#anyways hes like 2 feet tall
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deadlyeyez · 2 years ago
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the baby has escaped containment …….
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little doodle of my generation loss wally au!
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fisheito · 11 months ago
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my princess nonsense is being encouraged watch ouyt imabout to be eneaabled
OK WHATF ATHAT'S SO CUTE I HAD TO MAKE IT i know realistically there's little to no chance that rei DOESN'T know how to work heels 🤣 BUT IMAGINE.....ING.... YAKUMO GENTLY GUIDING REI IN HEELS, WEEKS BEFORE THE BIG GALA AND HAVING NONE OF HIS NORMAL FEAR OF PHYSICAL TOUCH BC HIS [TEACHER MODE] IS OVERRIDING HIS INSECURITY
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#rei looking directly at the camera like why are you subjecting me to this. i do not need any of this. i know how to do it#rei wearing stilettos the size of your head so he becomes ur very tall bird goth gf#you know how yakumo gets when he instructs someone on how to cook something#he becomes confident and just tells ppl how to do stuff without his usual amount of stutter and secondguessing#i'm gonna pretend that after his stiletto training in misty vale he gains a TINY MOLECULE of confidence due to experience#like [i can help you if you've never done it before?]#honestly i can't imagine this scenario happening because i am so SURE that rei can walk in heels HAHAHA even tho nothing has proven that#SOMETHING COME PROVE ME WRONG SO MY DELUSIONS CAN SLIDE CLOSER TO POSSIBILITY#anyway even if rei didn't know how to wear heels#would he ever mention it? would yakumo ever learn of it?#rei would probably be all . i don't need to wear heels. they can't even see them under the dress. i'll wear my practical shoes#but if he can't get away with that and will be forced to wear heels at the party...#maybe he'll go [meh. i'll figure it out] and just not wear them until the day of the dance#at which point his feet will hurt after 20 minutes and for the whole night he takes any chance to sit down#rei can be frequently spotted on SOME surface SOMEWHERE in the palace. sitting all splayed out and uncaring of propriety#because he is in PAIN and these shoes are STUPID and why do people wear them for ANYTHING . Royals are so IMPRACTICAL#yakumo keeps trying to avoid heels for the dance because he doesn't want to be any taller than he already is#i bet there's a full convo about it between him and eiden#eiden trying to reassure him that if he wants to wear heels then he shouldn't let others' perception stop him from doing so#but if he genuinely doesn't want to wear them then that's ok too#eiden craning his neck up at yakumo in heels like you're my pretty princess 1-2 heads taller than me your height doesn't matter 🥰#i'm now torn. yakumo and rei both wearing heels now? in order to stay at similar heights?#or. rei starting out with heels. getting tired of them. going barefoot for the rest of the night lol#yakumo and rei still dancing in their ballgowns together but a much shorter rei leads a yakumo in heels#yes. yes this is the vision#yakurei#replies#nu carnival yakumo#nu carnival rei
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druidshollow · 1 year ago
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"what would your character be like without their trauma?" is such a hard question for me because it makes me feel like a massive asshole LMAO
(im attaching a picture of a tundra literally to add context to my ramble in the tags because my posts are structured by a sane person) (you should read the ramble in the tags i talk so much about rivers fsr)
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#like. rivers would probably just purpose funky things for the hell of it and study lizards and stuff#i think environmentalism would matter to him since he was created long before the great equalizer when there was like. actually a view#have you guys ever looked at a tundra for real theyre so pretty. i think the colours would be funkier though#purples and blues along with the reds and oranges i think but id have to draw it tio be sure its not ugly#anyways. rivers would probably be interested in nature conservation especially since the ancients destroyed the world-#but the iterators construction obviously had a massive part in that so hed feel ownership#him and glass wouldve got along VERY well in this circumstance since that matters a lot to her (specifically animal conservation though)#but at the same time glass doesnt exist without rivers trauma right. she cant exist if flowers isnt in his life because he Literally built#her (glass) just to be mean to rivers#doomed for real#i....... want them to be friends in the walky au. my massive block is trying to think of some reason nights Needs to leave his can because#he wouldnt if not required. and glass just wouldnt leave him. in no circumstance would they willingly separate from eachothers company#theyd ALSO need to be really fast because the only opportunity nights would get to get out is when odyssey goes to him to help her build#the weapon she needs to kill dune. (odyssey has the gift. the twins dont know anyone else who does((other than phrases obvsly)))#this happens a considerable amount of time after phrases and rivers escape. they have like. a month's time on them#odysseys like “if you guys are for real about leaving do NOT go straight south. dont. dont. dont. youre like 2 feet tall you WILL die”#nights is like “DEAR GOD SERIAL KILLERS??????” and glass is like “wtf youre only like a foot taller than us”#anyways i think glass and rivers would get along and rivers has a positive arc here right and realizes hes wrong and hes glad he didnt.#kill the twins. yeah its good you didnt do that dude#i jsut really really think theyd get along if rivers had the chance to associate her with anything but flowers horrid treatment of him#because in the normal story all he sees when he sees her is flowers. and like flowers could the twins can tap into his work and see his#files and logs and such whenever they wanted. they didnt do this very often- glass really never looked at rivers work unless she was told t#but rivers was just made SO paranoid by flowers abuse that thinking of being watched makes him feel sick and horrible#and his whole thing is trying to find a way to feel less horrible right so thats (part of) why he decides to get rid of them#hm. if rivers wassnt traumatized hed like nature and creatures. anyways#oc posting#look to the tags for the oc posting
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berryunho · 20 days ago
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guys I just saw a very famous hockey player whom im also in love with (as in i spent $250 on his jersey and wear it regularly and go to the games [for a love of my hockey team but also him] and stare at him so hard anyways) out in public and i nearly crashed out
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bitegore · 2 years ago
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Thinking about fictional characters to lull yourself to sleep is dangerous. Sometimes it works and sometimes you get out of bed at 6:00am to draw a version of your guy scaled as though you're a specific transformer so you can make an intricate as fuuuuck toy that you have absolutely none of the technical skills to pull off i guess
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fayewoodss · 1 year ago
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The Overwatch fandom on tiktok is so incredibly dense and reactionary. I swear I don't run into the amount of bullshit from OW fans anywhere else except for there. This game has been my special interest since about 2017, both actually playing it and being into the stories and lore that surrounds it. Even when I missed things being away and unable to play, I still caught up with the short stories and comics, and still people are correcting me on the lore while being simultaneously objectively wrong and it's so stupid and I shouldn't be mad, but the information is literally all available for free on Blizzards website and they're just too immensely dense to access it and fact check.
Someone had the audacity to tell me Reaper doesn't have any lore when he has a short story (regardless what you think of it, it's canon), a comic, and a game mode all devoted to him, and beyond that has a ton of features and indirect development from other characters and their stories. He is literally one of the most developed Overwatch characters in game and lore. Meanwhile, we have characters like Zenyatta who has never had sole focus on him and most of what we know on him is through Genji or Ramattra, or even Sigma who had such a killer introduction and so much potential, but with little to no further development beyond in game voice lines.
I love that we're getting more opportunities for story through the animation miniseries, but admittedly it's frustrating when the same handful of characters continuously get their own stories, comic, shorts, and small features when we have 30+ heroes with a good number who've gotten nothing since their release.
Sorry for the rant. I'm just exhausted with the OW fandom of Overwatch because you cannot post anything without a bunch of fucking morons trying to "well actually 🤓" you on easily accessible and accurate information or just straight up harass you for making a simple joke. I know this fandom has a history of toxicity, but this wave of people "correcting" lore who just don't have a clue about the actual OW stories insanely infuriating.
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smile-files · 1 year ago
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i'm so glad i took elmo home!! he is so happy here, and i'm so happy to have him :)
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nomaishuttle · 2 years ago
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i call all my siblings 'my baby x' bc its funny. even lamp i do this to and rheyre gonna be 17 this y. ohhh my gd lamps gonna be 17 this year. im gonna kill myself
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britneyshakespeare · 3 months ago
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i think one of our hens is actually a rooster
#tales from diana#my parents got 6 new eight-week-old chickens in july#this one particular white one grew to be the biggest of the new ones and then recently the biggest of just. All of them#and it's not just big but tall and it has enormous feet#and it's been displaying very problematic and MEAN behavior. like even though i've had chickens for over a decade now#i had never see chicken bullying like this but i think now (supposing that it is a male) it might've been mating behavior#like it would stand on the other hens' backs and peck them and id have to go in and chase it off#i just kept saying wow you know mag is such a meanie mag is such a bully what are we gonna do about her?#now the new ones are still young so some of them are still developing their voices#like they don't really bu-ckaw yet even though they've lost their baby cheeps#but this afternoon i heard from out my window some cocka-doodle-dooing... like... uhmmmm#again i've had chickens for 11 years and ive heard a lot of chicken noises but ive never heard one of our hens make that sound#i mentioned to my dad last night 'hey you know is there a possibility that they gave us a rooster? would we be able to tell?'#and he was like 'yeah we could tell. theres no way we wouldnt know'#i spend more up-close time w the chickens anyway but especially since my dad got hip surgery 2 weeks ago#he hasn't gone out and done anything for them. obviously. he's recovering#i think mag is a boy#well. if that's the case we need to find someone to take him bc we aren't equipped to hatch eggs#but i'll seek out opinions from ppl who know better.
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rafey-baby · 5 months ago
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sweet treat 2
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construction worker!rafe who spends his days ‘lifting heavy stuff and building shit’ (his words) and driving shy!reader home, shows up on her doorstep in the middle of the night...
c/w: rafe being a tease, slight somnophilia, smut (dry humping, p-in-v, unprotected sex) 18+ mdni!
wc: 2.7k
hi! this is a part two to this (also this whole story was originally supposed to be just a small drabble consisting of a few silly sentences but then i got a bit carried away) anyways hope you enjoy xx
part 3 part 4 part 5
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It’s past midnight when her doorbell rings, making her brows furrow. She throws the fluffy covers away, immediately yearning for the warmth of them as she pads her bare feet along the chilly hardwood floors of her apartment.  
No one has ever been at her door this late, which makes her hesitate. Maybe it’s just her neighbor asking for sugar, she tries to reason, as if the retired elderly lady living next door would even be up this late. For all she knows, it could be a criminal who’s escaped prison, holding a bloody knife at her. 
Curiosity ends up getting the best of her (as always) when she gingerly opens the door, mentally preparing to face a serial killer.
However, all her worries wash away like pollen under rain when she realizes it’s Rafe standing tall before her. 
“Oh, hi. What are you— what are you doing here?” A surprised look paints over her visage.  
“You forgot this in my car, thought you might need it back,” he’s grinning, holding out a phone to her, pale yellow case making her realize it’s her phone. She almost doesn’t recognize it, since it appears so tiny in his massive paw, almost like a miniature version of the device she’s grown accustomed to.  
“Oh my god, I was looking everywhere for it, thought I was gonna have to buy a new one,” she takes it from him, a grateful smile etching her features.  
“Yeah, couldn’t exactly call you,” he shakes his head at his terrible attempt at a joke. 
A delighted giggle escapes her throat, nonetheless, eyes crinkling and teeth poking out; forcing the corners of his mouth to lift up as well as he finally takes in her appearance.  
A worn-out t shirt a few sizes too big and…well, that’s it. She’s not wearing anything else. He’s trying not to stare at her plush thighs, or the way the hem of the shirt slightly climbs up, revealing even more skin as she rakes a hand through a messy head of hair, swallowing nervously under his attention.  
Unfortunately for the both of them, he never actually ended up fucking her when she came over to his place last week and had him cook for her. He just felt so bad about initiating something like that when she kept yawning through forkfuls of pasta, eyes barely staying open as she complained about her limbs aching and how she was so exhausted she could sleep for a week after the particularly long shift she’d just had.  
Which is why he simply drove her home after their late-night dinner and wished her a good night with a heavy hand on her shoulder, thumb smoothing over the material of her shirt, letting her rest in tranquility. Telling himself he could be patient with her, not wanting to rush anything.  
However, she’s not making it very easy for him right now when there’s only one piece of clothing covering her. She looks so sleepy and pretty he has half the mind to pick her up in his arms and slump down on her bed, crawling under crisp sheets and feel how her lungs expand against his chest.  
“Sorry, did I wake you?” He carefully asks, suddenly worried he’s disturbed her serene slumber.  
“No, no. I mean, I was in bed but couldn’t really sleep so…” she trails off, desperately trying to come up with something to make him stay a bit longer, not wanting him to go yet; finding immense comfort in his assured presence.  
“Um, do you— do you want to come in? I could make you some tea or something?” She clumsily offers.  
His brows raise, surprised at her proposition. She’s being uncharacteristically bold; his mouth twists into an amused simper. 
“Actually, forget I said anything, you’re probably really tired and just wanna go home, sorry, I don’t know why I even—” she scrambles to correct herself, and now that sounds more like the girl Rafe’s grown familiar with.  
“Don’t be stupid, of course I’ll come in,” he cuts her off, stepping past the threshold, taking a look around her cozy home. Leafy plants adding greenery to the small space and picturesque paintings fixed on the cream-colored walls. It’s cute, he thinks.  
She sets a steaming mug in front of him on her kitchen table and sits down next to him on a wooden chair. He’s definitely not staring at the way the bottom of her shirt rides up the tops of her thighs, allowing for the flimsy material of her panties to peek out. He clears his throat.  
“You often have trouble sleeping?” He tries to focus on something else, anything else, taking a slow sip of the searing liquid; nearly burning his tongue in the process.  
“Yeah, sometimes. It’s just sometimes it’s hard to shut my brain off after spending all day at the cafe. I try to fall asleep but the loud noises of the customers talking and the clinking of plates and spoons keep replaying in my head and suddenly I’m wide awake, you know?” She explains.  
“I’m sorry, is there anything that helps?” He prods.  
“I don’t know, I guess just trying to think of something else or talking with someone else,” she mumbles out. 
“Oh, so what you’re saying is that you’re just using me in order to fall asleep?” He teases, grinning when he manages to drag out yet another giggle from her mouth.  
“Yeah, I suppose I am,” her eyes glimmer like little stars when she looks at him.  
“Should I feel offended right now?” He jokingly scoffs.  
“No, you should feel flattered, I don’t invite just anyone into my home at almost 1 am, just so you know.” 
And he thinks he likes this side of her, all playful and sleepy, she’s a lot less reserved than her usual fully rested and overly conscious self would be, more carefree. Maybe that’s the reason he lets the next words escape the gaps of his teeth.  
“You into cuddling?” He asks, profound aquamarine locking with her rounded eyes.  
“Uh— I mean, I probably would be if I had someone to cuddle with, but I don’t so…” she drifts off, not sure how to respond. 
“Wanna cuddle with me?” He says it so nonchalantly, and she doesn’t understand how he’s so indifferent to this whole situation while she feels dizzy, dazed mind reeling and vivid heart tingling in her ribcage. 
“Really? You want to? But wouldn’t it be weird?” She seems taken aback by his proposal. 
“Why the fuck would it be weird? I mean, we’re friends, right?” His brows crease. 
“Yes, of course we are, I just—” 
“Look, all I’m saying, is that it might help you sleep, yeah? Having something else to focus on and shit,” he reasons, making her realize she’s totally overthinking this; he’s simply trying to help.  
“You’re right, yeah, we should do that then,” she agrees and swiftly gets up on wobbly feet, almost falling face first on the ground, if not for his strong grip on her waist steadying her, grounding her, drawing a faint gasp from the back of her throat at his sudden proximity.  
“Easy there, Sweetheart,” he chuckles against her hair, finding her eagerness to get into bed with him amusing.  
“Sorry,” she mumbles, a raspberry hue dusting over her cheeks.  
And that’s how they end up tangled in each other under her soft sheets, his beefy arms wrapped tightly around her middle, caging her in with gentle fingertips toying with the hem of her shirt. His sturdy chest rises and falls against her back in tandem with his steady breaths, pacifying her; coaxing her heavy lids to flutter closed.  
He’s so warm and big making her feel so secure and safe she thinks she wouldn’t mind doing this again.  
“You good?” He murmurs next to her ear.  
“Mhm,” she blissfully croons, letting out a content exhale.  
Her mind begins to topple over the edge of reality, plummeting into oblivion; a far away dreamland where everything is upside down and the ether is evermore the shade of fluffy cotton candy and the sand consists of stardust and ecstasy.  
“Sweet dreams,” is the last thing her misty awareness grasps onto before she’s in the tender embrace of a crepuscular dormancy.  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 
She’s lethargic in her movements when she rouses from the abstruse blankness she seems to have lost herself in. Rafe’s heavy arm is draped over her waist, trapping her body into his and it’s murky in her unlit bedroom; the pale moonlight gleaming through the slots in her curtains the only beacon illuminating the space.  
The lines of her cerebrum are blurred and she’s not sure what has woken her up.  
Then she feels it; something poking her from behind, pressing against her ass. There’s a crinkle in her brow until her eyes widen in realization.  
He’s hard. Rafe is hard and she can practically feel the culprit of his excitement since he’s only wearing a pair of boxers, having complained about getting all too hot during the night to wear anything more. 
She swallows.  
What is she supposed to do? 
She shifts against him, trying to untangle her limbs from his. However, her attempt is proved fruitless when instead of unchaining her, he lets out a low groan, rumbling deep from his firm chest; grip tightening around her smaller form.  
“Rafe?” She calls out. 
No response.  
“Rafe? Wake up.”  
Still nothing. 
She can feel him breathing heavily against her hair; pawing at her hips every now and then, trying to pull her even closer, even if they’re already effectively glued together and there’s absolutely no means for her to move.  
She’s starting to become sticky between her thighs as he drags her against his cock again; seemingly stuck in a stupor.  
She mewls when her clit throbs, pestering for some sort of friction. And that’s when he finally stirs, the weight of his arms loosening like a tight knot unfurling and her lungs are finally able to greedily suck in brisk air.  
“Shit, sorry, my bad” his tone is gravelly and at that, some sort of birds begin flapping their wings in her tummy, jabbing at her insides. 
However, he doesn’t pull away like she half expects; her face heats up. 
“It’s uh— it’s okay. I mean…no worries,” she rambles because what the fuck is she supposed to say? 
“No, it’s fully my fault, just had quite a nice dream,” he admits, voice coarse. 
“Oh. What was it about?” She inquires, yawning, perhaps too curious for her own good.  
“You wanna know?” His brows raise, surprised. 
She hums.  
“Well, there was this really pretty girl, and she had me in her mouth and was letting me do whatever I wanted to her,” he murmurs with a heady tone overlaying his response.  
“Oh,” she tries to appear indifferent, although there’s a pitiful sprout of jealousy threatening to blossom from the damp soil in the pit of her stomach at his words.  
He chuckles at how oblivious she is. “You’re silly sometimes, you know?” He was practically dry-humping her just now, was he not? Why would he be dreaming about another girl when he’s got her right here with him? 
“What do you mean?” 
“Nothing,” he shakes his head, smiling to himself.  
“So, what else happened?”  
“What else? Okay, then she let me do this,” he says at the same time as he grabs her hips again, pushing against her, earning a faint whimper from her when she can feel how big he is through the thin fabric of her underwear. 
“Rafe…what are you doing?” She manages to ask through a whine; his blunt nails denting the exposed skin of her thighs.  
“Got no idea what you’re doing to me, do you?” He mutters, shallow. 
“I— what are you— what are you talking about?” Her brain is foggy and she’s not able to think straight when he’s so close.  
He doesn’t answer, instead continuing the retelling of his dream. “Then I grabbed her like this,” he lifts her on top of him in one smooth motion, as if she weighs nothing more than a piece of paper. Her inhale gets stuck somewhere along the way when he paws at her hips, shuffling her around until she’s straddling him, properly sitting on top of his cock and he lets out a heartfelt grunt when she moves her achy cunt over him.  
“You like this? Such a needy little thing, yeah?” He helps her find some relief by grappling at her hips; dragging her against his cock, filthy groans escaping his mouth when he feels her wetness saturating the two layers of cotton between them.  
“Rafe, can you…”  
“Can I what, hm? Play with you a little?” He says as he slips a hand in her panties, fingers petting at her puffy clit and a loud moan leaves her when she lifts the fabric of her shirt up in order to have a better view.  
“Didn’t know you were such a dirty girl. Getting real fucking wet from me just being close to you, yeah?” His thumb rubs lazy circles on her sensitive button, making her cry out his name as she presses down harder against his cock. 
“Shit, gonna come in my fucking pants if you keep doing that. You wanna know what else was in my dream?” 
She nods, frantic.  
“I pushed this little piece of fabric here to the side,” he says as he plucks at her underwear, doing just that. “And then, I did this,” he mutters as he takes himself out from the confines and her eyes round out as she looks down at it in his palm, mesmerized. He thuds the head of his cock on her clit, one, two, three times, and then smears it on her sticky folds, painting it up and down her soaked cunt.  
“Rafe…” she whines, desperate to feel him inside her. Unfortunately for her, he’s feeling a little mean, pressing just the tip inside her tight hole, slowly pushing in and out, turning her into a whimpering mess. The hydrangea blue of his eyes is locked down to where they connect, fascinated.  
“Fuck, Sweetheart, does that feel nice?” He asks, swiping a thumb over her swollen bud, tucking his cock in a little deeper, forcing a loud noise to leave her throat.  
“Feels so good, Rafe, I think I’m gonna…” she trails off, lids heavy as she stretches around him.  
“You’re gonna come already?” he chuckles, amusement coating his face, nudging his dick about halfway in and out, never fully plunging it inside of her though.  
“You feel so good, I can’t— can’t hold it,” water droplets are gathering in the corners of her eyes, catching to her lashes as teary eyes look into larimar and she rolls her hips against him, chasing after some sort of release. 
“Shit, go on then, let me feel you soak my cock, yeah?” He encourages her and she doesn’t need to be told twice; crying out and throbbing around him, hips stuttering as her cunt pulses and she’s unspooling on top of him. 
“There you go, just fucking give it to me,” he grunts and all of a sudden, he feels his own orgasm approaching; rolling down a hill like a landslide. She’s squeezing around him so tight, he can’t help but thrust his hips into her, a guttural moan leaving him when he stuffs his cock profoundly into her, to the hilt.  
He stills inside her and then he’s groaning out when his cum gushes out from his drippy tip, coating her gummy walls in white, filling her to the brim; making her feel so full. She thinks she could die happy right now.  
There’s so much of it, to the point where the sticky substance begins to seep out from where they’re connected as they both pant, trying to even out their breathing.  
She turns into something mellow in his arms, slumping down against him, burying her face in his neck as he draws sluggish circles on her back, calming her down with tender words spoken in gentle murmurs.  
“Did so good for me, shit, we should do this more often, yeah?” He says with a sleepy tinge.   
And she’s completely out of it, head as empty as ever, merely managing an amorphous hum in agreement; tumbling down a slippery slide right back into a nebulous slumber. 
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all-purpose-dish-soap · 7 months ago
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34 / 3.2k / part 2 of shark mermen Gaz and Soap for mermay >:)
...
You wake up to the morning sunlight glimmering off Gaz's salt-glazed skin. He's leaning over you, watching you intently with those fathomless all-black eyes.
You gasp and immediately drag yourself away--or try to, given the way his tail is wound under your legs like a snake's. In your haste, you bump up against Soap, who lurks behind you, somehow again taking you by total surprise.
Your heels scrape against sharp gravel as you fight to get out of reach. Gaz's tail coils inward as if to drag you back in, and you almost collapse over it in your scramble. But you finally manage to get out of reach. You stare down at them, your heart pounding in confusion and panic.
Soap smirks like this is the most fun he's had in weeks. His tail swishes in the shallows behind him. "G'morning."
This is a nightmare. A hallucination.
"Don't look so shocked," Soap says. "You've still got all your pieces. You really should try being more thankful. We saved your life."
"Saved my--" You cough and sputter. Salt and sand coat your throat. "You tried to kill me!"
"You would've died anyway," Gaz says. His matter-of-fact tone of voice is somehow more terrifying than Soap's high-energy arrogance.
"We were havin' a little look at you," Soap says. "That's all."
"You bit me!"
"Just a nip," Gaz admits. "I was curious."
"I wasn't," Soap says with a flash of his sharp teeth. He looks down at the second set of teeth marks--his teeth marks--on your calf. "That's a love bite."
⬇ nsfw, monster mermen, overt predator/prey dynamics, blood kink ⬇
You pull your legs in, withdrawing further up the rocky beach as you get to your feet. You don't have much space to get away from them. Worse, this tiny cove will be all but swallowed by high tide. The only way out is either back into the water or up the rocky face of the cliffs on all sides. You can only imagine the rock cutting into your bare hands and feet--or worse, climbing halfway up, slipping, and landing on the carpet of glass-sharp gravel.
There’s nowhere to go.
Soap stretches toward you again as you back away. He does it in this motion like a shrug, like he's luring you into a false sense of security by making you think he just happens to be putting his hands near your ankle. He can’t hide how the muscles in his shoulders bunch, wanting to pounce. "You'd have a better chance jumping back into the sea and holding your breath than climbing those rocks, human. Maybe you outswim us this time, even. Want to try?"
"I'll take my chances," you snap. His claw brushes your foot, and you quickly backpedal, climbing up onto the biggest boulder you can manage. It's only about as waist-high, though, and unsteady. Not quite tall enough to boost you toward any solid footholds up the forty-or-so-foot cliffside. Still, you have to try.
Gaz watches with annoyance as you reach for a shallow indent in the rock. "You'll kill yourself. Be reasonable," he scolds.
Your fingers find uncertain purchase in the shallow ridge overhead, and you force your toes to get with the program and grip what might be a rocky shelf to your side.
The two mer watch you haul yourself up a few feet. Soap pushes himself up the beach to get a better view, tail curling. Gaz studies the muscles in your legs. Then he watches your hands grip the rocks. You look even more defenseless in the sunlight, skin battered from exposure and clothes torn from the waves. His eyes follow the curve of your calf to the blood that's dried on your ankle. It looks bad.
He doesn't see you making it high enough for the inevitable fall to kill you, but it irritates him that you're choosing to act like this. You're fragile. Obviously, if he and Soap wanted to kill you, you'd be dead. They did their best to not kill you. He did, anyway.
"You think we'd let you drown when the tide comes in after keeping your fragile human body alive and intact this long?" Gaz calls up.
You ignore this in favor of boosting yourself up another foot. Your fingers slip on the next hold. Gravel clatters down the rock and showers both mer.
Soap smirks. "Gonnae fall, aye?”
Gaz's voice is flat. "Let her."
You make it up another two footholds before you slip.
Soap's smirk morphs into a wild laugh as you topple backward. You land on the rocks, hard, air knocked out of you with a surprised gasp. Both mer prowl toward you.
You dig the heels of your hands into the wet sand to scramble to your feet again. A sudden, sharp pain makes you hiss. You rip your hands out of the gravel to see a shard of curved glass sticking out of your palm of your dominant hand. Blood stains the base and wells up, trailing down your wrist.
Soap clocks the smell of blood. "What d'you want to try next, hmm?" he muses, tail swishing behind him. "Hurry up before the tide comes in or that cut'll attract somethin' unfriendly."
You glare at him. You want to scream. Or cry. You need help, but what are the chances the rescue boats will come back this way?
"So?" you snap, hiding your hand against your chest as he leans closer. "What does it matter to me if you eat me or something else does?"
"We don't care to eat you," Gaz says. "And if we did, we wouldn't share."
"Don't know about that, Gaz," Soap purrs. "You think she looks delicious, don't ya?"
You look from one to the other, still clutching your bleeding hand. "Why would you bring me here if you didn't want to eat me?"
"Curiosity." Gaz's eyes dart back to your face. “I told you.”
Frustration burns in your chest. "You bit me. You dragged me around the water. What else is fucking left to be curious about?"
Gaz hesitates. To him, you are a sight. Tattered clothes clinging to your damp body, he can see more of you than when he first spied you on that little boat, sitting so carelessly with your legs dangling in the water.
He stares at the bite wound on your arm. It's not just a “nip” like Soap’s--it's deep. A bite that left a deep, dark, ugly mark surrounded by a ring of dark blue-purple bruising. It will scar. The memory of his teeth will always be in your skin. He can still taste you: fresh adrenaline, copper blood, and seawater.
"What you feel like." His voidlike eyes are half-lidded, his voice soft. "Up close."
You glance back at him, your heart pounding. You're defenseless right now--you have been since they threw you onto this beach. So there has to be some truth to what they're saying, right? You remember reading somewhere that sharks are curious. That they sometimes investigate with their teeth, biting without any real intent to injure. So... maybe...
Soap leans in behind you and skims his clawed fingertip up your arm, his voice just past the shell of your ear. "We can take you back to shore, easy. We just need to clean those wounds. How about it," he purrs into your ear. "Gonnae help us help you?"
You shy away from his touch, feeling goosebumps break out all over. "Okay. Okay, fine." You glance down at your hand, then at Soap. "But not... not you."
You look at Gaz, hesitant, but your meaning is clear.
Soap's smirk twists into a frown. "Why not me?"
Gaz snatches your wrist. "Come here, then."
You find yourself pulled into the arms of a shark again as Gaz shuffles you into the crook of his arm. You're awed at how much bigger than humans these shark mer are. He coils his tail under you both. He grips your bloodied wrist in one hand and plants the other firmly on your hip to slide you even more flush against him. Any protest you had dies in your throat as he repositions your injured hand in his and plucks the glass out in a single, rough motion. A gasp punches out of you. The noise has Gaz pulling you closer, his arm wrapped tight around you.
You tense up, watching the claws on his hands very carefully, but he seems to maneuver you in such a careful, conscientious way to keep from hurting you with them that, once he has you positioned on his tail, you relax somewhat. They really are being careful with you, you realize. Some of the tension leaves your shoulders. You breathe out through your teeth. You can let this happen. Some people would love to be in your position, even. There's something tender but not quite gentle in how he grips you and how his thumb presses into your thigh.
He tucks your head under his chin. A low hum vibrates in his chest. Something about the sound is soothing. Or at least distracting enough that you don't notice him moving your hand to his mouth until his hot tongue laves over your wound.
Your blood--in his mouth--and roaring in your ears. How did you let yourself be tricked into letting a shark lap up your blood while he’s holding you close enough that you can see the beads of sea water clinging to the scarred ridges of his chest?
Even Gaz is somewhat surprised at the way his tongue instinctively scrapes over your wound to stem the blood flow. It's not an entirely animal compulsion to lick the wound clean--it's a practical enough way to clear away the blood. Tasting you is a bonus. That's what he tells himself as he trails his tongue down your arm to catch what's dripping down in rivulets to your elbow.
You squirm at the sting. Gaz tightens his grip.
"Is that all you were curious about, then?" Soap asks, sliding closer. He's talking to Gaz but looks down at you with glimmering solid blue eyes.
"Steady," he breathes, his voice still rough. He can smell your nervousness. He can feel your heart pounding. "She's got cuts all over. Let me..."
You feel his hands begin to peel away your tattered clothes and slide under them. You bite down on a squeal, grabbing his wrist. "Hey--!"
Before you can voice your protests fully, Soap's fingers brush the small bite mark on your ankle. You jolt, pulling your legs away and hugging them to yourself. Distracted by this, Gaz lets his free hand glide over the outside of your leg. His calloused fingers follow the curve of your hip, your thigh, your calf. He tugs your leg free so he can study the underside, too. He runs the pads of his fingers all the way back up to the bend of your knee, along the flesh of your hamstring, across the inside of your thigh. You shiver.
At the same time, Soap tugs at the bottom of your tattered shirt with interest. "Why d'you humans wear cloth? Is it because your skin is too thin?" Before you can reconsolidate yourself enough to answer, he scoffs. "All the good it does you. Shreds easier than seaweed."
“Mm,” Gaz agrees absently. He shifts you so your back is back braced up against his chest, your legs bunched up atop his tail. This way, he can keep you here and keep his hands free. He’ll have as much access to you as he needs.
At this angle, you feel rather than see the smooth dark planes of Gaz's chest and stomach. It should be wrong to notice the scars that run over his arms as they pass over you. Or the way his muscles ripple under your back. His body is a dichotomy: warm to the touch and smooth as fine silk, but rough and coarse with scars. Plus there’s the shark half.
Soap snatches up one of your ankles. He prods at your foot. "You get around on these?"
You huff. "When I can, clearly."
He runs the edge of one of his claws over the top of your foot, follows the arched bone underneath, and presses into your instep. He pokes and prods and presses hard on the ball of your foot with a curious look. "Must be slow."
"Doesn't have to be fast," you mutter.
"Then how d'you catch food?"
"I don't have to catch my food."
"You're a predator, though. You've got eyes facing forward."
"I can hunt what I need to hunt.” Salads and instant noodles, but you don’t bother saying that.
"That's good." Soap's hands slide to your toes. He finds it weird how your feet sort of resemble his hands. Little fingers and claws and everything. "As long as you've got prey slower and smaller and softer than you are."
"If that's even possible," Gaz says.
You scowl. Rude.
Gaz seems to enjoy your sour reaction a little too much. "I suppose your prey must be stupid, too."
"Watch it."
A smirk plays at his lips as his gaze flicks down to the rest of you, curled up on his lap in his arms. "Do you think you can make me? What'll you do--scratch me with your claws?" He laces your fingers with his. Your soft, blunt human fingers and his thicker, sharper, callused ones. "Bite me with your razor-sharp teeth?"
"Maybe."
"How vicious." He nudges your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. "Go on, then."
You consider it. Then you realize it would just prove his point, so you turn your face away with a huff. You wish you'd paid more attention to all those National Geographic specials about mer. You don't specifically remember any real-life cases of shark mer eating humans, but there are definitely made-for-TV movies about it.
Soap's hands creep up to your calf. His thumbs prod your shin and then your kneecap. "I can feel her bones," he says in surprise.
"We both have bones.”
"Well, yours are like rock. Ye got thin skin, hard bones. 'Cept your claws." Soap's fingers wander up your bare legs past your kneecaps. When they make it to your thigh, he grips it with his whole hand and squeezes lightly.
He's fascinated--amazed, even--by your body. It's almost enough to make you feel self-conscious, but everything you'd cover up is a fascination for them. Bumps, stretch marks, pock marks, folds, fat, stubble--you feel yourself tense up when hands wander to those parts of yourself you've learned to be ashamed of, but they don't react. Of course they don't, but still. It feels strange.
Gaz notices your discomfort. He keeps his grip light and loose on you, but his eyes linger on the flesh of your thigh in Soap's hands, the way your skin dimples under the pressure. "It's like a seal,” Gaz says.
"My thigh is like a seal?"
"Soft and blubbery,” Soap adds. "And seals are delicious." He leans down and pinches a bit of skin in his teeth.
You squirm a bit at the harmless little nip, but moreso at the way his hand slides a little too far up your thigh. You put your uninjured hand over his to stop it from going any higher.
Unfortunately, that just seems to draw his attention to what might be up there. His eyes flick up to your shorts. "What is it?"
"Nothing."
"Doesn't seem like nothing." He grabs the hem of your shorts to slide them higher.
You grab his hands. "Hey!"
He grins. "You're a bit twitchy.”
"That's not allowed," you tell him, face burning.
"Isn't it?" Gaz says. He loops his long fingers under your thigh and lifts it up as if to give Soap more room. "Whose rule is that?"
You quickly snap your thighs shut anyway, curling your legs into yourself as best you can. "My rule. Don't touch."
A low noise of frustration rumbles in Soap's chest. "Why do humans cover up so much?" His hands slide up your outer thighs, and he bends until his face is almost level with your stomach. His frown deepens as if this were the thing he was really curious about. "Just let me look for a second."
"Absolutely not."
"Waste of nice soft human skin," he mutters. "Hiding it all away."
“Let us in,” Gaz says.
“No.”
"Not even me?" he asks.
"No."
They both frown.
"Why not?” Gaz asks. “What are you keeping there?"
You huff. "It's my-- my reproductive things. Happy?"
"Your... reproductive things." Soap furrows his brow and turns his head to Gaz. "Reproductive like a fish?"
Gaz's fingers continue to squeeze your inner thighs in slow, deliberate motions. "No," he says after a beat. "Like a mammal."
"Ah. So?" Soap gives you a blank look. "Those are all up inside you then, aye? Nothin' to see."
He takes hold of your knee again. You immediately pull out of his grasp and turn to the side, sitting up on your knees this time as Gaz shifts his tail to accommodate you. "Nothing to see as far as you're concerned," you respond, curt.
Soap continues to leer at you, but his prodding is less insistent at your clear refusal. "Just tell us then. Where is it exactly? In the front? Or the back?"
You cross your arms. "None of your business."
"Don't humans mate for fun?" Soap asks.
“I didn't say that.”
"They doooo," Soap singsongs. He smiles and bares his teeth, the sharp points on his canines glinting in the light.
All the heat that had gone out of your cheeks comes rushing back in. " Do you?"
Soap grins again in that annoying way. "We do. Very fun. So what's the big deal?”
"We're not mating is what," you snap. You push yourself off of Gaz’s lap and stumble a bit, catching yourself with a splash into the deepening tide. "When are you taking me back home?"
Soap looks disappointed at the possibility of being deprived so suddenly of his new toy.
Gaz frowns too. "Now you're talking like you didn't enjoy yourself." He pushes himself up and follows you into the water, his fins cutting through it smoothly. "But a deal is a deal. We’ll take you back to shore. Once night falls, of course."
"But it's morning!"
"So it is." Gaz circles your legs, forming a crescent around you as he comes to a rest on his side in the shallow water. He smirks at you like he finds your confusion endearing in a tedious way. "Night will come again. We've got time until then."
"But the tide will come in," you remind them, casting a look back at the tiny little cove.
"It will,” Gaz agrees.
You don't like the way his smirk grows. Soap grins, too.
A slow realization that you're being toyed with comes over you. "What am I supposed to do, then?"
Gaz's smirk turns to a lazy little grin to match Soap’s. "Keep letting us entertain you.”
You hem and haw, but ultimately, when they pull you back into the shallow water with them, you don’t fight it. You’d rather conserve your energy.
Soap's hands join Gaz's, running up your strange human legs again. "We're going to keep her. Right, Gaz?"
"Of course," Gaz murmurs. The sea doesn't like to release its gifts. "Why would we bother leaving a catch intact without keeping it?"
...
part 1 / [part 2] / part 3 / part 4 / part 5
more Gaz / more Soap / more mer au / masterlist tag
2K notes · View notes
theorist-fox · 14 days ago
Text
Paint
Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader
Crossposted on AO3
Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4
Word Count: 5.3k
Summary: You and Simon share a cigarette. He slips up, and shares something more.
18+
CW: smut, not explicit. angst. hurt/comfort. miscommunication. mutual pining. sexual and non sexual intimacy. and guess what, my favorite tag, simon ghost riley is bad at feelings.
Masterlist 🦊
𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬
“Need to rest?”
You doubt he hasn’t heard you arrive, even if he’s facing the opposite way. It’s true, you could’ve gotten rid of at least the Kevlar vest or taken off your boots—but being in a safehouse doesn’t mean it’s literally safe, and you don’t like taking risks. Plus, there’s no time for getting dressed if there’s an emergency.
That's why you're sure he's heard you: boots thudding against the floor, the bulletproof vest scraping on the cotton of your uniform, the carabiners hanging from your tac belt, or the gun on your hip that clicks when you walk.
Normally, those sounds are muted; muscles and bulk don’t necessarily mean you move like a bull in a china shop. But you know the beast, now dormant, that is sitting on the floor right at your side.
Fucking bat.
He could move exclusively through echolocation, eyes closed shut; who knows? You wouldn’t put it past him.
You think you should start spreading the rumour, just to watch people shit their pants even more when he walks past. It’s already a sight you swear by, the way their faces pale while you stride beside him, dipping your chin to your chest to hide the quiet giggles—why not add some spice to it?
However, your fun thoughts are interrupted by the man himself.
“S’my turn tonight.” He replies listlessly, eyes locked on the door—armoured, triple-bolted, locked handle, and trip wire at the entrance, courtesy of Soap. He wanted to be safe, he said. Sure—being in a safehouse doesn’t necessarily mean you’re safe, you agree, but Simon always likes to take things to the next level. And Price only feeds that urge, twice as paranoid as your not-so-friendly Ghost.
His watch has started three hours ago, and would you look at that? The door is still there. Closed. Bolted shut. Unexploded. Shocking.
You wonder why the five of you are even bothering with rotations when the place is quite literally a bunker a few feet underground, and if someone were to walk in unannounced, their arse would blow up to bits thanks to Johnny’s intricate wire trap.
But oh well. Simon is like that, and Price is even worse, so you’ll give in to their wishes like Kyle and Johnny did and take it the way it comes.
Then again, sleep isn’t apparently in your plans, and four eyes are always better than two, so you plop on the floor next to Simon, legs outstretched in front of you, mimicking his posture.
You nudge his ankle with the tip of your boot, because he’s freakishly tall, and your foot won’t quite reach his. He bends his knee enough to nudge you back.
“I can take over,” you tell him, knocking the back of your head against the wall. “Can’t sleep anyway.”
You feel his eyes on you, lingering like the muzzle of a gun to your temple, but it’s just a threat—you know he won’t shoot. Though hatred is permanently carved in his eyes—some leftovers of a past life—it feels more like a burning weapon poised to pierce your head, one that never quite follows through.
He’s kinder than he looks.
“Nightmares?”
“No.”
“Go on, then.” Simon says, with a jerky nod of his jaw your way.
“Feel a little restless, I guess.” You reply with a shrug, as if this is your daily routine by now. “Not exactly a comfortable place, this one. Plus, cap snores.”
He snorts. You smile.
“Loud engine, tha’ one.” He comments, returning his eyes to the door.
“You do too, y’know? Well, you don’t snore much, but,” you gesture with your finger at your mouth, “you grind your teeth at night.”
“Ain’t snorin’, tha’.”
“Still,” you purse your lips in a cheeky smile, “Annoying—that.”
You watch him give you the side-eye of the century. The blueprint of it. But it lasts a second before he returns his focus to the door, as if afraid it might run away or something.
"No one’s makin’ ya, y’know?" he drawls. "Don’t have to sleep over—could always jog on after you’re done.”
After you’re done, he says—as if it’s a chore.
You hate when he takes ten steps back after he’s taken one forward. One day he’s all up in your business, worrying his mind and his heart, and the next he tells you to go take a hike after you’re done.
It makes your belly churn and melt like he’s pouring acid over it—you’re in too deep, and you know it. But you're too much of a coward to drag yourself out of the muck of this relationship. You’d rather sink into its depths and be swallowed whole than face the thought of never seeing him again. You’ve already come to terms with that truth—it doesn’t get easier at all, though.
Instead of biting back, you roll your head his way and smile, small and genuine.
“I like sleeping with you.”
His shoulders tighten as if he’s startled by the way you replied so transparently, but he keeps his eyes on the door, giving you nothing else to work with.
“You don’t?” You venture.
No feelings, Sarge—you can practically hear him say in the silence that hangs tersely between you. Simon will die on that hill; you’re sure of it. Even if sometimes he slips and cares, says words you’d never think to hear from his mouth, fucks you too slowly for it to be considered just sex, it’s just the way it is, the way he says.
You know he’ll never leave his shell. Where he’s comfortably lonely, where he’s secure and safe. Whether he cares for you or not, the wall’s too high to climb, too thick to blow.
But the awful person here is not him for behaving the way he does; it’s you for putting your heart through the meat grinder knowing fully well it’ll come out like butchered meat.
If you're looking for someone to hate, Simon isn't the one.
“Negative.” He drawls.
You shift uncomfortably next to him, subtly pulling away a few inches from his leg.
But then he adds, “Toss an’ turn too much. Hog the covers.”
You stiffen and scowl. “I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Well, you could always yank them back,” you reply, sounding a little too petty for your age.
Simon finally turns his head your way, but now it’s you who’s glaring holes into the (shockingly) still unmoving door. His eyes linger on your profile for a second too long, and you’re just about ready to bite back with some snarky comment about him taking a picture so it’ll last longer when he speaks first.
“Don’t have the heart to wake you up.”
You feel something inside you soften and melt. Gingerly, you turn your head his way.
Your eyes lock, and his are creased at the corners—not with a smile, but with tender attention, as if he’s taking in the details of something worth his time, his concentration.
You plaster on a smile that’s both embarrassed and pleased, as your cheeks warm over.
A soft huff to blow out the heat gathered right under your skin, and then you’re nudging his shoulder with your hand. He dramatically lolls sideways.
“That must be the nicest thing you’ve ever told me.”
He nudges you back, and you dramatically flop on your side. He snorts.
“Don’t get used to it.” He says, and gently curls his fingers around your forearm to lift you up.
You’re unexpectedly pulled in until you’re tucked in his side. The team is right behind a thin wall, and the knowledge initially turns your body into stiff marble. While their snores signal that your privacy is safe, you don’t want to repeat past mistakes. No matter how alluring those memories are.
But still—you don’t fight Simon’s hold around you; you don’t dare.
You trust his judgement and progressively melt into him, nestling your cheek on his chest as he drapes his arm over your shoulders. Nice and comfortable, in spite of how hard it is with all this stupid gear strapped on both of you. The Velcro on one of his front pockets scratches your skin, but the rest of you is so cosy that you don’t care. You toss one leg across his, and he doesn’t flinch or pull away.
“Can’t wait for evac to come get us,” you sigh. “I’d kill for a smoke.”
Simon squeezes your shoulder. You decide to take it as a green light to rest; your eyes flutter closed almost automatically, as if he’s pressed a button the moment he pulled you in. Grateful, you bask in this brief show of care—allowing Simon to take that one step forward, fully knowing he’ll just take ten steps back the next chance he gets, because that’s simply how he is.
He doesn’t add anything to your comment, probably registering it as further small talk, and you know he doesn’t care for that. He has a sort of internal threshold about how much mindless chatter he can tolerate in one sitting. You're aware of it, and you don’t mind, instead taking the quiet moment for what it is: a fragment of peace.
His heartbeat is faint to your ear, too many layers between you and his chest for you to hear it clearly. His thumb swipes softly on the fabric of your uniform. And he’s warm, like a furnace rumbling with rekindled fire. Suddenly, sleeping sounds much less of a hassle and more of a treat.
Simon’s chest rises softly under your cheek. The buzzing of the neon lights overhead turns into pleasant white noise, much like the obnoxiously loud snoring coming from the bedroom behind the wall where you and Simon are leaning.
It’s only after a few moments that he shifts—imperceptibly, like the subtle man that he is. But you catch it anyway. Spec Ops and their senses, right?
Yet you trust him, so you don’t bother opening your eyes. You count your blessings, and they are few: Simon holding you to his chest while hostiles run rampant right above your heads is at the top of the list right now, and you won’t let it slip.
But then—a tap on your nose. A featherlight touch of something papery that finely crinkles when it meets your skin. You scrunch your face and force your eyes open to see…
…a cigarette.
You blink yourself awake, though you hadn't fallen deeply enough into sleep for it to be startling.
“For me?” You ask, craning your neck to look up at him, only to find him already gazing down at you.
“If you’re polite ‘bout it.” He replies, tapping the tip of the cigarette on your nose again.
You smile. “Please?”
He hums approvingly and slots it between your lips. Plucks the Zippo lighter from one of the front pockets of his vest. Swiftly flicks it open.
The flame dances before your eyes, blue hues growing into yellows and oranges. You lean closer, allowing the tip of the cigarette to hover right into it, until the white paper burns dark, until it finally glows red.
The first drag you take feels like a warm hug. Not often do you have the chance to sit back and smoke while on the job—the glowing cherry is like a big, fat, neon arrow pointing at your head for eventual snipers. Too dangerous to even try.
But six feet underground (quite literally), inside a windowless, armoured bunker, you’re safe from unwanted scopes and deadly bullets. And your cigarette is your prize right now, so you savour it like you should.
You groan in bliss, smoke leaving your lips in foggy curls.
“Lifesaver,” you murmur, returning your head to his chest.
He squeezes your shoulder. “Easy to please.”
You snuggle closer, and he holds you there in comfortable silence. But he’s incredibly tactile tonight: fingers draw mindless circles on your shoulder, while his other hand has found purchase on your thigh, thumb swiping back and forth along the inner seam of your trousers.
It’s not sexual. You think you’d recognise when Simon’s touch turns into something carnal and covetous. No, now he’s just… touching. Sensing. Testing the softness of the meat of your thigh between his fingers, feeling the curve of your shoulder with his pads. It feels like he’s blowing softly at the cinders of a fire that’s been smothered by the more grievous events of this long operation. It torches your belly; rekindled flames gently lick at your skin, until you feel soft and malleable, warm and weightless.
You smoke peacefully, eyes occasionally fluttering closed. Subtle shivers run through you when his hand travels to your side, right where the bulletproof vest doesn’t cover. 
Three or four drags in, a gloved hand appears before your eyes. He beckons with his fingers.
A breathless chuckle. A fond roll of your eyes. You tap the column of ash off the tip and place the cigarette between them.
Simon uses his thumb to lift the mask off his face until it bunches up on his forehead. You shift enough to sit upright and tilt your head his way.
His cheeks are flushed red, irritated by the continuous rubbing of the balaclava. Slivers of paler skin stretch across his cheekbones and upper lip—knotted scars that have always been there, disrupting the growth of his stubble and the smoothness of his skin. Yet now, after tracing them time and time again, they blend in so seamlessly that you have to focus to even notice them at all. Lost their shock value, they have. Now, they’re just small pieces of a puzzle—insignificant in the grand scheme that is Simon.
He brings the cigarette to his lips. His cheeks hollow as he takes a lungful of smoke. It puffs out of his lips a moment later, as he sighs with the same relief you did moments earlier. Just like that, his apparent tranquillity infuses you with the same peace.
“Don’t finish it.” You murmur, very aware that if he did, you wouldn’t mind.
His mouth twitches, and his pupils swivel down to where you’re nestled in his side. Honey lashes fan his cheekbones, eyelids smeared with black greasepaint that makes the chocolate of his eyes look like the warmest of browns. Dark ripples mottled with gold.
“Learn to share.” He drawls, but contrary to his words, he brings the cigarette to your mouth.
You wrap your lips around the orange filter, brushing briefly with the pads of Simon’s gloved fingers. Another intake of smoke has your shoulders relax, but before you can breathe it out of your system, Simon tilts your chin up with his thumb and leans in dangerously close.
Not that you haven’t been this close before, of course. You’ve had him kissing you silly, mouthing at your skin, or drowning between your legs. But to your poor battered heart, every time feels like the first. A blessing, because you’d never trade this feeling for anything in the world. A curse, because it’s a lonely one.
Smoke billows from your parted lips into tendrils that travel upwards and sting your eyes. You don’t close them, but your eyelids fall a little heavier—though you don’t blame it on the smoke.
He nudges your nose with his, instructing you to tilt your head back.
You do.
His thumb tugs your chin, gently forcing your mouth to part. Your stomach flips and twists, leaving you dizzy and unsure of which way is which. The flames from before are melting you inside out now, burning liquid pooling at your lower belly. It makes you muscles clench, your thighs squeeze.
Simon’s eyes stay on yours as he brings the cigarette to one corner of his lips. He takes a purposeful drag. The burning paper crackles. The sound is ten times louder to your ears.
Your blood pumps madly—you feel it run and collect in the apples of your cheeks, in your head, spinning and spinning, until your thoughts are blurry and disconnected.
The arm coiled around you curves so that he can trace your shoulder, following the outline of your gear, and then his hand settles around the side of your face. He keeps you still, fingers flexed at your jaw and thumb dimpling your cheek. The cold leather of his glove should counterbalance the warmth blooming right under your skin, giving you some sort of comfort, yet it’s such a jarring contrast that it only causes the air to lodge in your throat.
The intensity in his eyes, masked by the usual indolent display, is not lost on you; he makes it impossible, unthinkable, to look away. The air around him is stuffy, almost suffocating, and the haze of the smoke, with its pungent smell, doesn’t help. Yet somehow, it makes him look so unbelievably soft, like everything around him is dimmed and unimportant. Like his eyes are all that matters, or the shape of his lips and the slight crook of his nose.
The hand holding the cigarette goes to rest on your thigh. It tenses under his touch, and he squeezes it until it softens right under his palm.
Smoke leaves his lips, then, billowing right into yours. It travels down your tongue, pungent and hot, even richer in taste after it’s been in his mouth, too.
Something tightens in your belly. Makes your head spin further and your hands tremble, as they lie rigidly at your sides. Tension spreads through your body something fierce, muscles coiled in beautiful anticipation, but the lines in your face are smoothed down when Simon brushes his thumb on your cheek.
You inhale. Nicotine travels down your lungs and inflates them with the earthy notes of tobacco, the subtle hint of mint of a gum he must’ve chewed on before, the humidity of his warm breath.
“Like that,” he breathes hoarsely, abandoning the effort of sounding even remotely unaffected.
You blink slowly, exhaling a fleeting cloud of smoke back into his mouth.
“What?” You ask, so quietly you can’t even hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat.
The cigarette is presented right next to your face, once again. The column of ash at the tip is longer than the portion still available to smoke. As Simon brings it to your lips, you see it crumble onto your trousers in your peripherals. You don’t care.
“Learn to share,” he repeats hoarsely. “Just like that.”
And he nudges your lips open by slotting the filter between them. His gaze falls on them like it’s inevitable, like his eyes are metal and your mouth is a magnet.
You take a slow drag, watching his face with hooded eyes. Simon follows raptly the way your cheeks sink, how your lips curl. He’s lost his subtlety now, more obvious when you notice the heaviness with which his throat bobs.
Gingerly, you raise a hand to hook your fingers at the shoulder straps of his vest, pulling him in. He slowly follows your lead, inching closer once more.
Smoke flows from your mouth to his, a wave of soft grey tendrils that tethers Simon to you. And he breathes it in, breathes you in, closing the gap.
His lips meet yours in a kiss that couldn’t be considered one for how faint it is. But his arm, still curled around your shoulders and holding your face steady, tightens just a fraction.
Simon brushes his nose with yours. His head cocks sideways, and he presses his mouth to you again.
You feel like every nerve ending that’s being touched is set ablaze, synapses overriding in the poor attempt to concoct a thought, a word, a breath. Nothing leaves you, if not a trembling sigh that stings with nicotine.
Simon pulls back. You whine pathetically, and you don’t care, as your eyes flutter open—you hadn’t even noticed you’d closed them at all. You trace a path from his lips upwards, studying intently the lines in his face and the way the camo paint hasn’t managed to settle in the wrinkles around his eyes, in the furrow between his brows.
Pinched, they are. As if that kiss has worried him more than any bit of sex ever could.
Your heart clenches at the thought. Writhes pitifully, as if it could talk him out of his spiral, bring him back to you, burn his lips to yours until they merge into a single fucking entity that’s impossible to tell apart.
But he nods softly, then. Your chest unravels, lightens. You nod back.
The cigarette in his hand falls forgotten on the dark concrete floor. His palm lands on your waist, fingers delicately tugging at the bulletproof vest.
His lips find you again. Softly, like he’s testing waters he’s already more than navigated—conquered, even. Mouths slot perfectly like they’ve been trying to do this thing all this time, all along.
You return his kiss with the same caution, trying to quell that fire ignited in your belly. Soft pecks echo in the quiet room, drowning the sounds of your teammates sleeping just behind the wall, the flicker of the lights overhead. Focusing on Simon’s lips, on his taste, and the slight twitch of his brow pressed to yours.
You busy your other hand by hooking it around one of the front pockets of his vest, where a magazine sits. His chest rises heavily under the press of your palm.
Without ever breaking apart, you shift until you’re on your knees, gaining the rare advantage of height. Simon tilts his head accordingly, resting it back against the wall. Your hands initially settle on his shoulders, then on the slopes of his neck, thumbing gently at each side.
He holds you uncharacteristically tender, a hand on your waist and the other on your thigh, where he pats once, twice, until you’re following silent instructions and end up straddling his lap.
Simon’s kiss never stops, nor does it deepen. He teases your lips with his own, leaving gentle pecks that have your stomach erupt in butterflies, your throat tight and suddenly parched.
You wonder if this is the moment in which he slips one hand under the waistband of your trousers, like he always does. Whether he’ll settle on teasing the blooming wetness on your knickers until he’ll feel merciful enough to travel past the cotton and plunge his fingers into you. Or if he’ll simply skew the gusset of your panties to the side and touch you, formalities set aside.
He does none of that.
Instead, his hand settles at the back of your head, the other one on your waist. You flutter your eyes open, only to find his completely shut—and if Simon Riley dares to look so peaceful, you’ll allow yourself that blessing too.
You lose yourself in him, sharing unhurried kisses only framed by the ripping sound of velcro being unstrapped—his fingers working deftly with your tac vest at your sides. You help him out, lifting your arms so he can take it off.
Simon tosses it behind you. Pulls you back down to him again, with long fingers keeping you still by your nape, while other hungry ones untuck your shirt from your trousers so they can feel your skin. Your stomach ripples when he touches it.
His palm explores, follows the curve of each fold, of each line, tracing a path that warms up under his hand and pitifully freezes when he leaves it unattended. Until the tips of his fingers reach the underline of your bra. You sigh softly in his mouth.
“Yes?” He breathes.
“Yes.” You reply.
It must make something tick in his brain, because his painfully obvious tent pressing up to you twitches under your weight.
Simon kisses you slowly as he palms at your breast right above the cottoned bra, causing your sex to flutter around nothing, yet not in a way that feels unfulfilling.
He spares no more seconds to hook his fingers around the central seam of your bra, pulling down.
He cups one of your breasts as it spills out—feeling its weight in his hand, thumbing softly at the nipple until it hardens, until you feel just enough out of breath.
You think you feel him tremble when he leaves your mouth to travel with featherlight kisses down your jaw, nipping right under the bone, where your flesh is plumper. You shiver and tilt your head to give him more room to work with, offering your neck to satiate his appetite.
His kisses are open and wet, but no less patient, as if he thinks he has all the time in the world to savour you until he’s content. He doesn’t; you know it, but you can’t summon the courage to remind him of where you are, of the possibility of onlookers.
No, because he’s tender, he’s kind, he’s bordering on reverent, as he kisses your neck, as he touches your chest.
His hand follows the indent of your spine, settling at the base of it and toying with the hem of your shirt only to lift it up and brush your skin. Hairs all over your body stand on end. You breathe heavily and slow, steadying yourself with your hands on his shoulders—your fingernails digging in as if that might help you quiet down.
“Y’ taste good," he whispers to your skin.
Your lips twitch in a smile.
“Haven’t showered in days,” you reply just as quietly.
He bites into your neck. Your spine arches in brief shock, and he keeps you from falling backwards with his palm at your back.
“An’ yet,” he drawls, pulling back just to lift those dark eyes at you, “Sweet as a peach.”
The softest grin spreads on your lips almost reflexively.
“Flattery will get you—”
“Anywhere,” he interjects, lifting your shirt to expose your chest until the fabric bunches right above your breasts.
You let him, perhaps proving him right. Even so, you cup his cheeks when he eases in closer, leaving open kisses at your sternum. The paint over his eyes transfers to your skin, leaving darkened streaks of sweat and black grease.
You briefly wonder if your neck looks the same, or if there’s any residue left on your face. If he’s unknowingly marked you in such a spontaneous way, simply because it was meant to happen. The quiver in your chest becomes easier to understand then—a sense of belonging in the shape of messy grease marks left in Simon’s wake.
He murmurs something you can’t quite place, hushed and lost in the haze that has been building in your head, in the thunder of your heartbeat. You hum inquisitively, brushing your hand through his dampened hair.
He repeats himself. You hear him now. You do—quite clearly, actually.
“Missed you,” he says.
The poor thing that’s your heart cracks fiercely. You wish it were a neat fracture, easier to piece back together, but it’s jagged and dangerously sharp instead.
“You didn’t,” you whisper. It’s a plea, because there are only so many lies you can take in exchange for a fuck.
His hands connect with each side of your waist, grasping at the flesh to keep you still. He doesn’t use that grip to grind your hips to his own, he doesn’t use it to relieve the tension of his hardened sex.
He uses them simply because he can. Because he wants to. Wants to feel you, touch you, sense where you are, while his lips explore somewhere else, where your flesh is softer and plumper, more sensitive.
“I did.” He insists breathlessly, careful not to raise his voice. “Fuck—I did.”
You push at his shoulders, but he doesn’t let up.
“You didn’t,” you repeat through gritted teeth. Tears build in your eyes much too rapidly, fuelled by the frantic beat of your heart.
He latches on to your nipple. You choke on a whine as he tugs at it softly, grasping it between his front teeth. His arms come to hold you entirely, wrapped like vines around your middle. Slowly, you surrender, ceasing your futile attempts to push him away. 
But you cry. The sting in your eyes finally finds relief as you allow fat tears to roll down your cheeks. Simon doesn’t look up at you, maybe because your sorrow translates into his guilt. However, he stops tasting you with a weary sigh, gently resting his forehead on your chest as he holds you steady.
“I did,” he croaks. "I do."
You hold him too, encircling your arms around his head and resting your cheek on top of it. His hands go from still to hesitating until he is the one who gives in, this time, and brushes them soothingly down your back.
You stay like that for what feels like hours, but judging by the lack of movements from your teammates behind that thin wall, it’s probably been only a handful of minutes. Regardless, Simon holds you through all of it. Until he feels the soft stutters in your chest quell, the sniffles abate.
Only then does he lift his head. Only then does he cup your face in his hands. Thumbs brushing your cheekbones, collecting dried-up tears. They glide on smoothly, which makes you think that maybe his greasepaint has transferred onto your skin there as well.
It shouldn’t, but your heart flips at the thought anyway.
“I'm not a good man, love.” He murmurs, eyes dark and unusually sad. “But I'm no liar.”
The earnestness in his voice almost makes you choke up again. 
You swallow it down. Inhale.
Recollect yourself. Exhale. Lean your cheek in his hand.
Your eyes are downcast, staring at the dark streaks of camo paint fading and blending on your chest.
“I know,” you croak, unsure but wanting to believe him. Almost needing to.
Simon’s hand leaves your cheek. It’s so much colder now that the air brushes your damp skin, but the ice sublimates suddenly when he taps your chin.
You lift your head and lock his eyes. They shine with something unshed, perhaps tears, perhaps words he can’t place, ones he can’t say.
“No lies.” He subtly shakes his head. “Not to ya, ya hear?”
You nod softly. “No lies.”
"Missed ya," he says again, his voice cracking in a way that makes you think this is harder on him than it is on you. "You gotta understand that. There ain’t a day goes by that I don’t."
You swallow thickly. Throat dry, tongue stuck to your palate. Eyes fixed on him, once again unthinkable to look away, but for different reasons entirely. Perhaps this is more than one step forward; perhaps this is a whole new path from which he can’t backpedal. You don’t raise your expectations, you don’t dare—but hope is as much of a bastard as it is beautiful, and it flickers back to life.
“Okay,” you reply, not feeling like you can say it back, not feeling like it could stand in front of the way he’s said it—so viscerally that it ripped at your heart.
He kisses you again, soft like before. His hands return your bra to its place, your shirt down to your hips.
You kiss for a moment more, saying everything your voices can’t, as touch returns to be the only language you both understand.
He helps you off his lap. No more words are exchanged as he dresses you up—tucking the shirt back in your pants, putting the vest around you again, making sure it fits just right when he tightens the straps at your waist.
Wordlessly, Simon invites you back to where it all started, that night. Next to him, with his arm around your shoulders, your leg across his own, and your head on his chest. His eyes on the door, focused. His watch is not over yet.
You fall asleep, coaxed by the soft brushes of his hand on your shoulder, the rise of his chest each time he breathes.
Your hand in his own, his paint on your cheek.
442 notes · View notes
merlucide · 17 days ago
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BLLK BOYS X SHORT READER!
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notes: ayeeee self indulgent this time 🥹 short girlies wya [requested!]
characters: Isagi, Nagi, Rin, Shidou
warnings: cursing, cringe, not proofread
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ISAGI YOICHI
He’s not the type to openly say smth about another’s appearance, but he thinks your shortness is so freaking cute!! 🥹
Doesn’t comment on your height like ever— he doesn’t want to cross any boundaries or make you feel uncomfortable!!
Isagi isn’t the tallest guy around— but he isn’t short!!! so he feels extra manly when you need his help grabbing things from the top shelf hehe
he loves how easy it is just to ‘mwah! mwah!’ On your forehead :)
if anyone wants to talk shit about you being funsized they’ll have a personal meeting with Isagi Yoichi’s filthy mouth
Which ofc no one will bc you’re to much of a cutie to be shat on 😌 and you got slursagi and Writer-Kira on your back, WE GOT YOU COVERED BOO 🗣️🗣️
Thinks that ?? Cus you’re short ?? You’re fragile ??
which Yoichi honey- 😭 thanks
hes always holding your hands anyways but will YANK you closer to him when he thinks your going to fall/hit smth
and while you appreciate the loving gesture— ITS A BIT EXCESSIVE NO?
’Yoichi I’m not going to fall over in the wind y’know’
’I mean you did that one time tho?— But anyways!!’
hes a big cutie ugh
NAGI SEISHIRO
hes so tall anyways everybody is short af to him lmao 😭 so when you first meet him he just kinda stares at you
’oh, they’re rlly rlly small, pocket size? yeah that makes sense’ is his thought process LMAOO
he doesn’t poke fun at your height to much— oh who am I kidding yes he freakin does
first thing bro said to you was ‘wow, you’re so little’
If your ignoring him bc you’re on your phone/wtv he will take it and hold it above his head and only give it back when you give him attention and affection (sounds like a good trade tbh)
When he hugs you it looks like a big-overgrown baby hugging its stuffed animal HA
Lmao when you cant reach smth he just picks you up under your arms and lets you grab it yourself 😭
Just kinda like- flooooooaaaaaaat up 😭🙏
okay back to the stuff animal thing- when yall snuggle n cuddle that’s how it is 😭 just sorta, traps you 😭
Or he just plops on top of you. No matter the position, you will be trapped
Temple kisser!!!! :3
RIN ITOSHI
Doesn’t pay much attention to your height, he don’t gaf
— Is the mindset he had until you couldn’t find your shoes and just borrowed Rins.
But Rins feet and humongous
and your feet as small af
so you just looked like a clown LMAO
’Y/n have you seen my—‘
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He actually laughed, it was an ugly wheeze, which lasted about 5 seconds before asked you ‘wtf are you doing’
He realized just how freaking smaller than him you were!!
He thought it was so cuuuuuteee (not that he’d ever admit that smh)
now feels the need to protect you from the dangers of the world LMAO (omega verse type shit 🗣️)
when Rins feeling pissy he’ll put all— ALL of your things in places you can’t reach
for two reasons:
1. He’s petty
2. You’ll have to ask for him help
A perfect plan tbh
which crumbles when you screech over the chair just to get your pants
*cue glaring rin*
SHIDOU RYUSEI
is the biggest shit out of all of these hoes
Like bro checks ALL OF THE BOXES
1) Puts stuff in top shelf. 2) Teases you RELENTLESSLY. 3) Tackles you onto the bed with his body. 4) will go ham on anyone who teases you
shidou 🤤
Alwqys offers to give you piggy-back rides!
even if you don’t want it he’s like, already crouched down signaling his hands like ‘hurry up—get on’
Like he will just *pick* you up 😭 when the feels like it
Going to the store? Might as well take Y/N on his back! Standing in line? Y/N on his shoulders! Walking around the house? Y/N is already thrown over his shoulder! The list goes on you could imagine
Thinks you’re so cute being smaller than him
And When you try to show him how ‘not cute you are’ he just smiles and pinches your cheeks like ‘aweeeee! Sure ya aren’t!’
He loves, loves, loves, LOVES, when you have to get on your tippy toes to kiss him
HES JUST LIKE ‘🤭+😏+😈’
’You struggling there sweets?’ ;} like YES. Now nvm😒
then picks you up and forces you to wrap you legs around him and give him that kiss he deserves 😌
ALSO HE LOVES SPINNING YOU AROUND RAAAAAAAA
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not proofread, rushed af, I’m tired BUT I WAS HAPPY I GOT AN ASK SO WE PUSH THROUGH!! 🥹 thanks for reading!!!!
made December 19th 2024
654 notes · View notes
letorip · 4 months ago
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kiss with a fist [iii]
"your slaps don't stick, your kicks don't hit, so we remain the same"
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pairing: tara carpenter x reader
summary: you can't help but feel like maybe you and tara are more than frenemies, and it culminates in a night where you finally share some truths with each other.
warnings: a somewhat traumatic dream sequence lmao, mentions of sex, kissing (almost), curse words, blood
word count: 5.8k
A/N: hope y'all like this one because i definitely liked writing it. definitely a whole lot more kissing than fisting.... wait a minute....
it's 5 am, my ass is grass. anyways, part 4 relatively soon because woo wee theres still so much to explore in this story i legitimately cant believe my idiot self said it'd be done in 2 parts originally
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===+++===
"(Y/n)," a voice calls to you, sing-song and sweet as your eyes fade to darkness. It's a gentle woman's whisper, but it manages to hit you like a truck, pulling you down from wherever you came from, and plopping you wherever you've arrived. Or, rather, wherever you've always been. "(Y/n), look, darlin'."
A gust of wind gently strokes over the plane of your cheek, and when you open your eyes, all you can see is rye. On one end, it reaches out towards a sharp cliff, overlooking a lake, with nothing but rocks and the water below. On the other, it runs far up the plains of land in front of you, stopping in front of the white house you know all too well, with its rickety porch and broken tire swing.
You take a few steps forward, as if ready to run right inside, and then before you know it, you're running. Like the world is about to end, like the house is burning down, like you'll never see the place ever again. Foot after foot, you dash towards it, hearing Alisha's piano flit through the front window for the first time in years, and the smell of a pie right along with it. "(Y/n)!" the voice calls again. "Dinner time, kid!"—
But your foot catches on a root, just like it did in your memory, and in an instant, you've fallen down into the rye, with a painful thud, right on your face. You let out a grunt, feeling the dirt on your new, white shirt. The one your mother never let you wear when you were playing outside.
And when you right yourself again, sitting up out of the field, the house isn't any closer than it was before. It sits, perfectly far away, only all that stuff is gone now, and the house looks about as dark as it did the day of Mitchie's funeral.
"(Y/n)!" an excited voice calls from behind you. "Wanna play tag?"
"(Y/n)'s too old for that, Mitchie," another voice chides, and you whip around like Calvin would actually be there to chide him like that. Like he used to. But he isn't. All you can see is the rye. It stands in thick stalks, reaching up to your knees in lush groupings, tall and abundant, strong and growing.
Another voice. "Read me a story?" It's soft and it's a little girl's and it's far away, and you get to your feet and spin in a circle, waiting for her to appear. It seemed to reverberate through your ears, washing through the pathways of your brain before seeping into your heart. It fills it up, and before you know it, you can feel yourself hastily searching for her.
"'Randa?" you called into the open field. "Miranda? You there?" but she continues on like she didn't hear you.
"Would you read me a story? Please?"
"I will Miranda, but where are you?" you called back, raising a hand to shield your eyes from the barrel of the hot sun.
"I'm gone, (Y/n). You're supposed to be gone too," she says back, with a sweet giggle. "Why aren't you gone with us?"
"I—" you stammer, whipping your head around the field in search of your siblings. "I don't—"
"Do you really think that's fair, (Y/n)?" Calvin asks.
"Why aren't you here, (Y/n)?" Miranda asks again, this time her voice wavering like she was about to cry. "Why aren't you in the rye with us?" Your hands came up to your head, trying to squeeze your eyes shut and block out the noises, but they seemed to reverberate into your skull.
"Mitchie was your fault, you know," Peter chides. "We would've never let that—"
"—Why did you get to stay, (Y/n)?" Came Tomas' voice. "We're supposed to be cursed, and you're supposed to be cursed too." He was always the quiet one, but now his voice had a sharp edge to it. One of jealousy. One of anger.
"Why didn't you catch me?" Mitchie asked. "If you just would've caught me..."
"Come play piano with me, I'll teach you," said Alisha, in her light, airy laugh.
"Why did it get to be you?" snarled Calvin. "And why are you getting closer to Tara? You want to curse her, too?"
"Stop—" you stammered, squeezing your eyes shut tighter.
"Wanna play hopscotch?" said Mitchie.
"Do you miss us, (Y/n)?" Alisha said, in between tears.
"Yes, of course— I—" you tried, but now the voices were filling up your head, threatening to spill over and knocking you to the ground. You curled up into a ball as your brain filled up. Words piling up on top of words, piling up on top of words, about to split you open. "STOP!" you yelled.
And everything went silent. When you opened your eyes, you found yourself still in the field, but your siblings' voices had gone entirely. Now it was just you, in the field, alone with the rustling of the wind and the rye, as it grazed gently against your legs. You hadn't remembered standing up, but you were now.
In a flash, you could see a shape, running through the rye in a line that was very visible from where you were. You recognised the dark hair, and the yellow jacket he always wore. With the realisation came the looming dread, and you realised with very little time left what this exactly was a memory of.
You took off running, faster than you had to the house, faster than you had ever run, and faster than you had run then, chasing after him as he took off towards the cliff-end of your rye field. "Mitchie!" you yelled, trying to be louder than the buzzing cicadas, but it seemed the moment you yelled, the cicadas got even louder. He was too short to see over the stalks, but you could see him go, running in odd shapes as he got nearer and nearer to the cliffs edge.
"Catch me if you can, (Y/n)!" he called back with a gleeful laugh.
"(Y/n), grab your brother," called your mother. She didn't seem too worried, and she hadn't been, then. No one had been, until it was too late.
"Mitchie! Stop!" you cried out, feeling tears already beginning to fall down your cheeks. "Mitchie!" you tried again.
"Come on, you've gotta be faster than that if you're gonna be it!” Mitchie called back. "Catch me! Get me! C'mon! I'm gonna make it hard for you to win, Duck."
"MITCHIE! PLEASE!" you screamed, but all he did was giggle. “STOP! DON’T GO!” But the moment you reached the end of the rye, he was gone over the edge, just he had been when you were 13, and there was an arm shaking you awake.
===+++===
"Oh my god, you're about the least peaceful sleeper I've literally ever seen," Tara laughed, grinning at you from over her textbook. She had it pulled into her lap from her side of the table and titled against the table edge, and spread out in front of you were her papers galore, with notes scribbled all over them in preparation for her upcoming exam.
Mindy sat next to her, playing a stupid game on her phone, while Ethan was also studying in his own textbook. He had stopped trying to avoid you as much, as had Chad. You and Tara "dating" seemed to offend them less and less the longer it went on.
"Uh," you mumbled, still feeling a little bit disoriented from the dream. It was like a dose of adrenaline had been shot directly into your heart, and you struggled to adjust to the calm, peaceful library that actually was around you. "Shut up," you grumbled, but not like you were actually upset by her teasing.
Tara watched you with her eyebrows raised. "You look tired."
You sat up in your chair, running a hand through your hair. There was a small layer of sweat on your forehead. "Aren't you never supposed to say that to someone? Pretty sure that's how you get someone at the bar to throw their drink in your face."
"It is," Ethan nodded. "I made that mistake once. I was trying to be sweet."
"Good thing I'm not seducing you, then," Tara shrugged. "You've seen me puke everywhere. Pretty sure that ruined my chances right-out, and yet you love me anyways."
You grinned, leaning back to stretch out your arms. It was meant to be a gentle teasing from Tara, but you had only gotten better and better at deflecting the longer you were around her. "You'd be surprised, actually. That was super pretty. That was the prettiest you've ever been." Mindy snorted next to Tara.
Tara glared at you, unappreciatively. "And you're pretty when you do not speak."
"I'm pretty all the time, Tara," you mockingly shook your head. "And you think I'm joking. Find yourself a girl who looks nice covered in sweat, with her hair going everywhere, and puking in the toilet. That's my girlfriend."
"You're such a dick," Tara scoffed, but you could tell part of her was stifling a laugh. It was funny to her too, and you both had laughed at it together for days, afterwards.
If anything, it had gotten easier and easier, to act like the both of you were actually dating. You weren't too sure why, maybe Tara had become less annoying, or you had become less annoyed by her, but you had definitely at least become a better actor. That's what it was, after all. "Oh, also," she continued.
"Yeah?"
"Someone tried to call your phone, while you were sleeping. I think it was your dad."
You frowned. "You didn't pick up, right?"
"No," Tara said, shaking her head. Then she paused. She dropped her voice to speak just to you, guarding the conversation from Mindy and Ethan. "Do you and him not get along?"
You shrugged. "Eh. He was probably just checking in. We have a fine relationship." It wasn't true but it was an easy lie, that rolled off the tongue like nothing. He had already called twice, that day, and you knew why.
"Seriously, though," she said with a frown, looking up from her book. "You look fucking horrifying—"
"—Thanks," you said, flatly.
"—I mean, even more than normal, it's crazy—"
"—Thanks," you repeated.
"—Have you not been sleeping, or something?"
You shrugged. "I mean, I'm an architecture major, and it's midterms... so not really."
"Hm."
"What?" you asked, propping your head up on your arm. "What's the 'hm' for?"
She shrugged, trying to turn back to her textbook. "Hm, nothing."
You furrowed your eyebrows down at her. "Well, obviously the 'hm' was something, Tara." Mindy shot you a look again.
"Or it was just a hm."
“Would you two shush,” she said to you, rolling her eyes. “You bicker like an old married couple.” But you both ignored her.
"It's never just a 'hm.'"
"I say hm all the time. It's literally just a hm."
"No, it means you've got something to say but don't want to say it."
She frowned at the accusation but was obviously even more displeased that you were correct. "I was gonna suggest we go to the OBK party tonight, but maybe you should just go home and sleep. I was trying to be nice.”
You shrugged. "I won't be doing either, actually." Tonight was not the night for parties. You were somewhat grateful, that you had a legitimate excuse to busy your time, or else you would've spent even longer thinking about the dream. "I have to do homework. My final is due tomorrow."
Tara furrowed her eyebrows at you. "Wait, but I thought classes ended today."
You shook your head. "Nope. I've still got some stuff do."
"Oh," Tara frowned.
"Not all of us can have easy majors," you teased, trying to lighten the mood away from what was clearly concern.
"Hey! You chose the stupid thing," Tara shot back. "Not my fault I chose something fun." She stood up, gathering her things into a neat stack. The time was nearing for her midterm exam, and you stood up with her, grabbing her textbook to be helpful.
"Thanks," she said, then she wandered over and held out her hand. You grabbed it in yours, lacing your fingers together, just like you had practiced together.
The library was a tall building on the far side of campus from where you lived. It was a trek and a half to get there, which is partially why you had been a little annoyed, when Tara said she needed to go there. It ended up being the perfect place to fall asleep in, with the quiet signs and only a few murmurs now and again, and though it had been a less than peaceful dream, it was more than you had been getting for the past few days.
"I don't see why you can't just go without me," you shrugged, adjusting her book in your hands. "Just tell Sam I'll meet you there. Besides, Chad and Mindy are going to the same party, right?"
"Yeah, but I what if they realise you're not actually there and mention it to Sam, or something? And, I'd have to go there alone, since Chad and Mindy are going early."
"They are?"
"Yeah. Helping with set up. Mindy literally just mentioned that. Shows how much you listen to her.” She shook her head in a mocking disappointment in you.
“I was asleep, jerk.”
“I know,” she said, grinning.
You looked down to her, where she walked next to you, gently swinging your joint hands back and forth. "It's not a far walk to OBK. You could probably make it there in five minutes. It's well-lit, and—"
Tara frowned, shaking her head adamantly. "Not alone. Not without you, no way. Sam would want to see you at the door to pick me up. She'd probably hate the idea of it."
"Fair enough," you shrugged. "Find a movie at home tonight, then. Relax, or something. I'd kill to be done with this stupid project."
"What are you even making?" Tara groaned, breaking your hands to shove hers into her pockets. Actually, it was your jacket, and therefore technically your pockets too, but she had taken a liking to it, after your date. You had been less than pleased, when she asked to borrow it, considering how much the jacket meant to you, but she insisted it was assisting her to keep up the act. You figured you could part with it, at least for a little while.
"Architecture," you said with a thick layer of sarcasm. Tara rolled her eyes at you. She nudged you, and you couldn't help but laugh as her elbow pointed into your side.
"Oh, you think you're funny, huh?"
"I'm hilarious."
"You wish..." she scoffed, shaking her head.
It was a beautiful day in autumn, and the weather was soon to leave the sigh of brown leaves and rainy days and move into whispery winds and icy pavement. You didn't mind winter, but you didn't like the chills, even though it was undoubtedly what gave summer's warmth a certain sweetness. Still, nothing burned like the cold.
You walked her all the way to the door of the exam hall, stopping out front to hand her the textbook you had been carrying. You went to speak, but the moment you tried to open your mouth, your phone started ringing. You grabbed it from your pocket, sighing and declining the call, while Tara stared at you.
"Is that your dad, again?"
"No," you said. "Telemarketer."
"Right..." she said, frowning. "You're a terrible liar."
"Am I?" you challenged. You were, it was true.
"Why don't you want to talk to him?"
“I just don’t.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m asking why, (Y/n).”
"Why don't you leave it alone?" you shot, in frustration. You could see Tara's eyes narrow at your tone, and you felt a bit bad. There was the occasional reflex still, to bite each other's heads off. You weren't sure what it was about her, but something about Tara Carpenter always seemed to rile you up inside, and do the same for her with you.
"Sorry," you said, looking down at your shoes. "I just don't want to talk about it."
"That doesn't mean you have to be an asshole," Tara glared.
"Right... I'm... sorry."
Tara sighed. "I guess I'll see you next week?" She asked.
You nodded. "There'll be plenty of time after this, I just need to get this thing done."
"Okay," she nodded, failing to hide her excitement. Tara seemed to really love parties, the more and more she went to, and you were somewhat glad you could help her find something she enjoyed. It was nice to see, not that you'd ever say that to her. Doing that would absolutely result in her teasing you again, or something even more annoying.
"Good luck on your test," you said.
"Good luck on your project, babe," she said, drawing the name out.
“Now who’s hilarious,” you said with an eye roll. Tara winked at you, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
“Me.”
===+++===
It seemed you were having no good luck on it whatsoever, actually. Laid out in front of you was all of your materials, in a messy pile of cut-out pieces and foam boards that were there, sure, but not likely to just jump together and put itself together on its own.
The clock had already ticked away to 12:33 in the morning, and your design was barely finalised to where you could get to work and finish quickly. All of the other students had left at a much more reasonable hour, and it left you standing at your table alone, quietly working to classical music in the empty modelling lab.
At this rate, you could be here for another two or three hours, and the project was due at eight. You were sluggish, slowly working through the plans you had set out days ago and working through the kinks.
Every few minutes, when you stopped for even a second, the dream seemed to rush back to the forefront of your brain. Your mother had been the one to call, that evening while you were eating a poor excuse of a dinner, and you had declined that call just like you had declined all the rest.
You were hunched over your work, probably unhealthily so, with your face buried in your iPad, hastily throwing out sketches of the various shapes. You were settling on a design that would have to do, heading for the woodcutter, when you heard a noise.
It resembled a door shutting, and you froze right where you were. "Greg?" you called out. There was no one else in the building except for you and Greg, at his usual security post, and you waited with bated breath for him to return your call.
But there was no response, and all you could hear was the sounds of classical music gently floating in the background. Usually, it set you at ease while you worked through whatever you were doing in the lab, but now all it did was raise your heart rate to match the increasing tempo. It was completely dark, except for the overhead light above you, which illuminated the table you were working at and a few of the stainless steel cabinets that held tools and supplies.
Then, off to the side, you heard a rolling. An odd, wooden rolling, slowly drifting towards you. On the ground was a pencil, gently pushed towards you, playfully rolling as if perfectly in front of your toes. You hopped to your feet. "Hello?" you called, squinting in the dim light, in case anyone else was there. "Is anyone there?" you called out again. "Greg?"
Now you could really feel the thumping of your heart. The modelling lab had always been creepy late at night, but this was a new level of unease. It was as if someone was watching you, playing with their food, and you swallowed down the lump in your throat. "Is someone there?" you said to the rest of the room.
"Hey!" said a voice, and you jumped what felt like five feet into the air.
"Fuck!" you shouted, spinning around and seeing Tara behind you. She jumped at your reaction, raising her hands up. In one of them was a tray with two coffees on it. “You scared me!”
"Woah, woah, are you okay?" she asked, face etched with concern. She walked towards you slowly, and you put your hands on the edge of the table, trying to calm yourself.
"Don't just sneak up on me like that, dude," you glared at her.
"I literally didn't, I fucking announced myself, loud as can be," Tara said, rolling her eyes at you. Then, it melded into concern. "How long have you been here?" she asked, looking around the place and its emptiness.
"Since I left you at your test," you shrugged. "How'd it go by the way?" Tara's eyebrows furrowed, ignoring your question instead for one of her own.
"Did you at least eat dinner, or something?"
"Yeah," you nodded.
"Good."
“Yeah…,” you trailed off, turning back to your work. “How did you know where I was?"
“I asked Chad. He’s still a little snippy with me about, well, thinking we're together. Tried to tell me that if anyone would know, it would be me, and I said, yeah, that’s true, but it’s only been three months, now.”
“Well,” you said, gesturing around to the lab. “This is the modelling lab.” You were a bit of a nerd about the whole place, showing it off like it was your cool superhero lair.
“I know,” Tara mocked. “I saw it on the giant sign above the front door.”
“Ha ha. Does Sam know that you’re here?” You asked, grabbing your pen and resuming your work while you continued to talk to Tara. She plopped herself down on the edge of the table, letting her feet swing.
She looked a bit sheepish at the question. “Uh… no.”
“You know she’ll kill me like she did that one time, if you’re not home when she wakes up,” you frowned, wandering over to the supplies and grabbing out a box cutter to help trim the pieces you needed.
Tara nodded. “I know. But I snuck out, so I’ll sneak back in.”
You turned back around to reply, maybe say something stupid, but you had to stop yourself from laughing, when you saw her legs hanging off the counter and not reaching the ground.
“What?” Tara asked, furrowing her eyebrows. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head and returning to the table. “…Dwarf.”
“Hey!” she said, smacking you on the arm. “I brought you coffee, don’t make me take it back.”
“That’s true,” you frowned, weighing your options. “Guess I can’t make fun of you; you brought me caffeine.”
“That’s more like it."
You worked in silence for a few minutes, feeling Tara watch your every movement. It was harder to work, under her scrutiny, but you were grateful that she was there. It wasn’t lonely in there, any more. A few months ago, you would’ve hated her guts for sitting around while you attempted to work. But not with Tara anymore. Not on that day.
“This might be an all-nighter,” you warned, sending her a small smile as you sliced a piece of foam in half and went to work to attach it to your board.
“Fine with me,” Tara shrugged. She just continued to watch you, in a calm silence. “Actually, I have beef with you,” she hummed.
You laughed, looking up while you secured the base with glue. “Why’s that, Tara?”
“You got that song, stuck in my head.”
“Which one?” You asked.
“The one you sang for me. I found it online.”
“Which one?” you teased, smiling again. Your face was tired and the smile certainly didn’t help, but you couldn’t help the newfound peace washing over you again. You had completely forgotten the weird happening from earlier.
“You know, don’t play dumb.”
“No,” you shook your head. “I really don’t know.”
“You literally do,” Tara scoffed.
“Sing a little bit. Refresh my memory.”
“Nuh uh,” she said, crossing her arms. “This is a trap.”
“It isn’t,” you insisted, sticking your pinky out to her. “Swear.”
She wrapped it in her own, rolling her eyes. She definitely knew it was, but she obliged anyway. “If you need a friend, don’t look to a strangerrr. You know in the end,” her voice broke on the low note like yours did, and you laughed while heat rose to her cheeks. “I’ll always be thereeee.”
“And when you’re in doubt,” you sang back to her, in between laughs. “And when you’re in dangerrr.” You both were tone deaf and the rendition was awful, but the mood in the lab was getting lighter and lighter the longer you were together.
“Take a look all around,” Tara sang, coming back in. “And I’ll be there.”
It was impossible not to laugh at how bad it was on both sides, and you grinned at her toothily, before turning back to your work. “Thank you for reminding me.”
“You’re welcome, idiot,” she teased, nudging you in the side again.
===+++===
You went back to working on your model, finishing the first floor in about an hour. You and Tara occasionally talked now and again, but mostly she just watched you while you worked. “Why are you doing this all tonight?” she asked.
“Uh…” you stuttered. “I didn’t have time the past couple weeks…cause of… well, you.”
She shot up to her feet, mouth dropping open. “Why the hell didn’t you say no to me?! I didn’t know you had all this to do.”
You shrugged. “I never mentioned it. Plus, you were having fun. I’m glad someone was enjoying themselves.”
“Oh…” she said, and it sounded small.
“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at her.
“…Nothing."
“It’s fine, Tar. Seriously.” She blinked at you.
“Tar?” she asked, looking amused.
You looked up from your work, feeling the change in the atmosphere. “What?”
“I don’t know, you’ve just never used the nickname for me, before.”
“Yeah, I guess not. Is it weird?”
“Well… no. I kind of like it.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” she agreed, nodding a little. “My mom was the one who gave me the nickname Tar. Haven’t spoken to her in a little while, though.”
“Do you still miss her?” you asked, glueing your second story onto the base successfully.
“Sometimes…” she trailed off, staring out at the pitch black night through the window that hung over your workspace. "She calls me once in a while."
"Do you answer?" you asked.
"No," she admitted. "It's usually about Woodsboro. I gave up on her a few months ago, but she still calls sometimes about the town."
"You never talk about it..." you comment, trailing off with a hand on the back of your neck. "You don't have to, if you don't want to." You leaned back against the table with a curiosity, watching her face move as she struggled to answer.
"Well... it's cause I don't want to that I don't talk about it. You know how people say that shit about manifesting happiness?" you nodded, knowing what she was talking about. "Well, I keep saying I'm fine, and I'm moving on, but it just keeps following me everywhere. It's like this chronic cough I can't shake. This constant thing. No matter how much I run, it's always there. People don't see me as anything but one of the survivors."
You swallowed, feeling her words hit you. "I know what you mean." Tara's eyes snapped down to yours, but when you didn't volunteer more information, she sighed.
You frowned, turning yourself back to your work and hunching over, so she wouldn’t see the heat rising to your cheeks. “I, uh… I listened to that song you said you liked, too.”
“You did?” she asked, lighting up at the mention of it.
“Yeah… added it to my playlist… so…”
“So…” Tara laughed, amused by your awkwardness. It was somehow less awkward when you hated each other. The fact you could tolerate each other now was unusual but not unpleasant, and you still found yourself grappling with how pretty Tara’s eyes looked in lamplight. "If I get a nickname, you absolutely have to have one too."
You scoffed. "That's not at all what that means."
"You had to have had one at some point."
"No, I haven't had one," you said.
"Liar!" Tara said with a giggle, pointing at you with her finger. "You're so bad at lying it's remarkable. Now spill. What is it?"
"I'm not lying!" you insisted, but now you were laughing and it was even less convincing.
"C'mon, promise I won't say it in public— unless it's really bad."
You stared at her for a moment, when she clasped her hands together in a begging plea.
"Please?"
"No," you shook your head.
"Please?"
"Nope."
"Pleaseeee?"
"Fine," you sighed. "My family, they used to call me Duck."
"Duck?" She asked, leaning back to look at you as if the nickname would re-contextualise your entire appearance. "Where'd that come from?"
"It's dumb. I used to wear this yellow raincoat when it was storming outside and these orange booties, so my little brother Mitchie saw me, when he was like five or six, and said I was a Duck. And so I was Duck."
She smiled at you, genuinely pleased with the explanation. "That's adorable. Where is Mitchie, tonight?"
You opened your mouth but shut it. Then, you opened it again. "Probably watching cartoons, or something. Back in Nebraska." (A/N: my ass genuinely did not know that was a U.S. state until right now)
You couldn't tell her that today was the day he had died, several years ago. That a year or two before that had happened, Calvin had gone, and a few months before that, Tomas and Alisha had passed too. That Peter had gotten sick, or that Miranda had gone missing before any of that mess had happened. That you were the only one left.
It was a bad lie, and probably one you would regret later, but it was one you ushered past, and Tara didn't seem to pick up on. From one cursed person to another, you figured it was probably best that you keep your own curse to yourself. It's part of what had made you hate Tara so much at first. She walked around knowing her days were likely numbered, so carefree and careless. And then there was you, you who was so careful in order to keep living.
But you couldn't resent her for that. It had melted away with seeing the Tara underneath. The real, beautiful Tara underneath.
"Duck is good, though. I'll bring it out when I want to embarrass you," Tara smiled, inching closer on the table.
"Yeah?" you grinned back at her, standing up to gently tap against the glue. It was set, and your model was finally finished at 4:42 in the morning. Tara leaned close, watching the glue with her own eyes, cheek almost up against yours in curiosity.
You finished the thing, looking over at her and her large, warm brown eyes, staring at the model you had made with so much curiosity and genuine interest. Tara hadn't lifted a finger to help, but you couldn't help but feel like it was partially hers.
You went to pull back but found your face turning towards hers, looking at each other for a long moment. Your eyes lingered on the slope of her nose, down to the curvature of her soft lips, turned up in the corners like Tara always did when she smiled. They looked so soft, and before you knew what was happening, you could feel Tara's hands coming up to the sides of your face, thumbs gently stroking against the skin there.
You couldn't breathe, feeling the warmth of the pads of her fingers on your face and the faint brush of her breath upon your nose. "Tara," you whispered. The pull was magnetic, and just as you were about to say to hell with it all, her phone began to vibrate in her pocket, and you both leapt apart from each other.
You wandered a few feet away, trying to seem busy while she answered it. You could feel Tara watching you while she spoke on the phone, so you did your best to hide the blush that was certainly spread wide across your cheeks.
This was the very girl you had spent the past several months hating. You suddenly felt dizzy, like the world would slip out from under your feet. Tara, the very same annoying girl who had pestered with you and bickered with you. The one who had so much more to her that what you had ever thought possible. The one who drew you in. The one in search of a hook up, for which you were only the decoy. You cleared your throat, whipping around when you heard Tara say "What?!"
"What's wrong?" you asked. "What's going on?"
She crossed her arms over her chest, looking up at you like she was about to cry. "They're questioning Sam again. They think Ghostface is back."
===+++===
DUN DUN DUNNNNNN anyways my ass is going to bed now. also i do not recommend anyone lie to someone they're interested in about who they are, ESPECIALLY an attempted murder victim
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dmercer91 · 1 year ago
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can we get a part 2 of luke liking jacks best friend??? maybe where they end up together 🤭
got the girl, lh43
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in which luke's behaviour finally clicks and you mess with him until he can admit his feelings out loud (2.0k)
soft, almost needy/naive luke is becoming my favourite cause i love me a boy that's deeply reliant on his snuggles despite being tall and man shaped. a little unproofread and a little silly in the middle, for flavour
when you woke up, you found yourself tucked under lukes arm, your face now a little hidden into his neck so that he could be far up enough on the bed that his legs didn't teeter the edge.
he was sound asleep, a little less of a morning person than you despite his hectic schedule during most of the year.
the summer was his time to sleep until ludicrous hours, and you took note throughout the years that he always took advantage.
he was always the last one of the brothers to hobble downstairs for breakfast, sleep frequently prominent in his eyes and his hair a tangled mess of his curls that were drying out due to the lake water and lack of caring for.
so you let him rest, carefully untangling yourself from his grasp and heading to wash your face, and brush your teeth. it would be a while before quinn was up, usually the most responsible brother who knew that if he got up early enough he could poach some of your breakfast and have a little while of peace in the gym or front yard.
you cleaned up some of the water bottles that had been left in the living room from the night prior, folding the throw blankets and fixing up the pillows before starting to cook your breakfast, deciding on a simple one for today; eggs, toast and some fruit.
what you didn't expect was to hear the creak of the stairs within a few seconds of you frying your eggs, your eyebrows furrowing as you examined the microwave for the time.
a little early for quinn, but you figured it was him anyways. "quinny?" you said, your voice travelling far enough to make it to the stairs but not to make its way upstairs and wake anyone.
when he didn't answer, you turned your head and saw that it was luke, rubbing exhaust from his eyes and sleepily making his way over to you.
you smiled, allowing him to wrap his arms around you and tug you into him, and sharp whine echoing into your ear as he saw that you were cooking breakfast.
"it's so early.. come back to bed w' me," he pleaded, tugging you away from the oven and pawing at the knobs of the stove, trying to turn it off.
you giggled, adjusting his arms on you and turning back to your pan, shaking your head.
"i'm making my breakfast, lukey. i can make you some, hm?" he shook his head, tucking his face into your neck as if the natural morning light was too harsh on his eyes.
his arms unravelled from your waist, hands planting on your hips and soothing up and down, pulling your shirt up on your waist a little with each passing.
you bit your lip, his actions from now and last night finally coming together in your brain.
snuggling up with you, staring at you instead of watching a movie he picked out, agreeing to spend the night with you, calling you baby by accident. you weren't sure how you hadn't picked up on it before.
everything was confirmed for you when the stairs croaked once again, now under the feet of the eldest hughes brother. when he saw you, luke still trying to pry your attention away from anything that wasn't him, his face lit with an amused smile.
he knew
you started to ponder on if jack knew, or even trevor and alex. if everyone was painfully aware of luke's eyes always being trained on you and decided to keep it from you.
you blinked back into reality, turning off the stove and plating your eggs. "lu?" you mumbled, offhandedly like you had a question you'd been meaning to ask him for some time, even though it only just come to you.
he hummed, hopeful eyes peeking up at you and his hands coming to a halt. "how about you go get ready and ill make you some breakfast, n' we can have it out on the boat," you murmured, cupping his head in your hand and playing with his curls.
you were gonna see how long it took until he broke, admitted how he'd been feeling.
you watched as his eyes dilated, scanning down to your lips with a deer in headlights-esque look of infatuation. he licked his lips, eyes darting back up to yours as soon as he caught his own staring.
he then nodded, blinking away the evident look of euphoria on his face at the feeling of your hands in his hair.
"oh," he murmured, still nodding along to your question. it was like he was under a spell. "okay," he finished, your hand retreating from his curls and pressing to his chest.
"i'll meet you out there, alright? gotta change once i'm done making your food," you instructed, earning one last nod of confirmation before he finally tore his body away from yours and lugged himself back upstairs and towards his own room.
"don't tell me you're gonna do this until he tells you himself," quinn's voice came from behind you once luke's bedroom door was shut and he couldn't hear the conversation.
"what's the fun in telling him i know? and plus, you can't tell me you didn't love watching that," you gestured to where luke had been standing, calling back to the blindingly obvious pining that the older brother had watched from the stairs.
he nodded a little, smile cracking at his lips as he took the plate of food you had already made for yourself.
you glared at him, mixing together another couple eggs into your bowl now that yours were gone.
"what! they would've been cold by the time you got to the boat anyways," he defended, shovelling a fork full of eggs into his mouth and sitting down at the island.
"y/n?" he asked, swallowing his bite.
you hummed, looking back at him as you poured the eggs into the pan. "you won't just lead him on, will you? like, you feel the same," he asked quietly, eyes avoiding yours after a quick second of eye contact.
your lips pulled back into a smile at his attempt at nonchalant protectiveness over his youngest brother, and you shook your head. "silly question. remember the girl who's face i shoved into a pile of snow? when we were kids?" you recalled, and quinn chuckled.
"yeah. i guess he's kinda always been yours," he stated, much more comfortable now that he knew two of his favourite people would soon stop dancing around each others requited feelings.
when the stairs could be heard again, you were expecting luke, but instead you saw your best friend, gloomy as he stared at you.
"you watched top gun without me, and you had our movie night with my little brother," he pouted, going up to you and ruffling your hair, tugging you into a side hug.
"even?" he asked, looking down at you hopefully.
"you threw me into the pool while i was wearing white. and zegras was there. even," you stuck your hand out, watching as he bashfully took it up to his lips and kissed your knuckles.
"not my brightest impulse decision, i have to admit," he sighed, reaching over your head for a plate and stealing the toast that had come out of the toaster, then some eggs.
you gave him the same glare you'd sent quinn, earning a similarly mischievous grin.
"why'd you make so much if s' not for me?" he wiggled his eyebrows, eyeing luke's bedroom door.
you rolled your eyes, a response you seemed to have needed to resort to one too many times this morning. for future reference, you'd keep in mind that one brother at a time for this hour of the morning was more than enough.
"her and lukey have a breakfast boat date," quinn teased, the two of them looking at each other with excited looks, both with hints of relief that something finally stirred between you and luke.
"at long last was getting a little long, munchkin. good for you," he kissed your forehead, sitting next to quinn at the counter.
"you're both just.. so insufferable" you grumbled, now having to finish off the carton of eggs you'd been using since two plate fulls had been stolen from you.
you popped more toast into the toaster, frowning at the empty plate of strawberries you’d cut up and grabbing the container of unsliced ones to make up some more.
switching focus back to the eggs, you scrambled them up and shook the pan around, ensuring a more even cook.
then, thing one and thing two came jogging downstairs in a full fledged conversation at the top of their lungs
“no, no. i totally kicked your a- ooh, fruit,“ he went to grab a piece of strawberry, earning a slap on the hand.
you spun around, spatula drawn like a sword at his face
“zegras, if you touch my food, this spatula is going down your throat.” his eyes went wide for a second, index finger pointing to your utensil and slowly lowering it down
“i liked you better yesterday,” he grinned, winking and grabbing an apple from the fridge, tossing one to alex. “touchy, this morning.” he grumbled under his breath as you glared at jack
“come on, man. you’re gonna get my top gun privileges revoked. again,” jack got up to put his plate away, shoving trevor’s shoulder on the way by.
“i like that that’s what you’re worried about, that’s really cool of you, j.” you rolled your eyes once more, finally greeting alex with a ruffle of his hair.
then finally, after the string of hockey boys coming down to steal your breakfast, each adorned with bottomless pits for stomachs- luke made his way back to the kitchen. he was now in a hoodie and swim shorts, his hair wet from his shower.
“could you finish up plating everything, lu? your brothers stole our original plates so i’m running a little behind,” you smiled sarcastically as the two eldest waved to you
luke chuckled, nodding and taking your place in front of the stove.
while you changed, he finished cutting up the fruit, he put whatever spreads you’d taken out on the toast, and he split the eggs.
when he was done, he turned to see his brothers, along with trevor, alex and cole- who came down as you went back up, staring at him.
he turned his shoulders inward, suddenly a little too self aware.
“.. what?” quinn grinned, cole coming to pat him on the back as he made his own meal.
“look who finally got the girl,” trevor teased, alex wiggling his eyebrows after taking a bite of his apple.
he furrowed his eyebrows, looking at jack who nodded in confirmation.
“i got the girl?” he asked softly, arms falling to his sides, slightly limp in his state of shock.
“yeah, you did.” you smiled from the entrance to the kitchen, coming up and massaging his shoulder a little.
“you are no fun,” you pointed at quinn, who raised his hands in defence.
“what? why?” luke asked, looking down at you with his head tilted adorably.
“i was gonna mess with you just a little longer. wanted you to admit it,” you grinned, hand on his abs
he smiled a little, pecking your lips.
you tugged at him, grabbing your plate and nodding to his.
“c’mon, now.” you pulled him towards to patio door.
the boys whistled after the two of you and you giggled, looking back to see jack with a proud, almost bashful smile. his favourite people, this’d mean a lot to him even if he never said it.
to save face, the last thing you heard from him on your way out of the back was ‘wear protection!’
you shook your head with a smile, turning to luke now that you couldn’t be seen.
“my lukey,” you murmured, cupping his face and kissing him softly, still more intense now that there wasn’t an audience.
he nodded into your kiss, returning the favour with a hint of desperation.
“my girl,”
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pinacoladamatata · 2 months ago
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ok rough estimates for how tall dreadwolf form is incoming! first, needed a base, this post had Solas and Neve heights
Neve is ~ 5'7"
Solas is ~ 6'0"
TLDR :: from the ground to his shoulder, dreadwolf is ~25 feet, or ~7.5 meters tall
details under the cut (and endgame spoilers incidentally bc i needed pics)
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so, yeah their respective heights seems to line up (note the lines are NOT gonna line up EXACTLY esp for an increment as small as inches, and like...for where we're going, inches don't matter. anyway, since solas measures in at 6', and that's a nice round even number, he's going to be the measuring stick.
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got some screenshots of him standing next to this diamond building asset which i'm going to use to estimate the wolf height. this picture looks a bit weird but in game that diamond this does appear to be taller than him.
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the diamond asset measures about 7 feet tall down the center.
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in this animation cycle, they rotate around this roof with one of these diamond assets on it. that diamond is about 7ft tall (about 2 meters)
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closest pic i could get of him standing next to, and long the line of, that diamond asset. since the roof is flat, just took a ruler to my drawing tablet measured.
estimating where his mid back and shoulders are, looks like he's about 24.5 feet (or about 7.46 meters) (or 4.08 solas') tall
so; from the ground to his shoulder, the dreadwolf is ~25 feet, or ~7.5 meters tall (or 4 solas')
[i rounded bc i want nice simple numbers ok. also the margin of error is large on this. bc i can't know that diamond asset height for CERTAIN, i could be off by like a foot, it could be closer to 6ft than 7. in that case, dreadwolf would be more like 21-ish feet tall. but, does it really matter that much? i think it's safe to say he's over 20 ft tall, bc when solas is standing next to that diamond asset, in game it does look taller than him.]
also! i wanna add!! if you have a better screenshot of him standing still next to that diamond asset, feel free to reblog it here and @ me
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