.

“Or is it some one that’s botherin’ you?”

He says the words with such a darkly implicative undertone that you actually turn around to stare at him, disarmed by the sudden shift. The warmth in his eyes has gone out like a blown candle. “Is it one of the other maintenance men?” he asks, and the whisper of lethality in his countenance surfaces so quickly that it speaks to a kind of practiced efficiency.

A mingled thrill of fear and intrigue runs up your spine, and you swallow hard.

“If one of ‘em’s harassin’ you— if anyone’s harassin’ you…” he says these words with slow deliberation, while curling his free hand into a fist, thumb tucked over his folded fingers in that characteristic manner of boxers and street brawlers alike, and god if he were anyone else you’d likely be shrinking against the wall in terror right now. “Then you come tell me. And I’ll handle it.”

You have a sneaking suspicion that his method of conflict resolution involves grievous bodily injury. “Nobody’s bothering me,” you reply. Then, because he still looks vaguely homicidal, you follow up quickly with, “Just had an off day.”

This placates him somewhat. The tension diminishes like a rope going slack, and you realize with a hot pang of humiliation that your underwear is slick with arousal.

It’s not until he’s crouched in front of your broken cabinet, which stands ajar with its wooden door peaked at a 45 degree angle, that you finally work up the nerve to confront him. “So. Morgan.” You lean against the edge of your kitchen countertop like the faux marble might offer you emotional support. “There’s, uh. Something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

He’s sorting through his tool kit and doesn’t lift his head. Picks through an array of silver chiseled pieces so deftly that you can’t help but wonder what else those hands might be clever at. “Yeah?’ he asks, selecting a screwdriver head. He slips it into the drill chuck, twisting it tight.

“Are you, um…”

Fuck. You can’t say it. Your mouth literally refuses to shape itself to the words. Instead, you hear yourself ask, “Are you thirsty? You want some seltzer?”

Morgan blinks, then turns to you looking predictably baffled. “That’s… what you’ve been wantin’ to ask me? Whether or not I’m thirsty?”

“Yes,” you reply weakly.

For once, it’s him who’s been caught off guard. “I– uh. Sure, I guess.”

He takes his drill and begins to remove the damaged hinge. Taking the door leaf and flipping it this way and that, he examines the damage.

The crack of aluminum when you pull back the can’s metal tab and the responding fizz of compressed air sounds a little like a rebuke. Scathingly, it hisses: what the hell are you doing?

I have no idea , you admit, pouring the can of sparkling water into a clean glass. You pass it over to Morgan after he presses the trigger on the drill twice and sets it on the countertop. He gulps down an absent mouthful, then immediately stands up to spit it in your sink.

Oh. He hates it.

Your voice is thin as a reed. “I guess you’re not a fan of sparkling grapefruit, huh?”

“It’s…” With the duty-bound reluctance of a dog given a loathed order, he takes another, tentative sip, and forces himself to swallow. “It’s fine.”

It is clearly not fine. “Do you, uh. Do you want a beer?”

“What, you encouragin’ me to drink on the job?”

You open the fridge. Good god, you might as well partake too. It’s not like you’re in any state to get any work done, stuck as you are in this miserable limbo . “In any case, I’m gonna have one. And I’m still on the clock.”

“Alright.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “So long as you’re complicit, why not?”

You end up downing half a bottle of 8% oatmeal stout in about three sips, then stand around blankly waiting for the roil of anxiety to abate. You’d attempt the precarious endeavor of small talk were it not for the fact that the only thing you can think of right now is “grapefruit”. Not the concept of grapefruit. Just the word “grapefruit”. This must be how computers feel when they spit out the same, continuous error message.

Mercifully, he intervenes. “You goin’ on vacation somewhere? Saw that suitcase by your door.”

“Catsitting,” you say.

“’…s’cuse me?”

“Catsitting. Like… babysitting. But for a cat,” you explain. “My friend’s going to Vegas the day after tomorrow, and her cat has anxiety.”

“Cats can get anxiety?”

“This cat takes cat Xanax . His name is Sebastian, and he’s the most neurotic animal I’ve ever met.”

Morgan asks, “Yourself included?”

You make a noise that bears no resemblance to any word in the English language.

He chuckles. “Well, go on, tell me how neurotic he is.”

Thank fucking christ, the alcohol is finally beginning to course its way through your blood. Your tongue loosens enough to tell him how poor Sebastian had spent nearly an entire day curled up under your friend’s bed the first time you’d tried to take care of him, how you’d ended up driving to the grocery on a Sunday morning to scour the shelves for the most pungent can of sardines they had in stock, and how only then , with the room saturated in fish fumes, had the cat finally dragged itself out of the boxspring to nose curiously at your offering.

Morgan laughs. A good sign, you think. “That’s nothin’,” he says, and describes to you his boss’ cat: a purebred white Persian appropriately dubbed “The Count”, so thoroughly spoiled that she won’t eat the same meal twice in a row.

You snort at the image of a prissy little fluff ball turning her nose at a gourmet cat meal.

“Though it’s funny, I never took you for a cat person,” he says.

“No?”

“Figured you’d prefer snails.”

“Look, snails… snails are…” This is a sentence you started with absolutely no knowledge of how it should end. “I like snails,” you say lamely.

“Oh yeah? Think I remember somethin’ else that you like.” He puts his hand around his jaw and pretends to look thoughtful. “What was that book called again? Somethin’ about… bein’ punished by blue collar doms?”

“I’m sure that my friend who left her book on blue collar doms here very much enjoys them, if that’s what you’re referencing.”

He merely chuckles indulgently as he continues to fix the cabinet. You watch his muscles flex under his shirt as he drills new holes into the wood and sets the new hinge in place. As he works the power tool with a soft grunt, you find yourself idly wondering if he’d make the same sound as he drills you —

“Y’know,” he comments, stepping back as he tests the alignment of the door. “I’m actually kind of impressed. This is the most work I’ve ever had to do for a single apartment, barring natural disasters.”

“Wow. Comparing a girl to a natural disaster. Are you this charming with all the tenants, Mr Morgan?”

“You gonna be jealous if I say ‘yes’?”

The alcohol makes you honest. “Extremely.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” He grabs the edge of the kitchen counter and hauls himself back to his feet. “If this is the amount of property damage you cause normally, then I’d hate to see you angry.”

He takes another step forward. You take a step back reflexively, but find yourself pressed against the wall. He leans his forearm against the drywall and he’s close enough now that you can smell sweat and machine oil. Your heart beats hard in your chest.

For once you’re lost for words. No quip comes to mind, for your brain is emitting sparks. “I, uh– I’m not–”

“You’re not what, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” you say weakly.

He raises his hand to your jaw, tips your chin up with two fingers. “The answer’s ‘no’, by the way,” he says quietly. “It’s just you.”

Morgan looks like he’s going to kiss you. The expression on his face is softer than you’ve ever seen it, all his gruffness melted away. You tentatively tug at the fabric of his jumpsuit and stand on your toes to–

But he puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you back down. “Goddamn,” he says, frowning. “You’re really red.”

Huh. What.

“Listen, I ain’t one for takin’ advantage of drunks, even if they got themselves into this mess.” He picks you up as if you weigh nothing at all and sets you down on the couch. “Now, I’m goin’ to get you some water, and yer goin’ to sit here and sober up while I finish this cabinet. Alright?”

“I’m not even that drunk,” you protest loudly.

“Yer about the color of a fire hydrant right now.”

When you press the back of your hand to your cheeks and forehead, your skin feels feverish. Begrudgingly, you sink down into your couch cushions and cross your arms.

“Good girl,” he rumbles, patting your head affectionately.

***

You slouch on your friend’s comfy couch with Sebastian sitting regally in your lap as if you were his loyal subject.

“Hey Sebastian, I think I did something really stupid.”

Sebastian stretches and yawns.

“I hit on the maintenance man.”

He meows. It sounds almost disapproving. Even the cat is judging you.

“It gets worse.” You loll your chin downwards until it touches your chest. “I was sloppy drunk.”

Sebastian tilts his head at you and blinks.

“Okay, one bottle drunk.”

He sniffs haughtily.

“Right? Pathetic, I know.” You move to pick up Sebastian, but he begins to arch his back and you stop, leaning back against the cushions again. He relaxes and maintains his regal position.

“Well, maybe YouTube will keep my mind off him for the next two days…”

***

You return from your friend’s place, having used her cat and your friend’s YouTube Premium as your therapy sessions. You feel better about things now, and life should return to normal. Right?

The washer’s inner mechanism gives a promising rattle as it swallows your last six quarters. There’s a low rumble of moving parts, the click of something slotting into place— and then silence. The drum of the machine sits sedately in place. Your dirty clothes sit inside in a quiet, unsoaked heap.

“Son of a bitch,” you mutter under your breath.

You try out a couple different methods: Turn the knobs to various settings without success. Jiggle the handle to try and unlock the washer door. Yell at the machine, call it a worthless piece of shit.

But where discourse fails, violence often prevails. It’s a lesson that has offered a decent measure of success in your dealings with vending machines, keurigs, and lawnmowers. So it’s not merely anger that guides you to kick the washer. No, this is… this is a strategic use of force.

The first kick yields no results. The second kick produces an interesting sputter. Perhaps , you reason, a more precise method is needed here . You raise your fist.

Before you can punch the machine, someone grabs you by the wrist.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Morgan asks, exasperated.

“Laundry,” you answer matter-of-factly.

“What part of laundry involves fightin’ inanimate objects?”

“The part where I get this piece of shit to finally work.” You attempt to give the washer a last parting shot out of pure anti-machine sentiment with your other hand.

Before you can continue to perform percussive maintenance, he grabs your other wrist too.

You tug on both your arms, but he is ridiculously solid; it’s like trying to break free of handcuffs.

Of course my mind goes there.

Looking up at him, he’s realizing at the same time as you of how suggestive this looks. His eyes widen a bit, and you take that as a look of surprise and embarrassment. Yet neither of you moves for a full minute.

“Well,” you say finally. “Are you gonna let me go? Or are you gonna make me submit?”

His eyes narrow for a moment before a smirk slowly grows on his face. “Sounds like that’s what you want.”

He pulls you away from the machine and instead pushes you up against the closest wall. You can feel the heat of his body through the thin linen of your sundress. He traps your wrists against the cold surface and presses his whole body against yours.

“Mr Morgan—”

“It’s Arthur,” he interrupts. “Call me Arthur.”

You whisper his name, beckoning. His expression darkens ever so slightly as his desire for you manifests in a slight twitch of his lips, a crinkling of his brow.

Then he kisses you hard, his tongue lashing against yours before lightly nipping your bottom lip. When he pulls back, his lips are wet and his pupils are blown out with desire.

Letting go of your wrists, he reaches for the hem of your sundress and hikes it up, his calloused hands stroking upwards from your thighs to your hips. He shifts his knee between your legs and nudges them apart before grinding against you. You can feel how hard he is, how big he is, and you moan softly. Burying his head between your neck and shoulder, he begins to suck on the delicate skin there—

The door creaks open. Mrs. Smith, the septuagenarian from down the hall, walks into the doorway with a hamper of laundry in her arms, then pauses when she sees the two of you.

For a second, everyone stands tense and still as participants in a shootout.

“Well,” Mrs. Smith says mildly. She doesn’t look surprised or scandalized. If anything, she looks mildly entertained. “I can see you two are busy. I’ll come back in an hour or so—”

“No! It’s fine,” you say before laughing nervously. You yank your skirt back down. Arthur immediately releases you and begins intensely inspecting the washing machine. “I was actually just leaving. This, uh, this machine’s broken.”

Morgan’s face is red as he makes a noise of confirmation and nods.

“That certainly seemed a novel means of repair,” Mrs. Smith says. The smile on her face is benign, but knowing.

“Anyway!” You pick up your empty laundry basket. “I really must get back. I have a…that is, I… I think I left my oven on.”

You barrel out the door, nearly knocking Mrs. Smith over in your escape. You run down three flights of stairs and into your apartment, slamming the door shut. Marching to your couch, you put a pillow over your face and scream .

***

Watching her leave, Arthur stands in shock at first, then glances over at Mrs. Smith and turns himself towards one of the washing machines, examining it with great focus.

A soft chuckle reaches his ears and he turns his head to look at the old lady, steadily pulling out one piece of laundry at a time from another machine. Under the pretense of examining all the machines, he notes that she also slowly and methodically loads the dryer.

“You should just go after her,” she says quietly, throwing a pair of large pink underpants into the dryer. “She’s a nice one, that girl.”

Arthur can only mutter, “I got work to do.”

“Come now, we both know that’s a lie.”

He sighs. It’s bad enough that John is on his case, but now 705 is giving him grief.

“Do you like her?”

He’s silent. He does not want to be having this conversation.

“Because a girl as pretty as her…”

“I know, I know,” Arthur grumbles. “I’m goin’.”

As he walks past her, Mrs. Smith grins knowingly.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #modern au #verai-marcel #upsides of property damage

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thegamingcatmom · 6 months ago

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Henlo :3 I have 2 questions! Just 2... For now. The first one is how does MC split her time between her 3 very needy mates?Do they fight each other to spend more time with MC? do they do things the 4 of them together? Does MC have a preference?

And how do they arrange the sleeping schedule? In case of MC would use them as teddybear because I feel there is gonna be catfights for that precious spot xD also what do they do while MC is sleeping?

Okay those were more than 2 questions idk how to count it would seem 😭

Have a good day and thanks for all the content on the sisters❤️

Hellaw, dear. ❤️

Does MC have a preference?

Nope. She loves to spend time with each of them in an equal amount. Also because each of them feeds a different "need" of hers due to their different personalities. So I'd say MC gets the best of three worlds:

Tanya: dominant

Kate: childish

Irina: motherly

How does MC split her time between her mates? Do they fight each other to spend more time with MC? Do they do things the 4 of them together?

Hmm, I think the question shouldn´t be how she splits her time, but when. And I think that mainly depends on two factors:

who needs her most?

who does she need most?

Like, yknow, there isn´t that much splitting involved actually. The sisters have always been a unit, way before MC. Perhaps that´s why fate decided for them to have one and the same mate? They´ve always been a package deal, so I don´t see why that should change now.

Of course there´s days where one might need her more than the other two. Or where she needs one of them specifically. But that´s always communicated and everyone involved understands that.

Will there be fights? I mean, they´re still vampires. And, more importantly, they´re still sisters. So the tolerance for each other miiiiight waver just a bit on certain days which will result in bickering, and bickering, and some more bickering. Similar to Tanya & Kate in The Sisters I´d say, minus the physical aspect perhaps. 😅

(Or not. 👀)

So yes, there´s some fighting sometimes, but that´s more along the lines of-

Tanya: "That´s my seat."

Tanya: *points to the spot right next to MC*

Kate, sitting in that exact spot: "Oh? I don't see your name on it."

Tanya: *seethes*

Kate: *pats herself on the back internally*

Irina, on the other side of MC reading her book, never lifting her gaze: "Why not just take the other couch?"

Tanya: "...That´s my seat."

Tanya: *points to exactly where Kate´s sitting*

Irina: 🙄

Kate: 😏

Tanya: 😠

MC, used to that bickering: 🙄😏

MC: *gets up, grabs Tanya, plonks her down right where she´s been sitting moments before, plonks herself down in her lap, goes right back to playing her game*

Tanya: 🥰

also Tanya, behind MC at Kate: 😏

Kate, whose plan backfired tremendously: 👀😤

Irina, content with her seat and her book: 😌📕

LIKE, YKNOW??

By now, MC´s well-versed in dealing with such moments. She mostly goes by who the bigger asshat is basically, lol. Like, she knew right away what Kate´s intention was here (to drive Tanya up a wall, as per usual), so she was like "You´re adorable, but no."

It´s like a mom with her kids: She knows instinctively who´s in need of a timeout and who to give the time of the day. 😅

I think all of that also answers the last question:

Yes, all 4 of them spend their time mostly together.

How do they arrange the sleeping schedule? What do they do while MC´s sleeping? What happens when one becomes the teddybear (while the other two are forced to suffer in silence)?

Pretty much in the same way they do everything else I´d say: Together with some bickering in-between. There´s no schedule, really.

They´ll mostly just chill on the bed with MC, each of them touching some other part of her as they do their own thing. Which is...being. Literally. They´re vampires, so they have no problem with remaining in the same position for hours on end. It can get a bit...spooky, actually - waking up to three pairs of eyes staring down at you, unblinking, unmoving. Something MC has openly told them at the very beginning of their relationship. Like, honestly-

Do something. Anything.

So, that´s what they´ll do. Literally anything. Whether that be reading a book, playing a game, listening to music, or simply snuggling up to MC (which might start a new round of quiet bickering). Anything but looking like statues, please and thank you.

They´ve gotten a lot better at it though, it has to be said. Humaning, that is.

As for MC (unconsciously) choosing someone to be her teddybear? I mean-

LISTEN-

They know she has no control over it. They know it happens randomly. They know she´s not playing favorites on purpose. They know the sister she chose cannot, under no circumstances move a muscle and risk waking their peacefully sleeping mate. They know their sister is not to blame for any of this.

They know all this, and yet...

(Please keep in mind: Vampires work on a different frequency. Meaning: They can speak in a volume that´s inaudible to humans, but very much audible to them.)

MC: *snuggles up to Irina, who she happens to face anyway*

Irina: 🥰

Tanya & Kate: *utter betrayal and indignation written across their faces*

Irina, already done af about the bickering sure to come: "...What now?"

Kate: "What do you mean what now?"

Kate: *points to MC snuggled up to Irina*

Irina: *facepalms*

Tanya: "I would like to point out that this-"

Tanya: *points to Irina*

Tanya: "-has always been my seat."

Irina: *facepalms even harder*

MC: *snuggles in even more*

Tanya & Kate: ❓😤❓

Irina: 🤦‍♀️

Not Tanya pulling a Sheldon Cooper on her sisters. AGAIN. 😭

Thanks a lot for your ask(s)! 💋

And thank you for your lovely words. ❤️

Have a great day!

#tumblr asks #twilight #the twilight saga #the denalis #denali coven #the denali sisters #tanya denali #kate denali #irina denali

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ceruleanserendipity · 1 year ago

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The Magnus Protocol, Horror, and the Ouroborous of Love and Obsession

Buckle up.

Also known as "Goose is Very, Very Normal About How Love, Obsession, and Consumption (no, not that kind) Are Prevalent in Horror Media."

ALSO known as "I Can't Stop Thinking About The Magnus Protocol and the Running Theme, So You Get to Suffer With Me!"

Okay. Hi, hello, I'm Goose, and I needed to write about this before I annoy all of my friends too much about it. Horror is one of my favorite genres in any medium, and I love literary analysis. I've been listening to The Magnus Protocol (an excellent podcast) like my life depends on it, so I of course have thoughts.

Let's talk love. Love is an amazing theme in any medium, and personally one of my favorite things to look for. Like, romance movies are incredibly popular for a reason right? I will never dog on a good romcom or fairytale. HOWEVER. Something I appreciate about horror, specifically film and TV, is how love is an underlying theme. There are so many ways to portray love as a persisting force in horror; one of my favorite examples of this is The Haunting of Bly Manor (and like, everything Mike Flanagan does, honestly). The driving force of this show lies in Dani and her relationships, the way she deals with an ex-love, the way she comes to terms with a new one, and most importantly, in how her love continues throughout the horror of the series and even after, a persevering thing that makes me swoon more than a Nicholas Sparks book. I don't want to get too detailed, because, well, spoilers, but I wanted to give you my baseline idea on love as a thematic element.

Obsession. A word that tends to be thrown around rather lightly, and I am guilty! "Oh I'm obsessed," "latest obsession," etc. etc. etc.. Obsession in its barest form though is something that is constant preoccupation, invading daily life. All-consuming passion, something you can't get rid of easily. Love can devolve into obsession if one isn't careful, which is why the inherent horror of love and obsession go hand in hand, a snake eating its own tail and never letting go, because what would one abstract be without the other?

Now, let's talk Magnus!

In The Magnus Archives, there is a very clear love in a very twisted sense (mm my favorite). Who's the first person that comes to mind? Jane Prentiss, of course! She succumbs to the Corruption. The Corruption itself preys on those who are susceptible to toxicity, who have trouble with boundaries in relationships. Something I've always found terribly interesting is that desire to be consumed by something you adore so much. I understand it. In fact, many of the Fears in Archives are tied to some form of love, adoration, even worship.

This isn't exactly the case in The Magnus Protocol, at least, not the way I see it.

Thus far, Protocol has been distinctly more focused on body horror (another rant about my love for that another day) but something I've noticed since the first episode is that love, specifically obsession with something the subject loves, is prevalent throughout each "statement," as I've been calling them. While I'm aware they aren't true statements, but rather case files, in a sense, I'm attached to the term, so I'm sticking with it. Argue with the wall.

Episode one, we see two instances of love— first in a woman searching so desperately for her husband that she's willing to risk her safety for love. Secondly, we see a person so obsessed with exploration that he spirals into mania. Is it a passion? Yes. Hobbies, like urban exploration, are inherently something to be loved.

Episode two, the search for perfection is deeply tied to obsession. To mania. Daria is entrenched in the idea of loving oneself to the extent that she is willing to mutilate herself for it. Again, obsession. Devotion.

Episode three, the doctor is so in love with his wife (toxic love is, unfortunately, still a form of love. Infatuation perhaps, but a form of love nonetheless.), that he kills her. His later fixation after her death, causing that spiral into madness, is the product of going "further," as I mentioned earlier.

Episode four. Perfection is holding hands with obsession. Wanting to be perfect at something you adore is relatable, isn't it? There is so much inherent terror in adoration, and that's the real crux of this episode, at least in my personal opinion.

EP FIVE SPOILERS BELOW!!!

In episode five, it took me a moment to really jive with the story, but our narrator's love of horror itself is his downfall. His desensitization, his familiarity, it makes him foolhardy. Hasn't that happened to you? Being blindsided by the thing you treasure most, the thing that brings you comfort?

At its core, horror is hungry and consumptive. Most, if not all, horror will have something that requires a "sacrifice," or something of the sort. A slasher needs a victim, a demon needs a body, a knife needs blood, a voyeur needs a subject. Love and obsession are separated by the thinnest air; infatuation and love are so quick to consume a person that it is one of the more dangerous experiences. Love drives a person to fear, whether that's losing oneself or the object of affection. We fear what we love. We become addicted to that exhilaration of heightened fear response.

At the present moment, Protocol has been hitting it out of the park when weaving love into its stories, and I, for one, can't wait for more.

If you have complaints, leave them in the box.

Kisses!!!! Love from,

Goose <3

#tmp spoilers #the magnus protocol #tmp #goose talks media #also vaguely #tma #the magnus archives

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bueris · 10 months ago

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not going home club (hiori yo)

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angst, hiori parent bashing, 1.9k words

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Music blasted in his ears, as loud as he could stand it, heavy bass and raggedly screamed lyrics drowning out his roommates conversation. God, guys his age could be so fucking loud and for what? To be stupid? Yeah, he was being salty but when wasn’t he, he just made sure no one else saw it.

Hiori remembered the sentence that made the headphones get brought out, it wasn’t even a full one…

“When I go home-” and that’s all he heard before he decided to tap out of the conversation. His headphones were in his hands and turned on before he really recognised what he was doing, getting frustrated with the way they refused to pair with his phone. They did eventually though, thank fucking god for that, and metal was playing through them soon after.

Sure, he felt slightly guilty for getting pissed over some small and insignificant comment his friend said. But he didn’t do anything, didn’t yell or get pissy so maybe he shouldn’t beat himself up so damn much. Still, though, he felt silly for getting so worked up for something so small but hey, he had his reasons.

The thought of going home felt physically repulsive, like he wanted to rip out from his skin and get as far away from the thought as possible. Whenever the thought crossed his mind it felt like his whole brain came to a full stop, like it hit a brick wall that prevented him from continuing along those tracks.

Of course he didn’t want to go back, he had no plan to, actually. His parents didn’t give a fuck about him, Yo, the child they had, no they only gave a fuck about what he could do, pressing him into their shitty mould to coping with being second rate halfwits who couldn’t succeed with their own lives. Seriously, Yo’d seen those American pageant videos online, you know the one, dozens of little kids forced into the stupidest, most invasive procedures to live out the half baked dreams of their mothers who only wanted to live through them by dressing them up like they were a doll and not a person.

He related to those kids so fucking much it hurt, yeah he liked doing football now but in no way did that mean that he forgave his parents for being like that. The way waking up felt pointless and empty because the day would be filled with doing shit you had no fucking say in built up over years and crushed him with its void-like weight, soul sucking and soul crushing.

Sometimes he feels like he’d betrayed himself, his young self, the one who hurt his ankle and realised his parents didn’t really love him in the same few minutes, the one that desperately tried to be good so they’d keep loving him and more importantly each other, by learning to enjoy football in his own way. That petulant child kicked him on the inside, cleat covered foot driving its too-firm outsole into the backs of him eyes, reminding him of everything that drove him insane.

Yo didn’t really feel guilt about the resentment he harboured for his parents, no, he couldn’t. They really were exceptionally stupid, emotional creatures that were so desperate for the centre of the limelight that they just had to make a whole new person about it? He felt angry on behalf of his younger self too, how dare they do something so fucking selfish? How dare they play with him like he didn’t have his own personhood? How fucking dare they.

Ever since the incident on the stairs he’d doubted every ‘kind’ action they made, doubted the sincerity in them, doubted their motivations. It always felt forced but now he knew it absolutely was, there only just to fulfil his basic needs so he wouldn’t have a breakdown mid match or something, or god forbid, end up in therapy when he could be practising.

God it made him feel mental, how long could someone go without genuine human contact without losing it? He found out, sixteen years. Sixteen years and he still clung on. And he was mad he was clinging on, because he shouldn’t have to fucking cling to the edges of his stability with often-forced politeness, he deserved better.

And that’s why he would never go back home, when Blue Lock was over and he’d ultimately failed because being a striker wasn’t even his goal anymore he’d leave for Tokyo instead of home the second he was left unattended and disappear into the grey jungle and make it alone no matter what. Going home was the same as being stuffed back into a display home, and on top of that he’d have to deal with his parents coping with his failure.

The thought brought a smile to his face, actually, wouldn’t it be so fucking funny to watch their faces fall when his foot crossed the threshold? To watch as half of their lives crumbled into nothing with his very presence, to try and wrap their tiny minds around the fact they’d never get the spotlight they wanted. It was a gleeful feeling, to imagine they’d be crushed with hopelessness, folding under the weight of disappointment the same way he did when he realised he was only worth as much as his football was to them.

Often though, the anger and its accompanying vengeful joy shattered into pained fragments, stabbing and poking at him with an overwhelming sense of loss. If only his parents actually loved him, if only they could look at him and truly see him, witness his truth that strayed from the path they set out and still cradle him in their arms with love and sweet words.

It ached, that longing, constantly. Sometimes it was ignorable but most of the time he could tell it was there, looming over his head like the worst, most decrepit kind of shadow. An all consuming void that soaked up genuine praise like a parched sponge, but never felt full, never satiated. Sometimes he just craved to be held like he should’ve as a child.

Other times, that being most, the waves of anger intersected with the waves of sadness and they dulled each other out like opposite colours being mixed together, red and blue forced to co-exist in the childhood shaped hole in his mind. They cancelled out, filling the base of his being, the root of his psyche with a nothing colour that felt like it could block out the sun. That nothing feeling was so normal, it was everyday, it felt so weird because it was like walking around half deaf. The numbness didn’t feel like much, because he didn’t feel like much and he hadn’t for a very long time, the only breaks from it were filled with ugly feelings he’d rather ignore.

He felt tired a lot of the time, a consequence of the numbness sometimes and a result of his anger burning too bright at others. The tiredness after a bout of anger felt so bone deep, probably because it was, he had nowhere to put it and it dug through the fibres of his muscles and into his bone marrow and from the blood they produced the tiredness spread and filled him. Yo wished his anger could go somewhere, disappear off of his head like steam from water when he put his head on the pillow to finally sleep, he really wished it could.

Blue Lock felt like a monumental chore at first, playing along until he got far enough for his parents to not disown him instantly then quit and disappear. Oh, he wished he could disappear, pack his life into a bag or two and vanish from the face of the earth. Not only that, no, he wanted it to hurt. He wanted it to hurt his family, to watch them mourn the idea of their missing son, the tears they’d shed over their hopes dissolving in front of them as an intangible spectator. He wanted it to hurt him, to feel the guilt and the horrible impending doom of no longer existing as he stuffed clothes into bags until there was nothing left but the mementos that tied him to his parents that he would leave behind forever to collect dust in his empty room that was never really home.

It was a stupid childish fantasy, and a tragedy that he could only imagine half-genuine tears of half-genuine care being shed over him when he wasn’t there. But he could, if he wanted to, disappear into the city and never come back, be swallowed by its crowded streets never to be seen again.

It would be awful, the life of a teen runaway would never be easy, especially in the city. He’d considered the countryside too, miles of forest to hide in and less people to catch him. It would be easier to physically do too, to hop off the bus taking him back home, wait for it to leave and walk in the direct opposite of his house. But he wanted to live properly, live freely in society when he was of age and no longer required to be in his parent’s ‘care’, and he could only do that with a good job. Safe to say, he’d been planning this for a while, since he was a child.

God isn’t that awful? A childish plan that lasted so long it evolved, and all because two people decided to be selfish.

Yo sighed, the paper in front of him wasn’t getting any fuller, what a waste.

He wondered if his parents would’ve been happier if they hadn’t had him. Maybe they would’ve divorced and found something healthier to do with their time than reminisce, maybe his mother would’ve gone somewhere with her life instead of ending up as a miserable stay at home mother, maybe his father wouldn’t be so distant with her. Maybe, just maybe they would’ve moved on from their early peak and been happy.

And so, he felt guilty for existing sometimes, without him they could’ve moved on, had a happy life untethered by accomplishments they didn’t quite get, maybe even had a child they could love right. He kicked himself a little every time a ‘what if’ burrowed its way into his brain, that would never happen and thinking like that is useless because he’ll end up killing himself, and he intends to live long enough to abandon them.

Still, he rewatched the U-20 match sometimes, telling himself over and over that it was for the game play, but only focusing on the interviews at the end. With the glossy eyes of a child he’d watch them, watch as his peers spoke of their families, watch as their families spoke of his peers. There were highlights and social media posts that captured them embracing, the high emotions and the tears and the tight grip they had on one another that spoke of immense pride in them.

Oh, he wanted that, he wanted it dearly because when they did it, it meant something, it was more than some self-congratulatory act. He wanted it, and he mourned all the times he never got it everyday.

And so, no matter what he’d leave them. No more watching himself from someone else’s perspective, no more living for anyone else, from the moment he stepped foot outside his parents property he’d become a member of the world’s loneliest club. The not going home club.

Yo gave up with the paper in front of him, putting the pencil down and taking his headphones off. The chatter had died down, everyone focusing on their work. Next to him, Isagi shuffled closer, their legs brushing. It was a small act but it fit a lot of worth into it, not going home meant finding a new one. He wouldn’t be alone.

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also available on ao3!

thanks for reading ily <3

#hiori yo #bllk fanfic #bllk #blue lock #gave myself a headache writing this

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