#and what people would say years down the line if i ever make it out of this

[noa-nightingale]

Finally had the time and energy to write a list about ep 55 of Pod Watcher (055: We Talk About The Past Year), so here are some things mentioned in that video about the WatcherTV announcement.

Steven said deciding to paywall most of their new content was one of the worst decisions they ever made.

Ryan said they hoped it would make the company more sustainable and they would be able to support their staff members, and that was the primary reason for the decision. He said after realizing what a mistake they had made, they tried to find a better solution that was "more inclusive of all the folks that have helped get us to this point" (i.e. their audience/fans).

Shane acknowledged that people don't react this passionately to things they don't care about.

Shane said some comments went over the line.

Steven said their viewers have to be at the heart of their content.

The shows they make on Watcher are a lot cheaper than the shows they made on Buzzfeed. Buzzfeed Unsolved had more people on staff than their entire company currently has.

Ryan said there was a lot of shame around having made a mistake and having hurt people. He talked about questioning his self-image. He said it took time to grapple with it and that's one of the reasons it has taken so long for them to talk about everything.

They are still figuring out how to make their company and the things they do sustainable.

They took a look at their shows to figure out what is the heart and core of them and what is not necessary (and where costs could be reduced).

Making Travel Season was cheaper than Puppet History and Ghost Files. (And Shane mentioned he saw people weaponizing Steven's ~gold eating~ - I want to mention this specifically because I am still angry about those comments.)

They dropped the "TV caliber content". Steven said this thing that was meant as a positive thing in the beginning became how to reach an imaginary bar that did not actually matter. He says the new bar is how to connect to and inspire their viewers, to be curious and do things they love and care about.

Ryan talked about the ego involved in wanting to push things further and making "TV caliber content" and said that the aftermath of the streamer announcement was an opportunity to refocus on what is actually important.

Steven said he asked around the company what their employees think about Watcher and the word that came up a lot was curiosity - they all care about curiosity and exploration.

Ryan said that sometimes you get misguided and need a smack on the head to get back on track - he said that the reaction to the streamer announcement was the biggest smack on the head he'd ever gotten and that he is grateful for it.

Steven apologized (again) for saying that anyone can afford $6 and that is was insensitive of him. Shane clarified that it was a thing they all released and that there was a lot of scapegoating on Steven.

They did not want to take the Goodbye Youtube down until they had the conversation and without unpacking everything. They want to take it down because it has info in it that is not true anymore. It's not about running away from it.

Steven thanked people for giving constructive criticism.

They talked about the future (very exciting!) and that they looked at what people want to see (which fortunately is also what they themselves want to make).

There will be more Ghost Files and more Mystery Files in 2025.

The channel will lean more into the paranormal, the mystery, the spooky.

Puppet History is coming back!

The food content will be moved to a new home (a new youtube channel). It will still be under Watcher's umbrella.

There will be bonus content on the streamer, including experimental things, new things, exlusive stuff (and Evidence Room lol). The videos will be there one month early and ad-free.

Watcher's discord got migrated over from patreon - if you have access to the streamer, you also have access to the discord.

Kudos to Matty for occasionally interjecting and asking important questions and guiding the conversation.

I tried to keep this short but there was a lot. I still highly recommend watching the entire video. It is not only very introspective but also a fascinating look into the Behind the Scenes at Watcher.

I watched the entire podcast episode again and while I love listening to Steven, Ryan and Shane, it was a bit emotionally draining. Would appreciate a few reblogs. :)

Thanks for reading! <3

[sequinsmile-x]

All I Want for Christmas

Christmas Eve with the Hotchners.

-x-

Hi besties,

One last bit of Christmas fluff for you lovely lot this year. This really is just pure, family fluff and our favs having a typical Christmas eve with their family.

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, and happy mid-week to those who don't. I hope you have a wonderful couple of days no matter what you do and what you celebrate <3

As always, let me know what you think <3

-x-

Warnings: None

Words: 2.1k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

Malls had freaked her out ever since the case with Katie Jacobs. Especially when she was in one with her children, the memory of all the places a little kid could hide, or be hidden, making a shiver run down her spine every time she thought about it. It didn’t help that Aaron wasn’t here with them, that she was on her own and thinking of every terrible thing that could happen to Jack, Hazel and Oliver, but he was on his way. 

The jet had landed back in DC all of 45 minutes ago, and he’d called and told her he’d come and meet her at the mall. He’d sounded tired, worn down by whatever horrors he and the team had seen when they were away. She told him they could just meet him at home, that he didn’t need to come and wait in line with her so the kids could meet some random guy dressed as Santa, but he’d insisted. 

This kind of thing, the achingly normal parts of being a parent and part of a family, were as important to him as they were to her. The extraordinary ordinariness of it all made her emotional sometimes. Love and joy filling the space in her chest that she thinks must have always been waiting for them. Waiting for the man she loves and his son who would one day be hers, and the little girl and boy who would follow.  It was beautiful and hers and everything she never thought she’d get. 

Which is exactly why even though her feet hurt from standing in line for so long on Christmas Eve, and her back hurt from holding Oliver on her hip since she’d lifted him out of the car, she was able to find the joy in waiting in line at the mall for her kids to see Santa. 

Oliver grumbles in Emily’s arms and rubs his face against her neck. She hums and turns to kiss the 10-month-old’s forehead, “I know sweet boy,” she says, kissing him again, “It’s almost nap time, huh?” 

Hazel turns to look at her, her hand still wrapped up in Jack’s where they were standing barely a foot in front of her, “Mommy, I’m bored.” 

“I know, baby,” she says, Emily smiles at the absolute weariness in her four-year-old’s voice and she adjusts her hold on Oliver, so she can run fingers through the little girl’s dark hair as she looks at the line ahead of them and slightly too enthusiastic elves at the front, “But it’s almost our turn.” 

“Santa has a lot of people to talk to,” Jack says, winking at Emily before he turns his attention to his little sister, “It’s only fair everyone gets to talk to him.” 

One evening, back in November, Jack had announced to his parents that he knew Santa wasn’t real. He’d delighted in being in on the secret as much as they’d been sad that he was, a strange mix of sadness spreading through them at the thought of their eldest growing up and pride because of the person he was becoming.

“Exactly,” Emily says, smiling at Jack, “It’s Christmas Eve,” she enthuses, looking back at her little girl, “He’s a busy guy.” 

“Emily!”

She turns at the sound of her husband’s voice and feels herself relax the moment she sees him walking towards them. She leans in to kiss him the moment he’s close enough, her lips stamped against his, “Speaking of busy guys.”

“Hi, sweetheart.” 

She can hear the weariness in his voice, the tiredness brought on by the job they once shared and coming so close to missing Christmas. She’d left the BAU when she had Hazel, something she had never regretted for a second, and she now led the Counterterrorism unit. She’d sent her team early and had her work phone tucked into her pocket in case of an emergency, but it was important to spend Christmas with her kids - especially when they were so young - because her parents had never really spent it with her. It was why she loved Christmas so much, because she saw it through the eyes of her children, the magic of it stronger than it had ever been as she watched them enjoy it too. 

Hazel throws herself at Aaron, excited to see her father after a few days apart, her apparent boredom now forgotten, “Daddy!” 

“Hi princess,” he says, hauling her up into his arms and kissing her cheek before he settles her onto his hip, “Are you excited to see Santa?” 

She nods, “He’s very busy but it’s almost our turn.” 

He smiles and ruffles Jack’s hair, his smile getting wider when he tries to doge his father’s affection, “Hi buddy.” 

“Merry Christmas Eve, Dad.” 

Aaron then leans in to kiss Oliver’s forehead, “Hi Ollie,” he furrows his brow when Oliver grumbles and leans in closer to Emily, his tiny hand tangled up in her necklace. Aaron looks up at Emily, “Is he okay?” 

She nods and rubs a circle on Oliver’s back, “He’s okay, he’s just tired.” 

“The next family can come forward.”

Emily smiles at the elf in front of them and nods her thanks before she looks at the kids, with genuine enthusiasm in her eyes, “Come on, let's go meet Santa.” 

Hazel goes first. She sits on his lap and tells him what she wants - a princess castle which was currently in the home office waiting to be built - and then smiles for her photo. Jack does the same, a knowing look in his eyes as he goes through the motions for the sake of his parents and his sister. 

As Emily expected, the moment she puts Oliver down on Santa’s lap he bursts into tears. He stays there long enough for a picture, something that makes Emily feel a little bad because of just how much it amuses her. She picks him back up again, shushing him as she tries to soothe him, her lips against his temple as she whispers words of comfort in English and French. 

“Why did Ollie cry?” Hazel asks, one hand in Aaron’s and the other in Jack’s as they walk back to the car, “It’s just Santa.” 

“You cried when you first met him too,” Jack says, his smile getting wide when Hazel furrows her brow.

“No, I didn’t.” 

“You did, princess,” Aaron says, smiling as he meets his wife’s eyes, the memory of their little girl, who had only been 6 months old at the time, and the way she’d burst into tears just like Oliver had.

“But I love Santa,” she says, her lower lip stuck out in a pout. 

“Now you do, sweet girl,” Emily replies, “But you were very little. Even littler than Ollie,” she turns to Aaron, sighing when she sees him dig through his pockets for his car keys, wishing more than anything they were driving home together, “See you at home?” 

He nods, “I’ll grab dinner on the way back.” 

“It’s okay, you’ve been at work all day,” she says, “I can-”

“You’ve got all the kids with you, sweetheart,” he says, leaning in to kiss her cheek, “It’s easier if I go.” 

She smiles and nods, stamping her lips against his, “Okay, see you at home.” 

___

She sneaks out of Oliver’s room, making sure she’s careful as she pulls the door closed behind her, sighing in relief for managing to get all the kids to sleep, something that was no mean feat on any day let alone Christmas Eve. 

She yawns as she walks down the hallway, seeking out her husband and the rare and precious alone time she wants with him. She walks downstairs and smiles as she comes to a stop outside of the home office when she hears a muttered curse through the door. She knocks and then steps inside, her smile only getting wider when she finds him sitting on the floor surrounded by pieces of the princess castle they’d bought for Hazel. Most of it is still in pieces, with only the base built, and Aaron’s hair is all over the place from where he’d run his fingers through it in frustration. 

“How is going in here?” She asks, pressing her lips together to hide her amusement when he looks up at her, more frustration written across his face than she’d seen in a long time. 

“Did you know that this thing needs three different types of batteries?” He asks, shaking his head as he looks at the instructions again, “Why does anything need three different types of batteries?” 

She sits on the ground next to him, “Do you want any help?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head as he grabs the instructions from the floor in between them, “I can do it. You wrapped all the other gifts, I can build this.” 

She finds herself trying to suppress a smile again, her love for him and his love for their children thrumming under her skin. He was tired. Weary in a way that seemed bone deep, and he was insistent on building one of their daughter’s Christmas presents so she didn’t have to wait for him to do it tomorrow. She leans in to kiss his cheek, and she wraps her hand around the back of his neck, pressing her fingers into the muscles she knew ached the most.

“That’s because I enjoy wrapping presents, honey,” she says, smiling at him, stamping another kiss against his chest, “No one likes to build these things.” 

He hums and hands her the instructions, “You can see if you can make any sense of this if you’d like?”

She takes the piece of paper and immediately frowns at it, the instructions and the accompanying diagrams making no sense at all. She turns it over and tries to read them on the other side, “Well, if it makes you feel any better, honey, they don’t make sense in French or Italian either.” 

They end up working on it together, figuring it out mostly through trial and error as they slowly but surely build the castle they know will delight their little girl in the morning. When it’s eventually done, Aaron switches on all the lights and smiles in delight and relief when it works. 

“Thank fuck for that,” he says, sitting back to admire his work and blowing out a slow breath, “I was very close to telling Hazel that Santa was all out of princess castles.”

“No, you weren’t,” Emily chuckles and leans in to kiss him, her lips catching the corner of his as she cups his cheek, “You’d have stayed up until the morning if you needed to. Because you’re the best dad in the whole world.” 

He hums and kisses her, “And you’re the best mom.”

She smiles so widely that her cheeks ache and she once again wonders how this was her life, how she’d got so lucky to have him here with her with their children all safely tucked in their beds upstairs. She thinks of the Christmases she’d spent alone, how she had ached for a life where she’d stay up all night to build a present for her kid just to see their smile in the morning. 

“Our kids are lucky to have us,” she quips and he smiles, leaning in to kiss her again. 

His watch beeps as he pulls, indicating that it was midnight, and he smiles at her, his dimples carved out deep in his cheeks, “Merry Christmas sweetheart.” 

She pulls back just enough to speak, her nose knocking against his as she replies, “Merry Christmas, baby,” she kisses him again, “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” he says, “So much.” 

She kisses him, her hand tangled in his hair as she holds him in place before she rests her cheek against his chest, curling herself up against him as she sighs contentedly. She turns her head to look at the princess castle, her eyebrows furrowing as she finally takes in the size of it. 

“Aaron?” 

“Yes, Em?” 

“How the hell are we going to move the castle to the living room?” 

He tightens his hold on her for a second, and she feels more than hears his resigned sigh as it passes from his chest to hers. 

“Well shit.” 

[medicinemane]

One issue I have is there's a whole lot of things where it's like "I'm actually nearly on your side, I'm very sympathetic to this, I just need one or two issues addressed and then I'd be with you on this... you just have to kinda... walk me through how this thing that feels like a kinda big problem isn't a problem"

And pretty much always it's just kinda like "oh, well it's not a problem, so don't worry about it"

...mhh... yeah... but I need some actual proof. I want to trust you, but I need something that actually deals with it, not to just basically be told to have faith... I have no faith, I'm a faithless person

And it's such a shame cause... instead of being able to work along side people I tend to hover off to the side trying to support it in my own small ineffective ways cause... I just have serious issues no one's ever bothered to address

Just sucks, you know?

[shadowykittengladiator]

Damian looks at the green letter that simply appeared in his room a few minutes ago. He wasn't sure if he is supposed to be happy or crying.

He still thinks about Danyal all the time. It has been a long time since his brother died. Damian still mournes him two times a year, at their birthday and the day Danyal died.

He told his family, on his fifteenth birthday. Father hadnt been happy but he tearfully hugged Damian the next day and apologized for ever making him feel like he couldn't talk about his brother.

He still thinks of his brother every time he goes to the Watchtower. Father thankfully gives him a minute. Sometimes he joins him too.

But he wasn't expecting this. He looks at the green letter again. He already read it. A bit idiotic, touching an unknown like that. But the code on the side of the letter almost caused him a struck, because it was the code. The code that him Danyal came up with and nobody else knows about.

Dear Damian Wayne

The note reads.

You are invited to the coronation of the Prince of the Infinite Realms, Danyal 'Danny' Phantom, formerly Al-Ghul. The coronation is set to take place two weeks from now. As a part of the Royal Family, you are obligated to join the coronation at your brother's side. You are to wear formal clothes of whichever culture you subscribe to. A knight will take you to place at which coronation is set to take place.

The letter continues on and on about the coronation, about his brothers numerous titles, about proper ettique and many more things. But Damian does not care about that.

What was the possibility of this thing being fake? Maybe, but he doesn't think so. The code alone would confirm its authenticity.

A knock sound from the door and his father enters the room with a familiar copy of the green letter in his hands.

---------------------------------------------------

Constantine has been looking at the letter for the past ten minutes and he looks more like he is about to faint with each line he reads. Finally Damian can't hold it anymore.

"Say something magician! Is that thing real? What is the Infinite Realms!? "

Constantine looks up from the letter and takes out a cigarette to smoke, only to put it down at his father's glare.

"Of course you people would get tangled in the business of the bloody Infinite Realms." Constantine stops for a second. "Basically it's the dimension between dimensions. Thing of it like the glue holding the multiverse together. It's also where ghosts live."

Oh.

Of course.

Damian is an idiot for thinking his brother might be alive. Danyal is dead.

He hears his father turn around and sitting down on the bat computer.

"Ghost?" Richard thankfully asks. "Like Deadman?"

"No."

As Constantine starts a lecture about the difference between magical and ectoplasmic ghosts, Damian's mind wanders towards his brother again.

His brother is still dead, he still died. And of course his brother, his wonderful, idiotic, amazing brother would somehow make himself a king of an entire dimension after death. One of the strongest beings in existence, according to Constantine.

"Damian!" Richard is snapping his fingers in front of his face. "Are you alright? "

"I am fine." Damian says, "I am fine." He repeats a second later.

"It would be a shock if I learned my brother is going to be a king." Constantine is staring him weirdly. "How in the bloody hell that happened? I never knew bats had another kid."

"Doesn't matter." Damian snarks, "Is it safe to assume this coronation will take place in this Infinite Realms? "

Constantine shrughs his shoulders.

"Wouldn't know. Not exactly my area of expertise."

Great, just great.

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[moonlight-prose]

“please don’t make me say it if you aren’t going to say it back” with a desperately in love with joel reader would hit so much…

weaved around your finger like yarn

a/n: me writing for joel again?? this has sat in my inbox for over a year and i never meant to actually take this long with it. but i finally figured out how to write this concept. and now i am actually obsessed with the small world of softness i created for these two. this is yes jackson joel, but nothing bad happens ever to him because why would it? it's all fine right?

summary: he never made space in his life for love in the aftermath of destruction. the after of his life he once thought would extend past decades of gray hair, smile lines carved in around his mouth now set in frowns and sneers. but snowfall and alcohol blur the lines for both of you when winter comes to jackson.

word count: 1.6k+

pairing: joel miller x reader

warnings: not explicit, love confessions, heavy makeout sessions, alcohol consumption, tipsy joel, sad joel, laughter at the end of the world, hope.

He can't remember laughing until his stomach hurt. The ache that spilled into his chest, warming his insides with a sun like quality that left him shivering. He can't recall the feel of his cheeks pulled so wide the sensation became a phantom pain seconds after. He knows it happened. He can distinctly recall the jokes, the joy. But the laughter lingers like a ghost at the back of his mind—translucent and gray and distorted enough to feel false.

Alcohol simmers in his stomach with a rueful intent. A malignant aftermath that would hit him in a few hours after two months of attempted sobriety. Ellie insisted, he accepted. Easy enough to say. Difficult to follow through with.

He had his days where whiskey sounded better than the flavor of bacon Tommy would bring him in the early mornings. But the dismay in your eyes helped him hold off, regain his awareness of a world not yet shattered. For once in quite a long time...he finally lived. For you, for Ellie, for Sarah.

He lived to see his hair grow longer and the grays appear more frequently. To drink coffee in the mornings on a porch you were already settled on. To help you fix small things here and there in your cabin next door. He lived for your smile, the light in your eyes. The curve of your lips as they pulled up into bolstering peals of laughter—the furrow in your brow as you frowned from endless frustrations on long hard days.

Joel Miller lived to love you.

He existed to dig his heels in and wait shit out—it's what he was good at, what he knew how to do. But for you he relented quicker than ice on a hot asphalt driveway back home in Texas. His mind became sand that slipped through your giving hands—heart a fluttering mess that sang a tune he could never get right on the guitar stashed in his living room.

Days bloomed into weeks which grew into months. Eventually a year passed and what used to be difficult and awkward to be around people again, felt like breathing the fresh winter air. The jackets he managed to find hung on hooks by the door, a pair of heavy boots beside the small table Tommy crafted him.

The mornings were nice. When hot water hit ground coffee and the aroma plagued his kitchen for hours at a time. The evenings called you towards him—simple cooking skills shared in the confines of a home he pined for you to reside in.

Life was a sliver of peace he never imagined he'd get again. But the hole in his heart never faded, the pain still rang out sharp enough to have him clamping down on the inside of his cheek. And your smile made his stomach ache with a longing deep enough to scar.

Tommy told him to buck up and do something. Ellie called him a fucking idiot.

You...gave no indication you felt the same way. So silent and reserved he would remain.

Your feet slid on icy, fingers gripping tightly to his jacket with a yelp in a quick attempt to save yourself from slamming to the ground. Joel snickered loud and brash and a wash of embarrassment burned under frozen cheeks. Dragging you up, his arm looped tightly around your waist—hand pressed harsh and insistent to the small of your back. You swallowed the butterflies at the sight of his face flushed red—eyes shining from the effect of too much whiskey.

"We were bad tonight," you muttered, breath forming a cloud between your faces.

He grinned—skin buzzing at the close proximity of your form. "Only a little bit."

"You're not supposed to drink Joel."

Leaning in he traded his smile like a secret; you tucked it into your chest with a sharp breath. "I won't tell if you don't, darlin'."

"Joel..."

"C'mon. No one's gettin' in trouble here."

A blade pierced your heart brutally—spilling crimson along pale white snow. Even as Joel remained entirely unaware of how you clung to him. How your body called his name—your mind plagued with thoughts of his being, with images of his smile, with the sound of his raspy voice. He'd never know the way you cherished each moment with him. The mornings tucked away from an unruly world—the nights shared between friends who might one day be more.

Your teeth scraped along the cracked skin of your bottom lip, eyes cast up to the curl of his lips. The words sprang forth faster than you could drag them back. Your chest of secrets unlocked and bared to the man who drowned you in his small flecks of joy. Later you'd blame the alcohol. When the headache ravaged your head and an ache lingered between your thighs.

Later you'd comb over every small glance and breathy word.

"I like spending time with you Joel," you breathed, fingers toying with the front of his leather coat. "I like...um..."

The breath caught in his throat, gaze desperate to catch yours. "Yeah sugar?"

"It's a hard thing to say." Another cloud of your whiskey tinged breath filled the air.

"You can tell me anythin'. You know that right?" Even as hope flared bright and scorching through the width of his chest. "I'll listen."

Hesitation spilled into the night, your voice a soft whisper he barely caught. "Please don't make me say it if you aren't going to say it back."

Oh didn't you know?

Did you not see how his gaze dug beneath the layers of flesh and bone, of tendons and veins that clung to your form? Did you not understand he would take a bullet for you? That he'd bear the wound of a warrior's death to keep you alive? How could you not know that his love stuck to his tongue with a saccharine bitterness he swallowed down like the drugs he once took to numb his mind?

You healed pieces of his soul you never broke. A marred and fucked puzzle that was meant to find a home six feet underground. By his own hand no less. He was destined to die—born to suffer—yet you swathed him wool with the promise of a peaceful life.

A future etched by the hands of love.

"Say it," he pleaded, frozen hand cupping your cheek.

"It's more than just that." The breath you took shot adrenaline down his spine. "I like our mornings. I like our dinners and conversation. And even when you come into town with me. But I...I love..."

The glossy nature of your eyes created by unshed tears that pooled at your waterline dug the knife deep enough to meld it within his heart. You didn't know. You couldn't have. His silence, his hesitation, swallowed every emotion he might have told you—every secret uttered in the shadows of night that told only half his story.

He told you about Sarah. About their life together, about her smile. That in itself felt like a proclamation of love—a key to the heart he thought stopped beating long ago.

"I knew it would freak you out," you muttered, pulling away from his hold.

Only for him to panic. His hand gripped the back of your jacket, pushing you towards him hard enough for your feet to slip again. But your gasp was swallowed by the cold press of his mouth to yours. Lips chapped by the winter air slid against your parted mouth as you froze against his chest. Your hands hung listlessly at your sides. He kissed you tenderly, attempting to wake you from the spell of shock, but to no avail did it bring you back.

"'M sorry." His words were muffled against your chin, forehead pressed to yours and eyes squeezed shut. "I shouldn't have–"

The press of your fingers into his cheeks jolted him back—eyes wide as you dragged him back with a stifled moan. Your mouth found his tongue hot and wet along his bottom lip in a pleading motion he complied to instantly. Stepping forward he fell into you with a deep groan. One that echoed and vibrated right down to your stomach—one you savored with a lick along his back teeth.

Hands cupped your ass with an insistent need to mold you closer, fingers digging into the plush flesh he longed to bite and taste. You tasted like whiskey. You smelled like him. It made him dizzy with want, anxious to lead you back to his porch—to seat you on his kitchen counter in the mornings while the coffee went cold.

"Fuck I wanna take ya home sugar," he grunted, biting at your lower lip with a grin.

Your breathless reply made the hair stand on the back of his neck. "You can."

"No." He shook his head, stealing another kiss with a gritty moan. "Not tonight. 'M gonna do this proper."

"Proper," you smiled, tugging on the longer curls you refused to let him cut. "You're such an old man Miller."

The large breadth of his hand cupped your chin, pushing the cheeks he lightly bit into together. "Won't be sayin' that tomorrow when I ain't got all this fuckin' alcohol in me."

"Yeah?" The droop of your eyelids—the darkened iris now filled with lust—set his teeth on edge. His body hummed with a new buzz he craved since meeting you. "Prove it."

"Oh I will." He grinned sharply, licking his teeth like a wolf waiting to pounce. "Don't you worry 'bout that."

A glimmer in your eyes caught his attention, the grip on your face loosening. "You know I love you right darlin'?"

You smiled—big and bright—and Joel felt another piece of his soul set back into place. "I love you too Joel."

[suncoved]

OVERPROTECTIVE! — RAFE CAMERON (smut 18+, mdni.)

pairing; dealer!rafe cameron x toppersister!reader

summary: when your friend dragged you to the cut of one of the pouges infamous keggers, you didn't expect to be dragged home by your brothers dealer best friend.

warnings: kinda innocent!reader, talk of drugs, partying and drinking. smut 18+ only please please! (haven't proof read...)

"this is such a bad idea" you murmured quietly, glancing across at the boneyard from your friend kate's pristine white jeep.

"oh cmon, it'll be fun. and anyways, how could your brother find you all the way out here. he would rather die than set foot on the cut" kate rambled, yanking out of the car while her heels made a crunching sound against the gravel of the carpark.

on the ride over from figure eight, you had gnawed at your bottom lip so hard you wouldn't be surprised if you drew blood. topper would have actually killed you if he found out what you were doing.

you had been to parties on your side of the island before, and even those made your brother mad, but never had you stepped foot at a kegger on the cut.

but, here you were at 11:15 on a saturday night, about to 100 per cent regret every decision you had ever made that led to this. but it was your senior year! and you were sick and tired of letting topper dictate what you did and didn't do.

you had come to the realisation that you weren't really sure why topper cared so much about what you did. i mean sure he was your twin brother, who would never make you forget how he was in fact 2 minutes older, but he had never really cared what you did before.

i mean sure, you guys were close and he cared if you were safe or not, but it was only really until he became closer with his friend rafe that he started getting really, really overprotective.

rafe had been lurking around your house since you were little, always bossing topper around and annoying that absolute shit out of you. but never saying any more than one word to you before pulling topper into any mess he was about to get into.

"cmon cmon, lets go party!" kate exclaimed, pulling you out of your thoughts and also onto the soft sand of the boneyard.

it was safe to say that this party was far from the ones you had witnessed before. there were people do coke on any surface you could see, the distinct smell of weed filling your nostrils and kegs upon kegs lined up against the fallen branches.

"miss thorton! what brings you around my neck of the woods!?" you hear a voice yell behind you before an arm is slung quickly around your shoulder.

"shush jj! im undercover" you joke, pushing your perfecting manicured finger against your lips. "whoops! my bad princess" he slurred, swaying against your body as he pushed more and more of his weight onto you.

you giggled, swiftly setting him down on the sand before he made you topple over. "he'll be fine, just needs a little rest" john b beams to you, passing you a red solo cup full of suspicious liquid before you could decline.

you smiled at him and held the cup weighing heavily in your hand, noticing kate was long gone from your side. you looked around nervously, what were you doing?

you didn't drink, you didn't do drugs, you didn't party.

you were the classic good girl of kildare county, and your skirt was way to precious to you to get anything spilt on it. but you were here, so why don't you just enjoy yourself right?

you looked down at the liquid in the cup, it fizzing and foaming as it stared back at you. you took a cautionary sip before nearly gagging, the acid making its way down your throat.

"yuck!" you whispered to yourself, pulling a face as you rested the cup down on a branch so someone could pick it up later.

the music pumped in your ears, people dancing and swaying on the shore of the beach as the lights of the street only dimly lit the area up.

you heard your name being yelled behind you as kate embraced you in a hug, swaying and smelling of weed. "i have to introduce you to someone, apparently he sells the best weed on the island! why don't you try some! but shush let's not tell your brother" she slurred her words as she rambled on, pulling you across the sand into the crowd of people.

"you know kate, i don't think this is the best idea" you muttered, letting her guide you where the music was louder and the smell was far more intense.

"it will be fun! and we can tell him its your first time! i mean apparently, he is not a nice guy but you have a knack for changing that about people!" you rolled your eyes at her babble, your feet suddenly stopping once you had arrived at your apparent destination.

you were still hidden behind kate as she approached the man sitting on a broken branch, his legs spread wide and hands sifting through money.

"hey! my friend really wants to try your stuff, think you could help us out?" kate asked, pulling you out from behind her as a small gasp left your lips.

"y/n? what the fuck are you doing here!" rafe spat, gathering all his cash and baggies and stuffing them in his pocket. "you two know each other?"

you shifted your eyes from his angered face, jaw clenching and fists bunched tightly together.

"yeah, and you're an idiot for bringing her here. get the fuck outta my face. cmon" rafe gestured to you, taking your hand in his and leading you to the car park.

you looked back at kate before staring at rafe in front of you, unable to fight against his grip. you had been at this party all of 20 minutes and all you had done is be dragged around before having to go home!

"rafe stop!" you exclaimed as he pulled you up the beach and towards his blue truck in the car park.

how did you not notice that?

"what the heck are you doing?" you asked, him swinging the passenger door open for you as you stared at him like he was an idiot.

"get in." he said, running lifting his arms up to run his hands through his hair as you noticed a gun tucked into his waistband.

what in the actual fuck was happening?

"what! no way! since when do you deal drugs and carry guns? i don't even know who you are anymore and there is no way i'm getting into your car with you."

he rolled his eyes at you statement, putting his ringed hands against your waist and lifting you into his car effortlessly.

you huffed as he smiled at you sarcastically before closing the passenger door and jumping into the driver's side.

he looked at you expectingly as you stared at his face, his eyes a beautiful shade of blue and his lips pink. he rolled his eyes once again before reaching over and doing up your seat belt for you, his touch making goosebumps on your cleavage as he fastened it.

you sat in silence for a second before he started driving in the direction of figure eight, his large hands gripping tightly on the wheel.

"what were you actually fucking thinking? going to a party on the cut, who knows what could have happened to you if i wasn't there" rafe spat, taking his eyes off the road momentarily to look at you before turning his head back.

"what does it matter to you rafe, i just wanted to have fun and i don't regret it. so tell topper i don't care." you huffed, sinking into your seat, not even believing the words coming out of your own mouth.

"like topper would care anyways" he stated, clenching his jaw so hard you thought it would actually break. "what?"

"toppers not the one that cares." you looked at him dumbfounded, taken aback by his statement. "what do you mean rafe?"

he ignored your statement as he kept driving into the night, the uneasy silence resting heavily in the air. you tapped your fingers against the armrest, watching the trees blur into a haze of green before tannyhill came into view.

"i thought you were taking me home?" you asked, your question again going unanswered until the car came to a halt.

"you're staying at mine, get out." he huffed, walking around the car before swinging your door open and helping you down.

"why would i stay at yours? you're my twin brother's best friend. stop being an idiot rafe" you huffed, halting your movements and staying right out the front of his door.

"you're not the one to be calling shots" rafe said, once again pulling you by the hand up to his room. before you could think he sat you down softly on his bed, kneeling down to look you in the eyes as if to see if you were high or not.

"go away, i'm not high. and you do not have the moral high ground right now"

"shut up" he sighs, resting his large hands down on your bare thighs. "what?" you gasp, ready to smack his touch away the second you could bring yourself to do it.

"do you actually not know how much you drive me crazy?" rafe asks, his stare almost burning holes in your eyes as he looked at you. "i've had my eye on you since we were 3, making sure you never came to me asking for coke or weed, because you know what i would do if anything happened to you? i would go fucking insane."

"rafe..." you sighed, bringing your hand up to his warm cheeks and he leant into your touch. "no. no, don't say anything, i don't wanna hear it-"

he was cut off by your lips touching his, your hands lifting to feel his spiky buzz cut underneath your fingertips. he immediately starting kissing you back as if before this he had never taken a breath before, and you were his oxygen.

his searing touch made its way under your shirt and up to the bottom on your bra, running his hands up and down as he pushed you back so you lay on his soft sheets.

you felt him pull at the hem of your cami, the dainty pink fabric peeling off swiftly as you were left in your bra and skirt. he looked up at you with love-drunk eyes, pupils dilated and black while he started kissing down your neck.

"wait- rafe, no. we can't. topper." you gasped as you somehow leaned even more into his touch as the words came out of your mouth. he halted his actions for a moment, pulling back so he could look at you.

"fuck topper" he spoke as he pulled his shirt off swiftly, his perfect tan skin and abs making you bite your lip. you squealed as he picked you up and brought you to the top of his bed, leaning your head softly against the pillows.

"you're so pretty, so so pretty baby" he uttered, unzipping your skirt and pulling it down your soft legs. "we don't have to do this yeah? only if you want."

you didn't think you could actually adore this man more, but he surprised you every word he spoke.

"please rafe" you whined, dragging your acrylics against his abs as you watched the goosebumps from your touch.

he let out a quiet "fuck" as he smashed his lips onto yours once more.

you reached down to the waistband of his pants feeling around before pulling back as you felt an unfamiliar metal-shaped object.

he looked down at your movements as you stopped "whoops, my bad ma." he pulled the gun out of his waistband and tucked it under the pillow you weren't resting against, going back to kissing you as you giggled.

he undid his belt swiftly, pulling down his pants and boxers until his hard member came into view. you didn't even have time to think of how massive it was as he went down to kiss you once more, pulling your panties aside and entering a finger into you.

"shit, you're so fucking tight." he sighed against your lips.

you whined in response, reaching down to his cock and pumping it in your hand. "can't wait any more rafe."

"its ok baby, i've got you"

you gasped loudly as he first entered into you, the large intrusion making you whine in both pain and pleasure.

"yeah, cmon. you can take it baby. you can take it"

his strokes were slow and powerful, filling you up until you felt as though you would snap. his groans soon filled the room as he pounded into you.

"you're so so good to me baby, can't believe we haven't done this sooner. gonna make you mine ma" he moaned, that statement bringing you over the edge as you came around him with a moan.

"thank you thank you thank you" you chanted, your acrylics surely making bright red scratches to his muscly back while you came.

"no, baby. thank you."

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 Cherry Picking.

Spencer Reid x BAU!reader

Summary: After your first night with Spencer, you wake up and see that he's left you two dollars and a thank-you note on your bedside table.

Words: 2,3k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. lots of mentions and references to sex, but nothing completely explicit. the reader is quite dramatic and has little faith in men (literally me, sorry). SO MUCH chaos and lack of communication but happy ending. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This idea just came to me out of the blue, and I have to say that Sex and the City has had a bit of an influence. I love the chaos, the conversations between friends, and Spencer being the best man in the world (I'm picturing him kind of like in his season four version).

♡ Enjoy! ♡

Saturday afternoon

“Two dollars?!”

Penelope's and JJ's simultaneous exclamations and surprised faces when you finished speaking were pretty much to be expected. They noticed a change in your expression and took a moment to compose themselves, as did the rest of the people in the room, who glanced curiously at your table from time to time. It was certainly a fascinating sight, three women having an animated conversation about their lives over milkshakes as if they were drinks, especially considering that one of them was pregnant and her belly looked like it was about to explode.

You didn't blame anyone for reacting that way, especially not your friends. You were still pretty shocked by what happened, especially by how thoughtless the man you'd developed feelings for and worked closely with over the past few years was. It was a unsettling to find a tip on your nightstand after one of the most memorable nights you'd ever had. You still remembered the excitement you felt when you went to Spencer's apartment yesterday to watch a movie as part of your fourth or fifth date. He seemed nervous when you started kissing more intensely, and the couch wasn't the best setting. The sensation of your body on his bed and his lips on your skin was incredible.

It was a good memory, extremely good if you took away the embarrassment of waking up the next day in his empty bed with money waiting for you, as if you had performed a service.

“Maybe there was a misunderstanding and the money was left on the table by mistake.” Jennifer spoke again in a reassuring tone after turning the matter over. “Spencer can be a little clumsy sometimes.”

You pressed your lips together in a thin line as you listened to her attempt to provide an explanation for his actions. But given their friendship, this was to be expected.

“And he was in a hurry to catch his plane and go to his mother.” Garcia added with a forced smile, trying to lift your spirits. “It all makes sense.”

Yes, it was understandable that he was leaving in a hurry because he had to catch a flight to spend his weekend off with his mother. That didn't worry you, but there was something else that was curious.

“How do you explain the thank-you note?” You asked, taking out the paper and the two dollars you'd pulled out to show them as proof from your purse.

“It was a thank you for hanging out with him, a sweet gesture.” JJ said, taking a sip of her milkshake and patting her belly.

It seemed more like a sour gesture to you, that you had been left with your dignity on the floor. As you left his apartment, you didn't know whether to cry or laugh because it sounded like a bad joke that the only man you thought was decent and for whom you allowed yourself to have feelings would do such a thing.

“My love life is going downhill.” You said.

Just then, the restaurant door opens and Emily appears. After greeting her and apologizing for her late arrival, she asks about the cause of your apparent distress. As a profiler, she was astute enough to know something was wrong just by looking at you.

“What's wrong, honey?” She started talking as soon as she sat down next to you and took a quick look at the table. “Those milkshakes look good, I want one.”

“Spencer thinks I'm a prostitute.” You spoke up without thinking, which surprised Emily and caused her to briefly lose her grip on the menu.

There was a long, awkward silence.

Perhaps you were too direct in saying something that you had been trying to ignore for your own mental health.

“Just a heads-up, we've got a baby in the room. No need to say that word!” Penelope was the first to speak, gently covering JJ's belly with her hands. “He can hear you.”

At that moment, Reid and his comments about pregnancy data at every stage came to mind. You felt a little uncomfortable because you knew it was a little unrealistic to focus on the positives at a time like this.

“Oh, I'm so sorry, baby.” You looked regretfully at your friends and spoke to Jennifer's belly, giving it a gentle caress. “Don't listen.”

“I need context, please.” Emily said confusedly, trying to understand what was going on and why you had said what you had said.

You let out a deep breath, preparing yourself to recount the story once more.

“Okay, Spencer and I made...milkshakes. Very good milkshakes, really good if you know what I mean.” You tried to explain slowly, watching your words and your friends' expressions. “I woke up when he was leaving, he gave me a kiss on my forehead and said to keep sleeping, that he had to catch his flight.”

“That's sweet, but weird to know.” Emily commented quizzically, looking at the menu intently again. “What's the part...you know?”

“Oh, when he thought I was-” You stop yourself as you see how JJ looks at you. “A pie maker.”

You could tell from their expressions that they were about to laugh at your attempts to keep the conversation friendly.

“I woke up hours later to find two dollars on the nightstand with a thank-you note.” You finished the story. “To him, I'm worth two fu...sugary dollars.”

Prentiss stared at you for several seconds, waiting for me to tell her it was a joke. Only when that didn't happen did she speak. “That sounds weird and awful, but I don't think he would do something like that on purpose. Especially you, he really likes you.”

“He likes me enough to give me two dollars.”

When you finished speaking, you experienced a moment of discomfort in your stomach as your own words took effect. You were surprised to find that on a deeper level, what had happened was causing you more pain than you had anticipated.

“That doesn't sound like Reid at all. I've known him for years, and he's not that kind of man.” Penelope said with a frown, trying to reassure you. “I'm sure it's a mix-up.”

You were looking for the same thing and hoping it was just a misunderstanding, but your previous bad experiences made you think otherwise. You'd met enough men to know that they could always be worse. What was different now was that you really liked this particular man. You really longed for him to be different from everyone else.

However, things weren't always as you'd hoped. You'd invested a lot of hope in making your fairy tale come true, and it was starting to take its toll.

“Have you had a chance to speak with him?” JJ inquired.

“He's with his mother, I won't bother him.” You replied with a strange simplicity that made your friends suspicious. “I'm fine, I've calmed down.” You added as you saw their worried faces.

“I love you, but sometimes you scare me.” Emily said, watching you drink from your smoothie as if it contained a painkiller. “It's not okay to pretend that everything's fine.”

“It's understandable to feel a bit discouraged about this. Things may seem challenging at the moment, but I believe things will improve when you discuss this with him.” Jennifer's hand gently touched yours, offering a comforting gesture.

“I'm sure everything will be fine. You have our support if you need it.” Penelope joined in with the motivational words and gave you a reassuring smile.

You took the last sip of your milkshake and leaned back in your seat for a moment before replying. “I'm fine, girls. I don't plan to lose my head over a man, I promised myself.”

They looked at you with some skepticism, but you didn't flinch. You were confident that if you were mentally prepared not to be defeated, or at least not to look defeated, you would be well prepared for the day of the meeting.

You weren't going to lose your mind over this.

Monday morning

You were definitely losing your mind, and no cup of tea or internet video that promised to do so had been able to relax you one bit. You had been cooped up in the office you shared with Penelope for several minutes, pacing in your chair while everyone in the conference room waited for information about a new case and your presence. The mere thought of having to face Reid again was making you feel pretty uneasy.

All weekend, you had been trying to reassure yourself that you were doing well, that you were not hurt or affected by what happened, that it was just one more disappointment to add to the long list you had written since you were a teenager, and that it was normal for someone with your luck. You were not a princess, you were not going to meet a prince, and you were old enough to know that.

But being in the same building as your prince turned toad was not as easy as you had hoped. You prayed that your presence would not be necessary and that the jet would soon take off to take them all away, especially him.

A few sudden knocks on the door startled you. You automatically thought it was your boss coming to scold you for being late, and your blood froze.

“I apologize for the delay, Hotch. I assure...” You spoke promptly as soon as the door opened and a male figure appeared.

But obviously, it wasn't him.

“Oh, sorry, I'm not Hotch. But hey, how are you?” Spencer smiled at you and walked toward you, looking a little nervous.

“Fine.” You replied dryly, getting up from your seat to grab your tablet and some folders to carry into the conference room.

In your mind, you had planned to make a scene as soon as you saw him and make it clear that you didn't cost just two dollars. But after thinking about it a lot, the fear of losing your job over it was greater. And now it was a mixture of that reasoning with your feeling of paralysis at actually having him in front of you.

“I...I missed you over the weekend.” He stopped you before you could walk away, gently holding your hand. The feeling alone made you stop and look at him angrily. “I thought about you a lot, too much, and I bought you something.” He let go of your hand to pull a small box out of his pocket.

“How dare you?” You blurt out, taking a step back.

He looked a little uncomfortable and seemed to be in pain. “I'm sorry if I overstepped. I didn't mean to impose. Did I cross a line? I'm sorry, I just thought—”

“What? That you could embarrass me even more? Didn't I already go through enough?”

That's when you took out two dollars from your purse and gave it to him.

“Could I ask why this is?” Spencer was still frowning and looked just as hurt as you.

His apparent lack of understanding of the situation made you much angrier. You had thought he was probably the smartest man you had ever met in your entire life, but suddenly, in your eyes, he was an idiot.

“I'm refunding your payment, Reid.” You replied firmly, without hiding your frustration.

The confusion on his face seemed to multiply as he tried to understand. “What are you talking about? I gave you your money back.”

You tilted your head slightly to one side.

“Saturday morning, I left on the nightstand the two dollars you lent me a week ago when we bought coffee. You know I don't like being in debt.” Spencer began to explain calmly, taking a moment to gather his thoughts and present the facts in a clear and concise manner.

Oh, you do remember lending him money at some point, or rather, inviting him for coffee that he said he'd pay you back. That day when his hair was perfect in the wind, when he smiled at you and told you some interesting facts about coffee beans.

“I mentioned it when I said goodbye, but you looked so tired that I left you a thank you note in case you forgot.” He went on to explain. “A lot of studies say that you wake up to full strength at least 20 to 30 minutes after you actually open your eyes. And you still had them closed when I said goodbye.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I...I thought you—” You fell silent as you saw the stunned look on his face. You didn't want to look crazy, so you quickly added. “I just thought wrong.”

“I'm sorry, I don't understand.” He said, a little embarrassed. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh, no, I just...did you bring me a gift?” You changed the subject, taking the box he had previously offered you. Inside was a necklace with a cherry blossom charm.

“Your computer wallpaper is a picture of cherry blossoms. And I saw this necklace in a store when I was walking with my mom, and I thought you might like it. But it's okay if you don't want it—” He spoke fast until you interrupted him.

“I love it, thank you.” You smiled at him and took the necklace out of the box. “Could you help me with this?”

With some trepidation and uncertainty still present, Spencer positioned himself behind you with the jewel in his hands, carefully brushed your hair aside and fastened the necklace around your neck. The sensation of his fingers brushing against your skin made you feel a slight shiver.

“Thanks.” You said as you turned around to face him. You gave him a hug, though you were a little unsure.

He returned your embrace, feeling a sense of relief that things between you were okay. “You don't have to thank me.”

“It's not about the gift. It's just a way to say thanks for being you.”

Perhaps he was your prince after all.

[hoshigray]

hear me out🙏 imagine student body president!sukuna and delinquent!reader😍 same scenario but just switched

𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: i hear you, loud AND clear !!

⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: student body president! Sukuna x bratty delinquent fem/afab! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - modern setting; you and kuna are college seniors - oral (m! + slight f! receiving) - face + throat fucking - clitoral play (sucking) - impact play (cheek + pussy slaps) - fingering (f! receiving) - standing + piledriver positions - unprotected sex - overstimulation - dumbification - degradation (brat, cumslut, pig, slut, whore) - blackmail - dick piercing (frenulum) - mention of drool/spit and tears.

⊹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.7k

If there’s one thing that Sukuna loves more than anything, it’s power.

For Sukuna, the pinnacle of power is not just a status but a destiny he believes is his alone. In his heart of hearts, he knows he is the one who can keep this school in check, his control palpable in every corner of the campus.

Having Ryōmen Sukuna as the student body president of the senior class was either the best or worst thing, depending on who was asked. Although intimidated by some faculty and professors, they saw him as a significant influence on maintaining the students’ behavior for the college’s image. As for his peers, some would vouch that he was the scariest person they've ever met within their college student’s behaviors on campus. As for the students…whether they made sure not to get in the salmon-pink-haired man’s way, did as they were told, or generally avoided getting in his bad side all around, the truth was known in the air: Sukuna is a force not meant to be reckoned with. 

So, dealing with people who stand in his line of power will be dealt with — especially brats like you.

You were the biggest thorn in Sukuna’s side, a true innocent fool who dared disobey him without fear of consequence. For one, you were such a disrespectful minx, always speaking to him with such a foul mouth as if his aura that frightens others doesn’t shake you down. You bat your eyes at him during his lectures, dumb doe eyes that flutter with dull eyelids as if not a single word from his mouth was processed in that mind of yours as you’ll just wound up doing the exact shit again within a week or less. You have no amount of respect for his superior status, treating Sukuna like some big shot. 

“Tah, you don’t scare me, Prez!” You mocked with a laugh. “You and your little tattoos can go somewhere and make the other babies piss their pants and leave me the hell alone. Mind your business and stay outta mine.”

God, to say you were insufferable was scratching the surface. Sukuna can admit that nothing in his last year of college would allow him to experience absolute euphoria than crushing that childish grin off your face. It’s all he can think about whenever he has the misfortune of seeing your name or catching your face in the halls on his way to lectures and meetings.

But then again, if he can’t discipline you in the way he wanted on school grounds, it doesn’t mean you’re safe from him on the outside.

And then, like a miracle to his prayers, he finally had the dirt to give him all the more motivation. His second in command, Uraume, had found some evidence of your inappropriate behavior on the school’s campus. Pictures and videos alike, his smile grew bigger the deeper he looked into it.

Images of you flashing your bare tits in what seems to be a party in one of the dormitories and some drunk guy motorboating your chest, another of you smoking weed in one of the laboratories, which were undoubtedly smoke-free, and one portraying you fingering yourself in while sucking off one of the basketball athletes in the gymnasium men’s locker room. And the cherry on top was explicit videos of yourself that would tarnish the school’s reputation and have you expelled in seconds — absolute music to Sukuna’s ears. 

The thought of destroying your image and exposing you to the filthy bitch you have put a spark of joy in the student body president’s cruel heart. But what would the fun be if he threw this evidence out all at once? He was a man who loved to drag out the torture of his victims. So, when he pulls you aside, to your dismay, and showcases the dirt he has on you, the look on your face? Not even a picture would be enough for him to enjoy such a glorious reaction. He never thought he’d see where you’d beg and plead to him on your knees, only fueling the superiority within his stance.

However, he likes to play with his food. So, he’ll put his hands up, “Alright, fine, I won’t take this to the higher-up…” yet the smirk didn’t match the comfort expressed. “On one condition.”

And for said condition? To use you and see your talents for himself.

“Damn, this mouth really knows how to work, huh?”

Oh, to be fucking your face in the student body government lounge isn’t something he’d expect. But holy shit, is he not fucking complaining. He throws his head back as his pelvis relentlessly smacks the plump of your soapy lips. His hands grabbed your head and forced you onto his length, which you were crying on like crazy.

Tears roll down your face; the harshness of his ruts sting like hell. You could only grip his jeans to steady, yet the more he bullies his dick into your throat, your train of thought becomes more impossible to follow through. 

He slaps your cheeks, “Pay attention, bitch,” he curses from above and yanking you by the ear. “Loosen that jaw of yours and suck me off like the cumslut you are.”

Your glare gratifies him, watching you obey his words and hollow your cheeks. Jesus, the tightness of your throat has shivers crawl to his shoulders.

“Mmmff! Mmmm!!” Your muffled whimpers were all his ears could pick up on, and they made him sigh heavenly. He peers down to meet such a naughty image: your lips coated in saliva and his precum bubbling and piling with every snap and pull of his hips. Your tears and furrowed brows gave him the hugest ego boost of his life, making the devilish superior push feverishly into your mouth. 

“—Mnnph! Yesss, yeah, that’s right; keep cryin’, you fucking brat.”  Fuck, he’s so fucking close; your mouth and tongue were doing mad work for him to release, busting his load into your throat and succumbing to you to drink and accept his semen.

Balls deep to your lips, saliva mixes with salty tears, striking down your chin. You swallow every bit of him with a satisfied hum, eyes rolling up when he grinds his pelvis for his dick to go deeper.

But that doesn’t mean you should rest — hell no. Sukuna rips his erect limb out of your mouth and pushes you to your back with a kick. You couldn’t interject as he pushed your legs to your chest. An exotic position that exposes the damp spot of your thong from your lifted skirt. 

The president tsks at the display with a sneer. “Fucking slut, so wet from just sucking me off.” He slides the underwear and is welcomes to your scent and taste when he glides his tongue to your clit. “You really are a fucking bitch in heat, huh?”

His tongue pets and laps around your labia, lubing your vagina with his spit while slurping your essence that messes around your inner thighs. You’re choked up, whining from his tongue fucking the entrance of you and licking your clit.

“—Ohoo! Hoohh, Sukunaa, pleaseee,” you slurred from the suck of your clit, his tongue pushing it and grazing his teeth with the delicate bud. “Hahhhfuckk, put it innn, ‘Kuna, I want—Daaahaa!!” You cried at the slap of your cunt, stinging your sensitive clit from the rough palm of his hand.

“Don’t tell me what to do, brat,” another smack to your slit as you cough up spit. “Such a broad, only thinking with just your pussy.” Although, he had to admit, seeing your pussy wink from his hits and teases made his pride sing. With a low chuckle, he straightens up, your anticipation climbing up when he brings his middle and forefinger to wet with saliva.

Yet a record scratches at the feel of something wet around your asshole, the digits pushing and teasing your puckered entrance. Begs fly out you’re mouth, but they substitute with a scream when his fingers manage to insert inside and massage around your walls.

“What, you thought I was just gonna play with that pussy like you wanted?” He laughs at your cries, stroking his ego from your anus, clamping onto him with the scrape of his fingernails. “You got some nerve; only dirty pigs like you get dirty rewards.” You gasp at the withdrawal of his fingers, and he whistles at the sight. “So here ya go, little slut…”

Sukuna aligns his cock to your rear, pushing it with no care for your lack of preparation. You scream at the insert of his cockhead and piercing, and the stretch that comes along his inches burrowing inside causes more tears to fall. But not in pain—the expression on your face showed no sign of resentment. 

“Haaahh, yeeesshh,” your hands come to the back of your ass to help the position you’re in, the angle making your writhing figure jolt. And it gets better once Sukuna’s hips go at a mediocre pace. “Shooo goood…!!”

Your hands find Sukuna’s ankles when his frenulum piercing jabs you with precision with the increase of his erratic thrusts. High pitches and shrieks fill the student body lounge, skin slapping against each other, creating an inappropriate sound. Like Sukuna cares, though; fucking your ass on the floor with no grace — so much for a president.

“—Khheh, hooohshiiit, pig can’t even speak properly, making such a ruckus.” It’s true; you showed no restraint in concealing your wails. If anything, they get louder and louder with the clasp of your butthole on his length, drool spilling from your agape mouth. “Noisy ass acting all dumb on my cock.” 

The graze of his piercing gets worse every second; shit feels way too good, like his balls smacking down your ass. But you couldn’t foresee his next move; Sukuna slipped his middle finger inside your chasm and wiggled around your vagina. A strong yelp erupts from your body from the “come hither” motion that scratches your upper walls, and you can’t help but let yourself go.

Your climax has you howling, your holes contracting with force from every passing wave that rocks your core. You pant heavily, milking the dick that continues to plunge into your ass, Sukuna groaning at the grasp of your anus and the walls around his middle finger. 

He then pulls his digit out and brings it to his mouth, sucking your liquids with a smirk. “Not bad, broad.”

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 – reblogs and comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ☆ header edit done by me + dividers by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more.

[yanderenightmare]

Ryomen Sukuna

TW: suggestive noncon, threats, Sukuna in general

gn reader

Thinking about sorcerer ! reader – only instead of having a really offensive technique, it's purely defensive.

A power to pacify. Creating the ultimate stalemate. All attacks are nullified – people can’t even throw one measly punch your way.

– which obviously means you’re the ultimate babysitter for trigger-happy curses like Sukuna.

The only issue is…. you don’t at all behave in accordance with your technique. 

You are perhaps the most childish and bratty sorcerer he’s ever been forced to share air with. Even worse than that white-haired prick. Where with him – he could at least spar. But you? You just monitor him while making the most meaningless and ever-so-grating conversation.

“I read in an old book that you’re a cannibal.” You muse with a smile. Eyes vibrant with curiosity – playful even – as though the prospect of him eating human flesh shouldn’t be making your own skin run raw with goosebumps. “Is that true?” 

His brow raises at your eagerness. His mouth is a prim line before muttering an unenthusiastic. “Yes.”

“Really?” You jump. “Why? Does it taste good?”

It’s an awfully stupid question – he thinks with an ever-growing wrinkle furrowing his brows. But suppose explaining to you how it’s meant to strike fear into people’s hearts would only make you laugh.

He huffs.

“Tastes like meat.”

“Right~” You sing-song as though it was a satisfying answer – but then almost immediately add onto it. “So, like chicken or beef?” 

You really are such a nuisance, he thinks. Grumbling. “Pig.”

You hum – then smack your lips. And he feels another onset of annoyance – expecting another moronic query to come pouring gracelessly from your lips.

“You’re a little disappointing – you know that?” You say instead.

He picks his head up at that – finally looking back at you through the bars of his cell to where you sit opposite way on a chair – looking straight back at him, fearing no harm.

There are about a million seals covering the walls, keeping him trapped. Though you’d feel just as safe without them.

“I’d thought you’d have more to say, but…” You pout. “Turns out you’re just boring.”

His nose makes an offended scrunch – eyes narrowed. “Watch how you speak to me.”

You laugh – your chuckle in itself is something that makes the hairs at the back of his neck rise out of ire. That smug smile on your face enough to have his fists ball at his sides – and at the moment you lick your lips, saying, “Or what?” he’s already on his feet with his hands wrapped tight around the bars – knuckles turning white in his grip.

His skin sizzles from the cursed energy imbued in the metal – like holy water to a demon – and still, he doesn’t let go. Four eyes, blood red, glaring at you with a look that’s nothing short of deadly. If he could, you knew he’d have your heart in his hand forever ago. But the fact that he doesn’t – the fact that he can’t – only makes your grin ever sharper.

“Wow~” You tease. “Look at that face~” Giggling. “So scary~”

His nostrils flare as he releases the bars. Hands healed shortly after. “One of these days, brat – I’ll have you on your knees.”

You feign a gasp. “Sukuna~ so indecent~” Your grin lessens into a coy smirk. “To think the King of Curses is flirting with little ole me~” You bite your lip, looking kittenish – eyes amused while watching him recede into the dark of his cell.

You break from the act with another laugh.

Beginning anew. “I do have a question, though.”

“Naturally.” He mutters, stretching his arms – all four – one pair above his head and the other behind his back.

“Are you double-packed down there as well? The same with the rest of you? Or~”

His spine cracks between tensed shoulders – and you think, to be a thousand-year-old specter, he’s awfully easy to rile up.

But then he laughs – a throaty, low-tuned snicker that echoes against the cell walls. 

“As I said – one of these days…” He walks up to the bars again, his chin fitting through them. “You’ll find out.”

There’s another chuckle – his eyes slim with something that makes you feel naked. Suddenly flushed – smile gone – you watch him lick his lips.

“And to answer your next question, you insufferable brat.” 

You gulp.

“I think you’ll taste like peaches.”

[zegrasdrysdale]

[ take a seat ] q. hughes

day 3 of kinktober (face sitting w/ quinn hughes)

paring : Quinn Hughes x fem!reader

summary: Quinn grows a playoff beard and his girlfriend loves it. the day he decides to shave it after the Canucks get eliminated, she tells him how she really feels about it and Quinn gives her the moment she’s been wanting since he started growing it before he shaves it

warning(s) : smut ! face sitting / riding, oral (f receiving), fingering

author’s note : been waiting to write this one hehe. it’s on the shorter side but i hope y'all enjoy anyway

kinktober schedule

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The playoffs have treated her and Quinn so well. Quinn because he got to captain the Canucks to the second round after a short 3 year playoff drought. Her because Quinn grew a playoff beard over the past month or so and she's barely managed to keep her hands off of him while he was playing.

She loves everything about the playoffs, but especially the fact that Quinn hasn’t shaved in a few weeks. He looks so good with longer facial hair and she loves the way it tickles her lip when he kisses her. She kinda just wants him to go down on her for as long as possible to feel it against her core.

The thought of Quinn eating her out with the beard is enough to soak her. The feeling of his beard on her core is something she thinks about an unhealthy number of times over the course of three weeks. She’s gotten off multiple times just at the thought alone, especially when he's away playing in Nashville and Edmonton. She’s wouldn’t know what to do if it happened.

But the Canucks were eliminated by Edmonton last night so it’s time for Quinn to shave off the beard he has spent the past few weeks growing. He doesn't do it the day after their season ends because he wants to just lay around and have the laziest day ever, so she gets an extra day to admire him.

The morning of the day Quinn wants to shave his beard though, she wakes up before he does. He stopped setting alarms once the Canucks got eliminated two nights ago but she is naturally an early riser. She doesn't dare move because part of Quinn's morning routine is shaving. If she moves and wakes him up, he's going to go shave and that's the last thing she wants right now.

She softly sighs as morning Vancouver sun creates a muted orange glow throughout the room. Quinn already looks so good and he's not even awake yet.

All because of that stupid beard he grew.

Quinn begins to stir moments after she wakes. His eyes flutter open and look bright in the morning sunlight.

"It's creepy to stare at people while they sleep, baby," he tells her, his voice slurred since he just woke up. Also kind of raspy, which she loves.

"Not my fault you look pretty all the time," she replies. "I also just woke up a few minutes ago so give me a break. I wanted to admire my boyfriend before he woke up and started making comments that ruined the whole vibe."

He groans and rubs his face. He touches his facial hair and hums. "I gotta go get rid of this mess," he says. "Then you can admire me all you want, okay?"

Her eyes widen and Quinn begins to move to get out of bed. She quickly grabs his arm to stop him from getting any further.

"I like that mess," she finally admits to him. He turns back around and looks at her. She begins to talk before her brain can catch up to what she's saying. "I mean, you look really hot with that mess on your face. Except, I don't think it's a mess. I wish you wouldn't run off and shave it first chance you get."

Quinn blinks at her slowly like he's processing what she said to him. A smile grows on his lips and she presses her lips into a line.

"Come here," Quinn tells her as he lays back down. She blinks at him, confused. "I know you've thought about it. I've seen the way that you would look at me then excuse yourself to go use the bathroom." She feels her face get hot in embarrassment. She thought she was more subtle than she actually was.

She plays with her fingers while she watches Quinn get comfortable. "Quinn, I-"

"Come take a seat, pretty girl," he interrupts as he runs his fingers over his beard. "Sit on and ride my face. I know you want to so I am giving you what you want before I go shave."

Who is she to say no to him? He's offering so she might as well take it.

Without anymore hesitation, she moves so she's kneeling above his face with her knees on the pillow on either side of his head. Lucky for her, she's only wearing one of Quinn's Canucks t-shirts and a pair of underwear. Nothing else.

Quinn kisses the inside of her thigh right by her core while he pushes the fabric of the t-shirt up. She hums softly as her body finally begins to wake up. She feels the gentle scratch of his facial hair on her skin and she gnaws on her bottom lip. "Oh my God," she sighs.

"I haven't even done anything yet," Quinn laughs.

"Shut up and do something then," she retorts. "Please, Quinn." She's not above begging at this point.

He licks a stripe over her panties, which are soaked by now. Like she said, the thought alone makes her drip. His finger follows his tongue and she hums. Quinn pushes the fabric to the side and runs a finger through her soaked folds. She bites down on her bottom lip to keep from making any loud noises since it is morning and their neighbors are probably still sleeping.

She grabs onto the headboard above Quinn's head as he runs his tongue through her folds. "Fuck, Quinn!" She cries out. "Oh my God."

The feeling of the gentle scratch of his facial hair is almost too much for her. Quinn wraps his lips around her clit and hums, sending a shock through her body. It almost jumpstarts her own movements as she begins to roll her hips.

"That's it, baby," Quinn says against her core. "Take what you want."

His hands rest on her waist and he pulls her down so she's completely sitting on his face but he's still able to breathe. His tongue continues to run through her folds as she rolls her hips. Her core grinds across his face and she feels the scratch of his facial hair with each movement. She welcomes the new feeling. It only adds to her pleasure despite the beard burn she'll probably have when all this is over.

Quinn hums every so often, and she groans with every hum. Her grip on the headboard gets stronger the longer she moves. She's almost afraid that she'll lose her balance despite his hands keeping her from falling.

One of his hands slides up under the loose t-shirt and cups her breast. She throws her head back and lets out a borderline pornographic moan as she continues to ride Quinn's face. One of her hands flies to Quinn's messy hair, fingers finding a home.

He slides his other hand so his thumb can access her clit. He rubs the sensitive nub while continuing to run his tongue though her folds with each movement. "Oh my fucking- Quinn," she cries out. "Holy-"

"Look so pretty riding my face, pretty girl," Quinn mumbles. His words shoot straight to her core. "Fuck."

His thumb moves and slides into her. She gasps and her movement falters for a second while she recovers from the addition. "Quinn," she groans, holding the 'N' sound.

Between his tongue, his thumb, and his facial hair, she's not sure how she hasn't come all over his face by now. Her legs are shaking so she has to stop moving, but Quinn completely takes over despite being under her.

He speeds up his thumb for a second before switching fingers, using his pointer and middle fingers instead. She welcomes the familiar stretch.

His fingers and tongue are enough to bring her to the edge. She's white-knuckling the headboard with one hand while her other hand remains in Quinn's hair.

"Gonna come," she pants. "Quinn. I'm close."

"Told you to take what you want," Quinn replies. "So take what you want."

Quinn speeds up his fingers and curls them in a 'come here' motion. The gentle scratch of his facial hair turns less gentle as he speeds up his tongue movements, but she still loves it.

She throws her head back and cries out his name as she comes. She involuntarily rolls her own hips so her core grinds against his face again. Her fingers curl in his locks so she has something to hold on to as she reaches her climax. She loses her vision for half a second because of how hard her orgasm hits her.

Her body turns to jelly as she recovers. With Quinn's help, she's able to lie back down beside him. Her breathing is labored and she stares up at the ceiling, unable to move to look at her boyfriend.

All this morning showed her is that Quinn needs to grow out his facial hair more often because it made her come harder than she ever has before. She can't move for about ten minutes after her orgasm.

When she's fully conscious again, she looks over at Quinn. He didn't go and shave yet.

"I think I'm going to keep this for another day or two," he tells her. "Just for you. That is going to happen a few more times before it goes away."

She smiles and rolls so she can touch his face. "I'm going to need you to grow it out like this again soon because holy shit, Quinn," she giggles. "So hot. Felt so good."

Quinn matches her smile. "Maybe over the summer," he tells her. "No promises though."

"Gonna need my favorite seat back at some point."

"Next year when we make playoffs against for sure."

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[muntitled]

𝘽𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣 & 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩

: ̗̀➛ Mattheo Riddle x Fem!reader | Brief!Harry Potter x fem!reader

: ̗̀➛ Summary: Jealousy makes the heart grow fonder.

: ̗̀➛ Warnings: Alcoholism, Dark!fic, Ravenclaw!reader, Bullying, Unrequited Love, Shy!reader, Toxic Relationship, Jealousy, Narcissism, Weaponizing!Harry (sorry boo), Fluff, A bit of Angst, Smut +18 (Minors DNI), DubCon, Semi Public sex, Unprotected Sex, Oral Sex, Masturbation, Dom/Sub, CNC, humping, Spitting, Degradation, Dacryphillia, Choking, Gagging, Subspace, Slapping, Sadism, Breeding Kink

5k words

A/N: Hell truly is empty. I apologise in advance.

You have made peace with the incomparable fact, long ago, that if the muggle God existed - if he is known to shepard Muggles and Wizards alike, then he was far too busy to attend to you. There is just too much going on all at once. The wizarding world is caught in its archaic intolerance of Half-Bloods. On the mortal side, you were informed from your private tutoring with Professor McGonagall that their smartphones are threatening devolution.

“It’s the closest thing they’ve got to a wand, Lovie, so we can’t really fault them on that, can we?” 6 years into your schooling at Hogwarts and you would continue to shadow Professor McGonagall, hoping you might one day soar to her heights of academic prestige in the wizarding world. You needed to be a Professor as much as a mortal needs to breathe….

You cannot let him, of all people, ruin things. Your reputation is a fragile, flammable thing - and he is freaking Kerosene.

It's difficult to pinpoint when it started or how your sensibilities rushed away from you so swiftly. One moment you’re planting your textbook on the face of a wooden desk - the sound reaching the rafters in the highest peak of the deserted classroom…

“A Guide To Advanced Transfiguration.” Mattheo read the title aloud with a tedious uninterested drawl. “Seems a bit presumptuous to shove this down my throat so early on. Shouldn't we be starting from the beginning?"

You ignored him promptly, using the silence to arrange your colour coordinated stationery on your desk beside Riddle's,

“I had no idea," You began, brushing off your blue lined robes and flattening the invisible creases on your skirt, "-That the person residing under my tutelage would be a first year."

Riddle stabbed the inside of his mouth with his tongue, while his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Your face remained passive as you continued, "You are a sixth year, correct?” You asked with a snide tilt of the head before planting yourself on the desk beside him.

“You are a big boy capable of understanding big boy books,” Unbeknownst to you, your words managed to stir something foreign within Mattheo but he conceals it with his usual veneer of arrogance as he swings his head lazily in your direction.

"May we begin?" You asked, with your back straightened - inches away from his hand now hanging on your chair.

"In a bit…" he says, "Just..." his voice trails off as his eyes scan over your visage, likely assessing it like an unseen tapestry. The truth is, Riddle did not know you prior to being forced under your tutelage. His droopy brown eyes appeared even more so as he broke the distance between you two and studied you closer. A tense silence grew pregnant in the ancient classroom, and your resolve was beginning to slip. Only one thought inflated a puddle of anxiety in your stomach:

Could this be your first kiss? Is this what first kisses looked like? Could this be your very first brush of intimacy overall?

Your brain failed to rationalise and compartmentalise his attraction, but your heart pushed your head closer.

"Call me a big boy again..." He had whispered… which evidently led you here.

Your lesson had ended with your hand covered in his release and a breathless smirk painted across his face. "This goes without saying," he breathed out with a satisfied smirk, "But tell anyone about this, and you're dead."

Ever since that day, your tutoring has been but a veneer of something much more sinister. When you were thrusted into the light of day, Mattheo overlooked you as did lots of his Slytherin friends. Besides the occasional threat and vague insult, you mean nothing to him.

When you two are alone, however, as you are right now, he would enchant you into servitude, lightly pushing your head down while he kissed you silly until your knees were planted on the hardwood floor.

Mattheo briefly opens his eyes to peer down at you. It is then when you notice the fresh bruise dotting the side of his face, and his pillowy lips split by a small incursion. He had very clearly gotten into another fight..

“Your mouth feels so fucking good when you're not using it to be a smart ass,” His words illicit a bubble of heat inside you.

Despite all this, you are clearly aware of the fact that you should not be enjoying this at all. Not one bit. For starters, you can feel the old wooden floors digging into the meat of your knees and the crisp winter chill is unkind to your scantily dressed state. Your shirt is unbuttoned because Mattheo was like a moth to a fucking flame when it came to your ample breasts and his hand is buried tightly in your kinky curls, forcing his cock even further down your throat. The very bones of Hogwarts seem to be in vehement protest of your blatant whorishness.

3 silver chains hang from his neck as he plants his other hand against the wall behind you, blocking your kneeling frame between both him and cold, hard stone. You crane your neck back, keeping a half lidded gaze on the jewelry that drives you feral with lust. You are content imagining that perhaps, when he is getting ready in the slytherin common rooms, he wears the silver for you. A fanciful thought but one that consistently has your intestines weaving themselves into knots.

That, paired with his striking, jet black blazer, which is discarded somewhere in the abandoned classroom, has you keening and fighting to take even more of him into your mouth. Perhaps you were peacocking a little - flatting your tongue so his cock slid seamlessly to the back of your throat while you fought to ignore the pain blossoming on your scalp. He had turned you from an inexperienced nun to something you're not quite ready to examine yet.

"You're finally putting this head of yours to good use…" Despite his feigned arrogance you're utterly delighted knowing that only you can bring Mattheo to such an utterly restless state. He does not really know what to do with himself.

Not when you took so much of him, so well.

You clench your toes.

Feeling himself get too close, Mattheo eases his cock fully out of your mouth, languidly stroking himself but still assuming a firm grip on your scalp. He is operating on that very specific plain of narcissism that was special to Mattheo. He is aware of your presence, physically, but his words are spoken into the open air, like you are an inanimate object. A glorified toy.

"Are all Ravenclaws as compliant as you are?”

You bring a crisp white sleeve up to your lips, wiping away the excess drool as you remain kneeled in front of him, knowing he has yet to finish.

"If you ever think of finding out," your voice is hoarse, "this will be the last time I offer you any free study sessions."

"Is money all you seek?" He attempts to feign composure, continuing to languidly stroke his cock. "How utterly greedy. I thought- fuck… - I thought you were far more philosophical than that"

You watch hungrily as Mattheo bites on his pillowy bottom lip. He is prolonging the release, taking his time as he usually did... "If you plan on edging yourself in my mouth instead of actually finishing the job, I do have other commitments to attend to-"

He ignores you... his brows furrowing and smoothening at odd intervals as he continues to touch himself while studying you.

"We may not be studying… but I still intend to pass Transfiguration, hope you're aware." He punctuates his sentence with an breathless laugh- it blossoms across his usually stoic visage, raising his buttercup cheekbones towards his smiling eyes.

As he talks, you examine his scars and feel the slow essence of admiration seep into the pit of your stomach. An arguably pathetic feat, given that your feelings will not ever be reciprocated.

Brewing inside you is the need to take care of him. You knew the rest of the student body viewed Mattheo as a glorified parasite. Something that is only capable of thinking within the capacity of its own means. Something that takes, and takes, and occasionally jokes around, and takes. But how could he know anything different? You suspected that his home life was built on the foundation of survival, on needing to be the loudest, and proudest, and worst of them all.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The sharpness of his words slice through your thoughts, bringing you back to yourself. Mattheo's gaze is placed firmly on something down below. Throughout his mindless tirade, your hand had taken to rubbing soft, comforting circles against the leg of his pants, quite literally on its own accord. Mattheo is bent over, head tilted as he watches you questioningly. Seconds stretch to a minute, and your stomach sinks as time passes.

Eventually, he dismisses you. He shakes his head. "Whatever," He says, tilting your head back and lining your mouth with the head of his cock once more. His visage darkens into a cruel sadistic grin. "Tell me you want me to come in your mouth."

Almost instinctively, you do as he orders and like clockwork, you swallow his cum, wondering if he knew how deeply and truly your words actually were. There was a moment, perhaps imagined, in which his fingers gripping your hair, melted to the side of your soft, supple cheek. It stays there for longer than necessary, leaving bits and pieces of your composure scattered in its wake.

Mattheo soon straightens his posture, stuffing his flaccid cock back into his pants before making himself as presentable to the student body as they know him to be (which admittedly is not a lot) And before he turns to walk away, he leaves you stranded on a glacier with his ice cold words cutting deep into your beating heart.

"Tell anyone about this-"

"And I'm dead," You interject, "I know."

And with that, you pull your ruffled collar over your lint-free school jersey and check your reflection to assess the damage Mattheo and his iron grip might have left. You needn't wait for an extension on the conversation because your job here was done, (pun so malevolently intended).

As far as Mattheo is concerned, you are an easy conduit to release his frustrations through because your unpopularity makes you so incredibly inconspicuous. You blend into any given crowd at any given moment, your name seldom reaching the heights of ridicule among his group because you are so unforgettable… There had been no reason to point out your flaws, not because you did not have any, but because you were simply invisible.

It is particularly strange to have any social interaction beyond the bounds of group projects and class discussions… so Harry Potter gifting you even a sliver of attention had been violently unorthodox. So unorthodox, in fact, you failed to look up from the weathered pages of your novel when his gentle voice wafted in your direction during a rare free period in Study of Ancient Runes. Your professor has been summoned quite promptly by the headmaster and has yet to return. The class has been in a state of havoc ever since.

"I don't know if you're aware of this but…" A deep shadow over the pages alerted you to his presence, "They both die at the end."

It was incredibly rare that Potter, who sat at the desk directly in front of you, ever felt the need to strike up conversation that was not purely academic. Gryffindors made use of Ravenclaws as often as Slytherins.

So naturally, you peer curiously up at him…

"Sorry?"

"Y-Your book. It's a muggle book, isn't it? I haven't seen anything with a cover like that around here. It's refreshing. Everything in the wizarding world is ancient and leatherbound." He mumbles as his index finger slides into the collar of his red quidditch jersey. He finds himself suddenly overcome by a wave of embarrassment even though there was nothing at all to be embarrassed about… he turns his chair slightly in your direction, his eyes darting to the door and the empty teacher's seat before meeting yours once more.

"'They Both Die At The End." He says, pointing towards the title.

"Oh…" You affirm, rocking your head back and forth, "You were making a joke?"

"No," Harry snickers before waving a large hand in dismissal, "Evidently, the only thing I 'made' was a complete and utter fool of myself."

You're not sure when it happens but you feel the lower half of your face melting into what you suspect is a smile. You can feel your shoulders relaxing and your novel lowering imperceptibly.

"Work on your delivery next time and maybe we'll be getting somewhere."

"Is that how it is!?" Harry asked, pleasantly surprised by your banter, "- I could've sworn I had a shred of dignity before the start of this conversation. Now I'm not quite sure where that went."

Mattheo's feet pass over the threshold as soon as the sound of your laughter rushes past him. It is almost charming in its familiarity but incredibly curious in its rarity. He can't recall ever seeing you with your head thrown back while the instinctive sound of amusement races through your throat. He does not know he's staring until Draco shoves past him, to get to their own seats in the front of the class.

His eyes remain on you as he makes his way to his desk, hoping, perhaps, that you would turn your head infinitesimally, in acknowledgment of his presence.

You do nothing of the sort, and it not only fills him with a weird sort of dissatisfaction but it bubbles into full blown vexation when he realises who is capturing your attention so viscerally.

Mattheo has never prided himself on his patience or tolerance.

Overthinking is something he consistently lives without.

Most of his actions were spurred from things he felt in the now, and he was really fucking uncomfortable with what was happening now.

His glances at the front of the class before finding you once more in the very back corner of the class. He notices that Harry is stationed in front of you but the seat beside you is completely deserted.

Did you not have friends?

And more importantly; how did he never notice until now?

What if…

Perhaps if he…

"You didn't let me know we were having a picnic," The sound of a chair scraping against the tiles had both you and Harry rallying into silence. Mattheo appears at your side, pushing the chair against yours so he, too, sits facing Potter - who suddenly appears incredibly uneasy. Gone is the comfortable atmosphere cooked by easy and amicable conversation. Mattheo injecting himself into your little bubble created a suddenly charged and suffocating atmosphere. You cannot keep your wide eyes off Mattheo as he lowers himself to his chair beside you with his legs spread as he slouches down, like he always does.

"Don't stop on my accord," He exclaims, completely oblivious to the fact that your professor might walk in at any minute. "What were we talking about?" Your heart wrestles in your chest as you see him turn to address you. His slouching puts him a level lower than you, but it does nothing to lessen his intimidation.

"Maybe I should ask, Potter?" Mattheo turns his attention to the front, "What were you lot talking about?" There is not a trace of friendliness present in Riddle's tone. In fact, it's the very opposite. Your nerves, swelling with anxiety, only escalate into full-on panic when you feel him place a large hand on your skirt under the table.

Harry's voice is low and his eyes are trained on the floor, "Books-"

"Books!" Mattheo cuts him off with sarcastic fervour, "How utterly fascinating!" The hyperbolic wonder in his tone is utterly rude and unbecoming, but you look down at your desk in blatant anger. Refusing to be a part of whatever this is.

"And tell me, Potter, how many books have you read so far?"

It is then that Riddle's once stationary hand begins the faintest trace of movement. He begins slow and tame, his callouses barely registering on the soft fabric until his fingers prod the lining of your skirt…

Your breath hitches in your throat.

Never had Mattheo ever displayed a desire to touch you. Not in the way he made you touch him. It was made explicitly clear that only he would benefit from your secret rendezvous' and so you were left to deal with your aching cunt alone, with the image of the face he made when he came, still burned into your mind. It had never been about you.

"A couple,'' says Harry, fighting to show this bully that he was unaffected by his intimidation. If only he knew that with every advance Mattheo's palm made, you were slipping farther and farther away.

"A couple books?" Asks Riddle for clarity. He remains lax and languid on the inside, but the nature of his wandering hand underneath the desk tells a new story.

He finally slips under your skirt.

His palm connects with the softness of your thighs and he seems utterly pleased by it. His hand is immediately restless to explore how far you would let him go. Which isn't very far.

Not at all.

If he thought he could suddenly touch you after myriad occasions of using you like a discarded toy… he had another thing coming.

The tips of Mattheo's fingers make gradually increasing strokes along your thigh until his fingers prod the stretch marks on your inner thigh. It is there when you stop him, clenching your legs together, blocking his hand from any further movement.

Mattheo's voice is strained as he says, "And you like reading, Potter?"

Sensing something brewing between the two of you - your withdrawn, hazy gaze, staring directly through the desk and Mattheo's overabundance in questions, has Harry reeling backwards.

"I asked you a question, Harry."

"I like reading."

"Good! That's really good!" Quite suddenly, Riddle tilts the ends of his half-moon nails into your thigh. His nails bite into your skin, forcing them to weaken and unclamp. Before you're even able to think, his palm is cupping your cunt through your panties- forcing an indecent yelp from your throat which you quickly (and very badly) disguise as a cough.

Mattheo is utterly pleased while he continues mindlessly stroking your cunt. Not for the purpose of any glorious stimulation. His hand is just there to show you (and perhaps maybe himself) that he has access to the most private part of you.

That thought alone has an unforeseen and sudden wave of lust coursing through his veins and surging straight to his hardened cock. He thinks of all the things he could have done to you but failed to do. He thinks about how, up until this point, he had ever been satisfied with using your mouth alone, not when he was denying himself the softness of your pussy all along.

He felt angry with himself, for being so fucking stupid, he is angry at Potter for seeing whatever it is he saw in you, way before he did and, possibly most harrowing of all is the fact that he is angry with you. And he can't help but be angry at you. How easily you whore yourself out to any and every man. If this thing with Potter had gone far enough, would you replace him? Had you even fucked Potter before?

You bite down on your lower lip as your head bows even further into your book. The words blend into one another, and all you can feel is a rise in temperature and Mattheo's suddenly restless fingers, pressing rudely against your clit - for the sole purpose of ripping an orgasm out of you right then and there, at the very back of an unsupervised classroom, with Harry Potter still very much a part of the conversation.

"You've got so many books to read in your lifetime," Says Mattheo. He sits up slowly, likely spurred on by the dampness seeping through your panties. "Don't cut your long life short by trying to entertain other people's girlfriends, yeah?" Gone are any traces of feigned friendliness. "Fucking Mudblood,"

Your skin feels like you are bathing in magma and you hope Potter could not see the slight tremor in your hand as you gripped the sides of your book with more force than necessary.

Mattheo's words… they have you shifting forward and widening your legs minutely. You crave for nothing more than to roll your hips in tandem with the circles he's pressing against your clit.

"Understood?"

Your orgasm is dangerously close, with the promise of sheer, disgusting shame and embarrassment if he continues. You feel Harry give you one final curious look, perhaps pleading for an interjection of denial at some point but you've taken to bouncing your knee under the table, hoping the vibrations might create enough friction to aid Mattheo's hands. He is keeping you trapped in a space of wanting. So much so, that this almost feels like a punishment.

Once Harry is turned back around and facing the front of the class, Mattheo lowers his lips to your ears. The damp smell of firewhiskey floods your nostril and you realise that he is completely drunk. In the second lesson of the day.

However, you're so completely stimulated, even the warmth of his breath as you fight the urge to hump into his hand like a lost little puppy until you make a mess all over his hand.

"You're such a fucking slut, you know that?" Your book drops to your desk - muffled by the sounds of the classroom cacophony. "You like being humiliated like this?" He asks, almost in complete awe. It takes everything in you not to moan outright.

"Fuck," You whisper to yourself, blinking your eyes shut, warding off the need but to no avail. His fingers are long and limber, and they have you nearly cumming right there, in front of your entire fucking class. Had it not been for your Professor's haphazard arrival into the class, and the swift removal of Mattheo's fingers from between your legs… you might truly have become the slut he labelled you as.

Instead of moving to his designated seat, Riddle raises his hand for the professor… the very same hand that has previously been in between your legs.

"Yes, Mr Riddle?" Asks the Professor, his voice as lacklustre as his appearance.

"May we be excused? We were excused by Professor Slughorn to assist him in-"

"Fine, fine," Says the professor with a wave of dismissal before turning his attention to the rest of the class. "The rest of you, open your textbooks to page 56."

Riddle's hand is clamped around your forearm, already leading you swiftly out the door in a long and wide stride. Had it been any other teacher at all, they might have recognized this for what it so clearly was.

"Here," you have barely made it fully into the boy's bathroom before Mattheo is stuffing his fingers down your throat, making you gag and yelp at the sudden intrusion. "Tell me how good you taste." He doesn't even bother to make sure you're truly left alone in the bathroom before pushing your front against the bathroom sink.

"Is that good?" His voice is as sweet as honey as he forces his fingers deeper down your throat, causing you to cough and gag around them.

Mattheo has half his sense to pull his wand from his back pocket, and without turning around, whispers "Colloportus," and the heavy doors snap shut.

You're supposed to be afraid because you've never seen him like this. Mattheo is always a ball of sarcastic energy between trysts, but it's usually an energy he can somewhat contain.

You don't know what to do with him, not when he's watching you choke on his fingers through the mirror, while his other hand fondles at your breasts and rips your bra down until your nipples are poking through your school shirt.

The figure in the mirror distorts as your eyes begin to water. Thick beads of tears grow pregnant at the ends of your eyes before rolling down the side of your face.

"My girl," Mattheo presses his face into your hair, breathing you in, pressing his body into your side. His hard cock in unmistakable through his school pants, "My messy little girl,"

You finally moan candidly while your fingers grip the countertops and your hips buck into nothingness. Your eyes plead with him in the mirror, hoping they relay how utterly useless with lust you have become. It would not take hard work to make you cum, you're sure one more flick against your material-clad nipples might send you over the edge.

"Fuck, why didn't I think of this sooner,"

This is all new, even for the two of you.

"Spread your legs." He commands, even though his feet are already kicking them apart.

"Come here," you break eye contact in the mirror to face the boy behind you. Mattheo removes his fingers sitting in your mouth, leaving a trail of sticky saliva in its wake before replacing it with a long and messy kiss- one that has his tongue forcing itself inside.

Mattheo weaponizes your distraction to reach around and slide your panties to the side with one hand while he rubs your soft nub with his other, spit-coated hand.

You break away from the kiss, neck craning back and mouth hanging open while your eyebrows dissolve into crescents. You cannot look away from him, as you hump his hand.

"You wanna cum?" You nod enthusiastically. "And what if I told you, you can't cum until I've fucked that little pussy of yours? Hm? What then?" His words have you mewling from the sheer pleasure they bring and your orgasm threatens to snap once more.

"Fuck," He hisses, feeling unable to remove his hand from your wet cunt but needing to, in order to undo his belt and pull his aching cock out. "Don't you dare fucking touch yourself," He says in a deadly quiet voice before bringing his hand up to your mouth. "Spit." You don't ever think of disobeying him, not when you're swimming so deeply in your subspace, not when he's the one to bring you here.

Mattheo collects every bit of saliva you offer him before coating his cock in the stuff.

Deciding not to waste anymore time, he does what his body is screaming for him to do: he bends you over the bathroom sink and pushes cock right through your slippery folds. It's tense and painful and your voice is hoarse from doing all that screaming but the sudden contact strokes a deeply sated part inside yourself. His curved and pretty cock rams your insides with reckless abandon, all while he delivers small slaps against your cheek. Riddle keeps a firm grip on your throat. His mouth is inches away from you while his hips rut into yours. His words are being delivered through clenched teeth.

"You think you're so fucking smart but you're just my little whore, arent you? A little whore thst fucks anything that gives her the slightest bit of attention?" It doesn't even register that Mattheo wrongfully suspects that there had been something between you and Harry but you keep your mouth shut. For all his indifference in the past, this is how you would make him pay.

"Oh~ fuck." His cock bruises your cervix, leaving him balls deep and feral inside you. "Fucking Potter?! You wanna give what's mine, to fucking Potter?!" His voice is utterly depraved and animalistic and it has your orgasm cresting.

He is panting, while he mumbles into your ear.

"What would Potter think? If he saw you like this? What would he think? Would he still want your slutty pussy knowing I've been inside it? Knowing that I've cum so deep inside you? Completely ruining you for anyone else, huh?"

"You…" The tears threaten to spill, "It's only ever been you, Mattheo -oh my god! I'm so fucking close!" You fight down tears as the lava begins to bubble at the pit of your stomach.

"S-Say it again. Tell me you want me!" He exclaims, "Tell me you fucking need me."

"Oh my God, Mattheo, I fucking need you." You push your hips back to meet his thrusts.

His voice wavers after your confession. His strokes became sloppy. His mind is flooded with the tightest of your cunt around his cock- how someone so smart could possibly ever say they need him. It has a flood of heat pooling at the base of his cock. "You're so fucking pretty… my pretty girl - my pretty whore," He nods to himself while his heavy cock finds purchase in a specific clump of sensitive tissue inside your cunt. It has you clamping your own mouth shut, your arms wavering while your back arches towards him, only allowing him better excess.

"I need you," You say once more, swallowing a ball of saliva as you nod towards him through the mirror, "I need you to cum inside me."

"Oh my fucking god," Mattheo's eyes soften in their desperstion, "M'gonna fucking breed pussy right here- fuck!" His grip on your throat grows tighter until you're wholeheartedly cut off from your air supply. You hump his cock until you feel it twitch inside you.

"Y-Youre making me cum, baby- fuck-" You feel his hot cum spurting inside your walls, triggering your own orgasm that has you gripping his cock like a vice.

"So… so pretty" His hips stutter against yours until you've completely drained him of his cum. A sharp tremor settles over your bones and you gasp in vague increments, waiting for the overwhelming state of euphoria to subside… but it never does.

The weight of what you had done comes crashing back down but you are unable to feel anything besides an immense wave of satisfaction at having your deepest need satiated.

"I think I nearly killed Potter today." His voice is a hoarse echo within the school bathrooms.

"There is no Harry Potter," You say, watching him through the mirror, "In my whole world, there is only ever you, Mattheo."

And a part of him believes you, but he refuses to affirm something as emotionally stifling as that. Instead, Mattheo's eyes flutter shut as his nose finds your hair once more. His cock is still buried inside you, and you hiss as he moves his hips slowly, almost insitinvely. He loves being so wholly enveloped by you. He loves feeling you everywhere.

© to @mphountitled on tumblr; do not repost

[rottingnausea]

.

[lost-romantique]

Blitzø's Realization & Feelings

I like how Blitz is initially confused the moment Stolas arrives on scene and breaks into song...

He understands that Stolas just saved him from getting his head chopped off, but he still doesn't understand what he's doing at the trial.

After all, in Blitzø’s mind Stolas is over him, and moved on the moment he saw Stolas having the time of his life dancing with BTB.

In Blitzø’s memory reel Stolas has his top eyes open, and I think to Blitzø he reads it as Stolas seeing and relishing in that kiss, in that moment. Blitzø doesn't even consider the fact that it was a drunken kiss.

But the moment Stolas takes all the blame for himself, things take a turn...

It clicks for Blitzø, and he's just in pure and utter shock as he sees just how much Stolas genuinely and truly loves him.

It's at this moment where he says the words, "I don't want to live a life without you by my side."

Blitzø takes this time to finally let his emotions pour out like a fucking waterfall.

Whereas compared to Ghostfuckers he just subtly acknowledges it.

His expression drops from realization to pure panic at Stolas' actions. Blitzø doesn't want to die, but at the same time, he definitely doesn't want someone he cares about to take the fall for him.

"What are you doing!? I don't deserve this!"

"I realized too late!" Blitzø acknowledges that he realized both Stolas’ feelings and his own feelings too late in the game.

Blitzø in Apology Tour didn't understand his own feelings, let alone Stolas’ feelings. He tries to, but he can't.

"Don't give your life to clean my slate."

What I love about this line is that it reads as: Don't sacrifice yourself to absolve me of my crimes. Blitzø makes it clear he doesn't want this.

"You’re my heart."

Blitzø breaks down and says these words because to Blitzø this is what Stolas is, the key to his heart that he's kept locked up for years, and someone he wants to give his whole heart too.

Because Blitzø closed off his heart after the fire. His love is something that he believed could hurt someone, but with Stolas, he's worth that risk.

The moment Stolas is wrapped in chains, Blitzø moves on instinct, almost as if he's trying to get out of his own chains so he can run to Stolas.

Felt like it would be a disservice not to show the clip that destroyed me. 😀

Blitzø, the moment he's freed of his chains Blitzø says the words, "No- no!" in disbelief, shock, and desperation.

Blitzø is so desperate to stop Stolas from what he's doing, begging him to do anything to stop this from happening. And if that meant getting himself killed, he'd do it.

Because he doesn't want a repeat of this happening. It's one thing for people to leave Blitzø, he’s used to that, but it's another to have them die, especially in front of him.

He breaks down when he fears his worse fears have come true: that Stolas is dead and he can't do anything to stop it.

It's why Blitzø is so shocked and surprised the moment he sees Stolas alive, because his worse fears didn't happen.

The moment Blitzø gets the reassurance that he's is loved by Stolas he falls into that caretaking role almost instantly, since he knows Stolas is hurting right now.

He's taking steps being extra gentle, extra reassuring, extra soft, even going as far as to fluff the pillow on his couch.

It vaguely reminds me of how Blitzø is able to sorta gage what people's needs are. In this moment, Blitzø was about to shoot Creepzo, but instead he opts to beat Creepzo with the end of his gun once he realizes Fizz is on the verge of a panic attack.

What I love about this shot is that this is the most at peace Blitzø has ever looked in the entire show.

He's just so grateful that he's alive and that Stolas is alive.

~~~~~~

Anyway, wanted to include this bit because I love how Sam Haft pointed out that Blitzø leaves Mastermind more self-actualized.

Whereas for Stolas, he leaves Mastermind more humbled as he gets a taste of how truly privileged he is.

[ghcstao3]

AU where ghost is a relatively famous voice actor—by name, anyway. he’s never shown his face in those ‘behind-the-scenes’ videos, doesn’t do red carpets for the bigger productions, always leaves the press junkets to his colleagues. he loves his job, don’t get him wrong, it’s fun and creative and he’s met some really great people, he just… has never wanted to be in the limelight. that’s not for him.

and it’s easy to get away with, because all of the voices he uses are not really his. there’s elements of him, sure, but nothing someone in person could necessarily place, unless they really listened close and were some kind of super fan. in real life, ghost is soft spoken, and maybe his voice is a little rough from the years before he learned how to properly take care of his vocal cords, but it’s still completely separate from all his characters. that was a rule he stuck with throughout his career—no using his real voice.

soap likes to consider himself a fan of simon riley.

(of his work, obviously. just his work. he definitely isn’t intrigued or anything by the mystery that is the voice actor. nuh uh. not at all.)

he’s seen just about every film and show that features one of the actor’s many voices, knows what little trivia is known of him, and, ultimately, he really respects the guy. his younger sister had finally landed herself a sizeable role in voice acting pretty recently after years of odds and ends, and soap knows how difficult it is to make it in the industry. so what if he may also have a little bit of a crush on the unknown man’s talent?

and so what if that little crush has presently brought him to a bookstore, because soap had heard simon would be voicing a character in some adaptation and soap wanted to get himself caught up? it’s fine. it’s normal. totally normal.

it’s in search of the book when soap accidentally stumbles into an absolute brick-wall of a man as he rounds the corner. soap mutters out apologies, goes to move past him, but then looks up and melts, just a little. because it’s then that soap discovers the prettiest set of brown eyes he thinks he’s ever seen. and when his gaze briefly flicks down—he sees that the man is holding the book he’d been looking for.

soap grins, does his best to look charming in spite of the fact that he’d just run into this poor, beautiful bastard. “was lookin’ for that one, too.”

the man’s brow furrows in confusion before he realizes what soap had been referring to. his eyes fall almost self-consciously to the book.

“oh, yeah. it’s a good book. gave my nephew my other copy, so i’m just…” the man lifts the book in some helpless gesture.

“hm.” soap nods. he can’t help but notice how soothing the man’s voice is, low and rough around the edges, but completely soft in the middle. “y’hear they’re making a movie?”

the man perks up, and for a moment soap wonders if that’s panic he sees flash in his eyes. he clears his throat. “yes, that’s actually why i’m, well. i owned it before, but because i’m doing the—because of the movie, i had to…” the man sighs, shoulders slumping. it’s endearing, the way he’s gotten so easily flustered, like he isn’t used to small talk. “never mind. i’ll let you… i hope you enjoy it. the book. and movie too, i guess.”

soap laughs, not unkindly. “the book, we’ll see. favourite actor’s in the movie, so i’ll probably like it either way.”

“yeah?” the man cocks his head, curious. “who’s that?”

unashamedly, soap replies, “simon riley.”

it’s not unnoticeable, the way the man’s face blossoms a faint pink before he coughs and ducks his head. “he’s, uh. heard he’s good,” he says. “so others say.”

for a moment, it looks like the man is preparing to bolt, so soap sticks out his hand as a last-minute resort to keep him around just a little longer. “i’m john. friends call me soap. long story, but if you maybe let me take you out for some coffee, i could tell you?”

apprehension lines the man’s posture, but he eventually tucks the book under one arm and shakes soap’s hand. “friends call me ghost. and i’d like that.”

ghost’s hand is warm, his grip firm. soap tries not to let himself linger in the touch.

“sounds like a date.” soap smiles up at ghost. “did you want to do that today, or…?”

ghost shakes his head. “can’t today. but i can give you my number?”

soap agrees, but as he reaches for his phone he’s met with an empty pocket and the realization that he’d left it on the counter at home. he sighs, feeling disheartened, readying an excuse when he gets an idea. “d’you have a pen?”

ghost does, in fact, have a pen, though soap supposes he could’ve just gone and bought one from the bookstore just as well. soap tells him to stay put a minute, goes to retrieve his own copy of the book, and comes back with it opened to the first page.

“i’m buying it, anyway,” soap says. and it’s commemorative, he doesn’t add, of the day and reason we met. because he’s hopeful this may actually go somewhere.

ghost writes his phone number inside, deliberately hands the book back to soap with the cover pressed closed by his thumb, and they head to the register together.

it’s only when soap gets home and finally goes to type ghost’s number into his phone that he sees, above the digits, a small simon :) inscribed on the paper.

[inkskinned]

hello. you left a neon pink post-it with pgs 194-359 due 9/12 in the book, by the way. it is now May 23rd and the library's printer is running out of ink. it jammed and tore my passport application. one of the librarians dutifully blacked out all my information (front and back!) before proceeding to use every unmarred inch as scrap paper.

i think maybe our (plural, inclusive) lives are connected. all of them. i have been thinking a lot about borrowing. about how people move through the world in waves, filling in the same spaces. i have probably stood on the same subway platform as you. we held the same book. all of us stand in the same line at the grocery, at the gas station. how many feet have stood washing dishes in my kitchen?

i hope you are doing well. the pen you used was a nice red, maybe a glitter pen? you have loopy, curling handwriting. i sometimes wonder if it is true that you can tell a personality by the shape of our letters. i'm borrowing my brother's car. he's got scrangly engineer handwriting (you know the one). it's a yellow-orange ford mustang boss. when i got out of the building, some kids were posing with it for a selfie. i felt a little bird grow in me and had to pause and pretend to be busy with my phone to give them more time for their laughing.

i have a habit of asking people what's the last good book you read? the librarian's handwriting on the back of my smeared-and-chewed passport application says the glass house in small undercase. i usually go for fantasy/sci fi, but she was glowing when she suggested it. i found your post-it on page 26, so i really hope you didn't have to read up to 359 in that particular book. i hope you're like me and just have a weird "random piece of trash" "bookmark" that somehow makes it through like, 58 books.

i wish the concept of soul mates was bigger. i wish it was about how my soul and your soul are reading the same work. how i actually put down that book at the same time you did - page 26 was like, all exposition. i wish we were soul mates with every person on the same train. how magical to exist and borrow the same space together. i like the idea that somewhere, someone is using the shirts i donated. i like the idea that every time i see a nice view and say oh gosh look at the view, you (plural, inclusive) said that too.

the kids hollered when i beeped the car. oh dude you set off the alarm, oh shit is she - dude that's her car!! one was extremely polite. "i like your car, Miss. i'm sorry we touched it." i said i wasn't busy, finish up the pictures. i folded your post-it into a paper crane while i waited. i thought about how my brother's a kind person but his handwriting looks angry. i thought about how for an entire year i drove someone to work every day - and i didn't even think to ask for gas money. my handwriting is straight capital letters.

i thought about how i can make a paper crane because i was taught by someone who was taught by someone else.

the kids asked me to rev the engine and you know i did. the way they reacted? you would have thought i brought the sun from the sky and poured it into a waterglass. i went home smiling about it. i later gave your post it-turned-bird to a tiny child on the bus. she put it in her mouth immediately.

how easy, standing in your shadow, casting my own. how our hands pass over each other in the same minor folds. i wonder how many of the same books you and i have read. i wonder how many people have the same favorite six songs or have been in the same restaurant or have attended the same movie premier. the other day i mentioned the Book Mill from a small town in western massachusetts - a lot of people knew of it. i wonder if i've ever passed you - and didn't even notice it.

i hope whatever i leave behind makes you happy. i hope my hands only leave gentle prints. i hope you and i get the same feeling when the sun comes out. soulmates across all of it.