#but even the ghosts have more color than you do...

[esote-rika]

to talk is to bare | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: hurt/comfort, fluff Summary: three times you've never felt enough for Spencer Reid—and the three times he rectified it immediately Content: insecure reader, written with early s2 Spencer in mind (glasses!Spencer rawr), reader wears makeup, implied bad relationships in the past, Spencer is just a sweetheart Word count: 2.4k A/N: entry for #lovers1kevent (congrats @mggslover muah) - the lyric prompt for this is “And I knew how you took your coffee and your favorite songs by heart, I read all of your (self help) books so you'd think that I was smart” from enough for you by Olivia Rodrigo. This was supposed to just be pure angst but apparently, I can't write this man as anything other than the perfect boyfriend.

“Well, actually, Dostoevsky intended the book to be a critique on certain schools of thoughts and ideologies, namely...”

You stare at your boyfriend, nodding along as he explains the intricacies and historical context of Notes from the Underground to you. His smile is kind and excited when he stops, looking at you expectantly.

“Right.” the smile on your face isn't forced, per se, but neither does it reach your eyes. How many times has it happened this month? It isn’t that you’re keeping count of all the times he’s corrected you—truthfully, you can’t, because you’ve lost count. And that’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it? The fact that you can’t even keep track of his corrections anymore, because he does it all the time. 

You remind yourself he's not doing this to deliberately make you feel stupid, your memory immediately calling forth all the times you've seen him correct other people — his teammates, the cashier at your favorite bookstore, a random person in the park. It's never pointed, nor is the act laced with anything but genuine, loving desire to share his knowledge. He's not like the men you've had to deal with in the past, the ones who jump at every opportunity to show off that they know more than you, that they're correct and you're wrong.

But this is Spencer. Sweet, wholly inexperienced, awkward. Half the time, he doesn't know how he comes across, and you've been dating him long enough to understand that. 

No, his corrections aren’t the crux of the issue. In fact, it isn’t even him. It’s you, and all the treacherous thoughts running through your mind. This damn book you’d read because you saw a dog eared copy in his satchel one day, pushing through pages upon pages of dense material just to catch up and relate with him, only to still come up short and have yourself be corrected.

The sting is still there, lingering and acrid in the back of your tongue. You cannot pinpoint it yet, this But it's Spencer Reid, so you grit your teeth and remind yourself not to take it personally. The words slip out easily. You could almost believe they aren’t lies. “Thank you for letting me know.”

The beam on his face is a reminder that not everyone is as patient, that he's come to expect looks that range from baffled to downright annoyed. Nobody else allows him free reign to talk like this, long winded rambles that get nipped at the bud with a sharp Reid. He smiles, beams at you, and this time the smile on your lips finally reaches your eyes.

“So what did I get wrong?”

“You weren’t wrong,” he’s pulling you in as he answers, lips finding the underside of your jaw and the bitterness dissipates, sweetens into something that makes your toes curl, “Just a little inaccurate.”

Your body melts into him easily. “You don't have to sugarcoat with me.”

“I'm not, it's literature. You can interpret it however you want, I just thought knowing the rest of the context would help you with your opinion.” he's kissing down your neck, breaths ghosting over your skin as he continues to talk, and you sink into his arms, forgetting why you were even feeling annoyed in the first place.

You’re not sure if you like the color you’ve put to make your cheeks flush. It's always been a point of contention in the past, your exes saying you don't put enough effort in, so this time with Spencer, you try. Even though you're not the best at it, even though you feel a little foolish because it seems a little too bright despite all of your hurried attempts to blend it a little more. But it’s too late to change now. You don’t want to go through the whole deal of reapplying your makeup because that would mean running late, so you ignore it and head to the cafe quickly. 

Spencer isn't there yet. You order your drinks, his black and into which you dump an exorbitant amount of sugar. Memorization is his thing, but you've come to learn a thing or two about him in the time you two are dating.

He's a few minutes late, and when he arrives, Spencer’s eyes lock on you. Or, more specifically, your cheeks.

“That bad?” you tease, standing from your seat and leaning over for a kiss. 

“You don’t have the coloring for that shade of red.”

Your brow knits as you pull away. Attempting to hide the flood of insecurity that swept through your chest, you let out a chuckle. Soft, shaky, and accompanied with a confused, “What?”

“It makes your cheeks look a little inflamed.”

“Oh.” 

Regret fills your chest, settling in your lungs until it’s difficult to breathe. You should have trusted your instincts and scrubbed the makeup off. Shouldn’t have tried something new on the one day the two of you can go out. He’s probably embarrassed by you. How silly, being a full grown woman wearing makeup bordering on clownish. 

He must have caught the hurt in your voice, the way your body deflates because he’s quick to remedy. “Hey, what’s that look for?”

It should embarrass you, the speed at which he picks up on your emotions. But he’s a profiler after all, he’s specifically trained for this, but sometimes you wish he doesn’t use it against you. Gentle hands cup your face. Cold hands, perpetually so until you’ve started keeping them between yours. They tilt your head up. 

“Talk to me.” 

“It’s stupid.”

“Nothing you say is ever stupid.”

You smile, “No, I think we both know that’s a lie.”

He relents. He knows you’re right; there are moments where you don’t make sense. “Not stupid, just…” his eyes roam your face while he searches for the word to use as compromise, as though he’ll find it tucked somewhere in your pretty features, “Lapses in discernment.”

You roll your eyes at his fancy vernacular, the attempt to soothe his mistake. “I think I prefer the layman’s term.” 

Spencer laughs sheepishly, then presses his lips to your forehead, “I’m never using that to describe you.” he murmurs against your skin, and then, “I'm sorry.”

Antarctica could melt from the warmth in your chest.  “You don't even know what you're apologizing for.”

“I upset you. That's reason enough.”

You sigh, pulling him to join you on the plush booth seat you'd managed to secure for your date. “Well, there's nothing to forgive.”

He accepts the coffee you hand him, corners of his mouth curved in a gentle smile. He sips, and you stew in silence, knowing that you shouldn't be leaving him guessing like this. He'd want to know, you can tell by the way he's studying you, the way he wants to examine and turn over your thoughts and reactions like he does with everything else in his life. But he waits, lets you open up if you so wish.

God, he's perfect.

“I was just having second thoughts about my makeup,” you murmur finally, “And you kind of confirmed it. I told you it's stupid.”

“Not stupid at all. I'm sorry,” you wonder if he takes his coffee sweet to match his personality, this asshole, “It was an insensitive comment. And for what it's worth, you look beautiful regardless.”

“Inflamed cheeks and all?” 

He laughs, pulling you to his side, lips firmly planted on your cheek “Inflamed cheeks and all.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have worn the blush after all; you're sure he's making you flush scarlet just by being such a sweetheart.

“Oh Spencer knows her.” the teasing tone in Derek Morgan’s voice normally makes you smile, but something about his tone makes you pause. You stare at the TV, where a new show is running, eyes zeroed in on the blonde actress.

“Spencer knows her?”

“Knew,” your boyfriend supplies, “Very briefly.”

Derek Morgan gives him a knowing smirk that has your stomach churning all the way to the end of the night, when you’re getting ready for bed.

You're in his apartment, in an old pair of his plaid pajamas and a t-shirt that fits you surprisingly well. It always makes you smile, his slight frame, the way you could easily steal his clothes and they wouldn't dwarf you too much. But tonight, Derek's words ring over and over again, bringing forth the image of her—Lila Archer, dazzling, perfectly curvy, an actress on a popular TV series… and apparently, a friend of his. You aren't really sure where this jealousy is coming from. He’s a trustworthy man, and you know he loves you. Still, the image of the beautiful actress persists, even as you climb into bed with him.

He's reading as he usually is, the low lamplight casting shadows over the sharp planes of his face. Without even looking, he shifts the book to his other hand, freeing up an arm to draw you to his body. It's easy, quiet, his heartbeat fluttering beneath your ear as you rest your head on his chest. The exact opposite of your own heartbeat right now.

“What's on your mind?” 

“Nothing.” It should be a sin, the way you keep denying your feelings. But it's just so silly, and you're a grown woman. Jealousy and insecurity shouldn't be consuming you like this, and yet…

“Please don't lie to me,” his fingers are in your hair, tangling deep into the strands and seeking for your scalp. They’re soothing and rhythmic upon contact, lulling your body into a sense of relaxation even though your heart still hammers at your chest.

“Why do you say that?”

“You usually remind me to use the overhead lights when I read.” fingers putting pressure on your scalp, traveling to your temple. He has you in the palm of his hands, “You didn't do that tonight. And your heartbeat's going at an abnormally high rate, even though I'm quite certain you didn't do anything strenuous before coming to bed. What's going on?” 

Damn him and his attention to detail, and the way he’'s learned your little quirks and oddities. He puts down his book and you turn your face to hide into his chest.

You chew on your bottom lip, reminding youself that this is Spencer, he wouldn't judge. “How’d you know her?” your voice is muffled against his shirt, “Lila.”

“We had a case in Los Angeles.” he pauses, as if considering if he should say more. Right. Confidentiality. You nod, accepting his answer.

“Must have been a high profile one then,” you muse, “Or were you just hanging around Hollywood studios with Derek?” It’s an unfair statement, but you can’t help it.

“No, no, it wasn’t like that.” You look back up at him and oh there’s guilt swimming in pools of honey eyes. “I mean, we kissed once, but I swear, nothing beyond that.”

You exhale. A kiss. He's kissed a TV starlet. 

This shouldn’t even be an issue. This is before you were even in the picture after all. It’s not fair to uphold him to some weird standard. You certainly had relationships before him. But none of them had been as stunning as Lila Archer. And if he could have Lila Archer, then what is he doing with you? 

“Hey,” his other hand comes to stroke your cheek, the soft pad of his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles, “Talk to me.”

It's a difficult thing, being mature and communicating when you just want to stew, but god he's so good, you can't punish him for this, for anything. “I thought you said I was your first girlfriend?” you say instead, teasing him.

“You are, but you know, I’ve kissed before, and been on dates—”

“With Lila?”

“No, with JJ.”

Oh.

“JJ?”

JJ? His lovely, warm spring day beauty coworker JJ? He went on a date with her? And kissed Lila Archer. It’s almost ridiculous, thinking about the type of women he's had dalliances with—lithe, blonde, perfect, before he settled with you. 

“Yeah, I took her to a Redskins game,” he says, his hold on your face still light. There's room to move if you want to, space to pull away should you need it and god he's just so perfect.

“You have a type, huh?” it comes out unbidden, sharp but dulled by a bitter laugh.

“What do you mean?”

“With women,” you reply, trying to temper the snappy tone of your voice. It's not fair to lash out at him like this, you know that, yet you can't help it. It's habit at this point, a form of defense that your exes have all been too happy to participate, “I'm the outlier.”

And apparently, he's an outlier too because his voice grows even softer, eyes searching your face with an anxiety that fills you with guilt. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” you sigh, arm draping over his waist and hugging him tight. 

He returns the favor, tangling your legs together until you're a mess of limbs under his sheets. “Then what's wrong?”

“Sometimes I just feel like—like I'm not good enough to be dating you.” there it is, whispered into his chest, striking straight to his heart. “And now, knowing that you could have had all of these — these women who could pass for models—”

“Angel,” the way he says the nickname makes you hide even further into his chest. He closes his arms around you, holding you so tightly it's difficult to breathe, but that's okay. Let him fuse your bodies together, let his breaths be yours too, “That's not true, you know that's not true.”

“Isn't it? You're so — you. Intelligent, well decorated in academia, an an elite FBI unit…”

He laughs, “I’m also an endlessly annoying know it all, I failed my gun license exam more than once, I don't have abs—”

“You don't need abs,” you counter, fingers clutching on his shirt.

“Wouldn't you rather be with a guy with a six pack?”

“I'd rather be with you.”

He gently moves away from you, hands finding your face to make you look at him. “And I'd rather be with you.”

You pout, “You can't use my words against me, ‘s not fair.” 

He laughs again, leaning to capture your lips in the gentlest of kisses, “I want you, I chose you, and I adore you,” he's murmuring between each kiss, hands cradling your face, “And if you have these thoughts again, tell me, so I can keep reminding you just how much I love you.” 

➺ My masterlist | Event masterlist

➺ thank you so much for reading <3

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Teacher's Pet Baby

Shopping Trip

Cg!Professor!Wanda Maximoff x little!student!reader

Summary: Wanda offers to take you out on a shopping trip

Word count: 1.5K

Warnings: Age regression, mild anxiety, emotional vulnerability, fluff and comfort

Authors notes: Thank you my little ghost for sending in this request here~

Also, to all the littles, seeing this, please tred lightly on this blog! This is my big 18+ blog, but I do have some little!reader fics. Everything is marked accordingly!

You're nervous when Wanda suggests it after asking she'd only known about you being little for a week when she asked,

"Do you have any gear?" It was an innocent enough question she asked in the empty room of her class while she graded papers and you did some homework.

"Gear?" Your head tilted slightly, not looking up from your own book and notebook. 

"Little gear. I know you have your crayons and coloring book and your favorite stuffie you showed me pictures of, but is there anything else?" 

"Oh...um no...I left most things back at home." You absentmindedly tugged at your sleeve, pulling it over your hand to put it in your mouth slightly. It was a bad habit you’d long since tried to get rid of.

"Well how about this Saturday we go get some things?" She offers casually like it was something the two of you had done before. Like it was something so simple.

"I can't keep them at my dorm...my roommates will say something..." you felt your chest tighten. You knew if any of them found out about it they’d probably kick you out of the dorm. Probably call the dean on you or something, but just as your thoughts started to spiral, Wanda spoke up again.

"It can stay at my place and you can come and go as you please baby for whatever you want or need." Now there's a knot in your stomach. 

“Y-your place?” You hadn't been over to her place. The only place you two had spent time together was here in this classroom. 

“Do you not want that? I understand if you'd rather keep it here between us.” 

You knew being with a professor at all would be frowned upon even if it was something like this…for some reason in your brain this felt even worse than if you were having sex with her. You shook your head to get rid of the thoughts. sure you were big right now, but it's only been a week and you two haven't discussed anything beyond her being Mama.

Wanda let you sit with the idea, her eyes flicking between your face and the paper she was grading, letting you process in your own time. You weren’t sure what made your stomach twist more—her casual offer or the realization that you wanted to say yes.

“I…” You hesitated, gripping your pen a little too tightly. “I don’t know.”

Wanda hummed softly, setting her pen down. “That’s okay, baby. You don’t have to decide right now.” Her voice was gentle, patient, like she had all the time in the world for you. “I just want to make sure you have what you need. Somewhere safe for your things and a space where you can just be.”

A part of you wanted that so badly. The idea of a place where you didn’t have to hide, where you didn’t have to worry about judgment, where your things wouldn’t have to stay tucked away in the back of your closet or hidden under your bed—it was tempting. But this was still so new.

Your hands fidgeted with the corner of your notebook. “I just… I don’t want to be a burden,” you admitted quietly, barely above a whisper.

Wanda leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand as she looked at you. “Oh, Malyshka,” she murmured, shaking her head. “You could never be a burden to me. This isn’t about me doing you a favor—it’s about giving you what you need. Making sure you’re cared for. That’s what being your Mama means.”

Your heart clenched at that, the sincerity in her voice making it hard to breathe for a moment. You’d never had a caregiver before, you didn’t know everything. You knew what you saw on the internet; all those posts of imagines with a caregiver that made you feel something was now here in front of you. You swallowed thickly, nodding slowly. “Okay,” you whispered, finally glancing up at her.

Wanda’s smile was soft and full of warmth, like she was proud of you for even considering it. “Okay,” she echoed, reaching across the desk to gently squeeze your hand. “We’ll take it slow, baby. Just one step at a time.”

You nodded again, still nervous, still unsure—but with Wanda, you felt safe enough to try.

It was about an hour later when you spoke a simple, "Yes." Aloud that Wanda smiled. 

"Okay well how about we meet up here and we'll take a drive out so we're far away from others? Does that sound good?" She asks, finally looking at you. You felt her sea glass green eyes on you. You looked up to meet her eyes, suddenly feeling small. 

"Yes Mama, that sounds good.”

Wanda’s smile softened, her eyes full of warmth as she heard you call her Mama again. She reached over, brushing a strand of hair from your face with gentle fingers. “Good girl,” she praised softly. The simple words made your chest feel warm, a little fluttery even, but you still shifted in your seat, feeling shy.

She chuckled, recognizing the way you squirmed under her gaze. “We don’t have to rush, Malyshka. Just a nice, quiet drive. A little shopping. No pressure, okay?”

You nodded, chewing your lip. “Okay.”

Wanda leaned back in her chair, a satisfied look on her face as she picked up her grading again. But every so often, you caught her glancing at you, like she was just making sure you were okay. It made something in you settle, knowing that even when she wasn’t speaking, she was still paying attention.

You went back to your own work, but your mind kept drifting to Saturday—what it would be like, how it would feel to have things again, to pick them out with someone who actually understood. The idea was nerve-wracking but also… really exciting.

✎✐ ✎ ✐ ✎ ✐

The drive was peaceful, just you and Wanda, the hum of the road beneath the tires filling the silence between songs playing softly on the radio. Wanda let you control the music, occasionally glancing over at you with a smile as you mouthed the lyrics or tapped your fingers against your thigh. It made her heart swell knowing you felt comfortable enough to just be with her.

When she finally pulled into the parking lot, you felt your stomach twist with nervous energy. This wasn’t just any store—it was a town far enough away that no one from campus would see you, giving you the freedom to pick out what you needed without fear of judgment.

Wanda grabbed a cart, and the two of you walked in together. At first, everything felt normal as you strolled through the grocery aisles. Wanda picked up some snacks, her fingers grazing over brands you had mentioned growing up with. “How about these, Malyshka?” she asked, holding up a box of animal crackers.

You felt a small grin tug at your lips as you nodded. “Yeah, those are good.”

From there, she guided you toward the baby and toddler section. The moment you stepped into the aisle, your heart started beating faster. Your fingers twitched as you looked over the selection—things you hadn’t let yourself have in years.

Wanda was patient, watching as you hesitated before slowly reaching out to touch a pack of toddler fruit pouches. “These are good,” she encouraged. “Easy to have when you don’t want to use a spoon.”

You swallowed hard and placed them in the cart. One by one, Wanda helped you pick out what you needed—plates and bowls with cute designs, a sippy cup that felt just right in your hands, even a bath toy set shaped like little sea animals.

When you reached the bedding aisle, she let you run your fingers over the different sets, waiting patiently for you to make your choice. Your heart ached a little as you settled on one with soft pastel stars and moons. It felt safe.

Finally, she led you to the toy section. “Alright, Malyshka,” she said softly. “You’ve been so good and so brave today. Pick out a toy, anything you want.”

You hesitated at first, shifting on your feet as your eyes scanned the shelves. It felt overwhelming—like you shouldn’t be here, like you were doing something wrong. But Wanda was right beside you, her presence grounding you.

After a few moments, your eyes landed on a plush bunny with floppy ears and the softest fur you’d ever seen. You picked it up, hugging it to your chest without thinking.

Wanda smiled, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. “That’s a very good choice, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks burned as you nodded, gripping the bunny tightly as she led you to the checkout. Wanda handled everything, paying without a second thought, and once you were back in the car, she handed you the bunny again.

“You did so well today,” she murmured, squeezing your knee affectionately.

You hugged the bunny close and whispered, “Thank you, Mama.”

And in that moment, you knew—you were exactly where you were meant to be.

[whxre4hange]

the hargreeves go to family therapy :D (my headcanons)

because we all need therapy after season 4....

luther: brings a clipboard to therapy sessions to "take notes" but mostly ends up doodling stick figures of the family, complete with little speech bubbles like "diego is being mean again" or "klaus smells weird." always wears a sweater, even in the middle of summer, because he thinks it makes him look more approachable and "leaderly." instead he gets incredibly sweaty and stinks up the entire room through no fault of his own. tries to mediate arguments but ends up making them worse by accidentally taking sides or quoting something reginald once said. once cried over a motivational cat poster in the waiting room that said, "hang in there!" and now carries a miniature version of it in his wallet for inspiration. spends half the session apologizing for things no one remembers or cares about.

diego: sits slouched in his chair with his arms crossed, glaring at the therapist like they personally insulted his knife-throwing skills. claims he doesn’t need therapy but shows up every week anyway, muttering something about "keeping an eye on klaus." gets into heated debates with the therapist over ridiculous hypotheticals like "how many ninjas could you fight at once" or "is batman technically a vigilante or just misunderstood?" has been banned from three different therapy offices for flipping furniture during arguments, including one time when he threw a chair because someone suggested he might have unresolved daddy issues. once tried to leave mid-session but tripped over the coffee table and pretended it was part of his escape plan.

klaus: shows up 20 minutes late every session wearing sunglasses, a fur coat, and carrying an empty coffee cup he insists is full of "spiritual energy." overshares wildly inappropriate stories that make everyone uncomfortable, like the time he accidentally summoned a ghost during karaoke night at a dive bar. somehow manages to charm the therapist into letting him stay despite breaking every rule imaginable. frequently lies down on the couch and pretends it’s his turn to be analyzed, even when it’s not, and once fell asleep mid-session while everyone else was arguing. keeps trying to convince ben to possess him so they can do a "fun bit" for the group, but ben refuses out of sheer embarrassment.

allison: arrives perfectly on time every week with color-coded binders filled with self-help worksheets she made for everyone. no one ever uses them, but she keeps bringing them anyway because she believes in "the power of structure." speaks in calm, measured tones during sessions but secretly live-tweets the chaos under a pseudonym that has amassed thousands of followers. once convinced klaus to do a dramatic reading of her old tumblr poetry during group therapy just to lighten the mood (it didn’t). occasionally uses her rumor power to end arguments before they escalate but denies it if anyone calls her out.

ben (ghost): sits in the corner with his arms crossed, silently judging everyone because no one can hear him except klaus. tries to offer helpful advice through klaus, but it always comes out garbled or sarcastic because klaus can’t resist editorializing. once knocked over a water bottle during an especially heated argument just to remind everyone he’s still there and then felt bad about it for days when the therapist got scared. spends most of the session wishing he could haunt reginald instead but sticks around because he doesn’t trust klaus not to say something stupid on his behalf. occasionally makes snarky comments that only klaus can hear, which leads to klaus laughing uncontrollably at inappropriate moments.

five: refuses to sit down because he considers therapy "a waste of time" and insists that his 45 years of life experience make him more qualified than the therapist. spends most of the session pacing like a caged animal and muttering about quantum mechanics or assassins he’s killed. keeps trying to outsmart the therapist by turning every question into a philosophical debate or logic puzzle, much to everyone’s annoyance. is basically the human form of "erm, ackshually," correcting even the smallest inaccuracies with smug precision ("no, actually, i didn’t run away from home; i teleported through space-time"). once corrected the therapist’s grammar mid-session and then stormed out when they didn’t thank him. frequently interrupts others to point out why their trauma is "objectively less significant than surviving the heat death of the universe." once tried to psychoanalyze diego as payback for calling him short and ended up starting a screaming match that ended with both of them being escorted out.

viktor: sits quietly in his chair with perfect posture, doodling in a notebook while everyone else yells over each other. only speaks when directly addressed and then drops surprisingly insightful comments that leave everyone stunned into silence for at least 30 seconds. once brought his violin to therapy and played an impromptu concert when things got too tense, which made allison cry and diego accuse him of being manipulative (he wasn’t) and luther fall asleep. occasionally zones out during sessions while planning elaborate revenge fantasies against reginald that involve poison tea and dramatic monologues.

lila: shows up uninvited every week and acts like she’s part of the family now because "why not?" spends most of the session antagonizing diego for fun—stealing his chair, mimicking everything he says—but will defend him fiercely if anyone else tries it. once stole all the pens from the therapist's desk just to see if they’d notice (they did). eats snacks loudly during sessions and offers none to anyone else unless they beg. tried to set fire to one of luther’s binders during an argument just because she was bored but got distracted halfway through by klaus showing her how to make shadow puppets on the wall. keeps threatening to throw diego’s knives out the window if he doesn’t stop glaring at her.

[sativariddle]

Hi! if you're okay with doing requests I'd like to request one, with George x Weird girl reader type thing? Like she's kind of off in her own world most of the time, she has odd hobbies and people don't really pay attention to her but George notices her, something along those lines if you could do that I'd really appreciate it!! You don't have to of course, but I really love your works and would love to see your spin on this!

AUTHOR’S NOTE; got a little carried away bc this ask made me kick my feet in the air. I LOVEEE ITT enjoy!!

hogwarts had always been noisy.

the corridors hummed. footsteps echoing on stone, distant laughter slipping through secret passageways, the occasional bang of a rogue spell gone wrong.

but for you, it was quieter than most would expect.

you drifted through it like a ghost, not because you were shy but because you simply existed differently.

while other students rushed to classes, fretting over essays and quidditch matches, you paused to trace the cracks in the walls, wondering how many years it took for a stone to fracture like that.

you memorized the way shadows stretched long and thin before dinner, how they seemed to yawn alongside you.

you were the girl who collected oddly shaped rocks and swore they had personalities. the girl who believed puddles were portals if you stared into them long enough. the girl with ink-stained fingertips and star charts folded into every pocket.

george weasley never meant to notice you.

at first, you were just another blur in the chaotic tapestry at hogwarts.

a background character.

but then, there was the moment—small, insignificant to anyone else, but the kind of moment that sticks to you like honey.

it was a thursday, overcast and gray, with a drizzle that made the castle smell like wet stone and old parchment.

george was late for transfiguration, sprinting down the corridor with fred, both laughing breathlessly after pulling a prank that left filch covered in enchanted feathers.

rounding a corner too sharply, george collided with something—or rather, someone.

books scattered. a glass jar slipped from your hands, shattering dramatically against the stone floor, releasing what looked like… marbles? no. tiny glass orbs filled with swirling colors, like miniature galaxies trapped inside.

george blinked, stunned, as you dropped to your knees, frantically trying to scoop them up, your expression more devastated over the broken jar than the fact you’d just been bulldozed.

“oi—sorry ‘bout that,” george managed, kneeling to help. he picked up one of the orbs, holding it to the dim light.

the colors inside shifted like liquid stardust. “what are these?”

you didn’t even glance at him. “they’re memories.”

george snorted, thinking you were joking. “right. whose?”

now you looked at him, gaze sharp and distant at once, like you were staring through him rather than at him. “no one’s yet. they’re empty.”

fred, impatient, called from down the hall, “come on, georgie!”

george hesitated, then set the orb gently in your palm. you didn’t say thank you, just cradled it carefully, as if he’d handed you something fragile.

that should’ve been the end of it.

but it wasn’t.

because after that day, george couldn’t stop noticing you.

it’s strange, really—how you can see someone once, and then suddenly they’re everywhere.

like the universe flipped a switch, unlocked a new character, and now they’re woven into the background of every scene.

the way you sat alone in the library, sketching constellations in the margins of your notes. how you whispered to plants in the herbology greenhouse as if they could hear you.

the time he saw you crouched by the lake, holding a mirror to the water, watching the reflection ripple like it was telling you its secrets.

you were odd.

and that intrigued him more than he cared to admit.

weeks had passed, and george found himself seeking you out without meaning to. not in an obvious way—just little things.

sitting closer to you in the great hall, though you never seemed to notice.

lurking around the library under the pretense of “studying” (fred never bought that excuse). even lingering in the corridors you frequented, pretending to tie his shoelace when you walked by.

he’d done a few things he wasn’t proud of just to catch your attention, but you were never easy to impress.

you remained oblivious.

until the day you caught him.

it was charms class.

george had been doodling nonsense in his notebook—half listening, half watching you from across the room as you carefully crafted what looked like a miniature solar system with floating, enchanted marbles.

after class, george tried to be smooth.

he sidled up beside you as you had already packed your things.

“so,” he began, trying for casual. “are you secretly a cosmic witch, or do you just like making tiny planets for fun?”

you didn’t even flinch. just looked at him with those unreadable eyes and said flatly, “why do you keep staring at me?”

george choked on his own charm.

“staring? i wasn’t—staring. i was just—observing. there’s a difference.”

“observing implies intent,” you replied, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “so what’s your intent, weasley?”

he had nothing.

no clever comeback, no witty retort.

just an awkward, “dunno. you’re interesting.”

that made you pause.

not blush. not smile.

just pause, like you were processing the word as if no one had ever used it on you before.

you replied, “people think i’m strange.”

george smirked. “strange’s just interesting with a bad reputation.”

── ⌗ ꒰ time jump ꒱

their friendship—or whatever strange thing it was—grew like ivy. not fast or obvious, but quietly persistent.

george learned you loved thunderstorms because they made the world feel honest. that you hated pumpkin juice but drank it anyway because you simply liked the color.

that you collected lost buttons from the corridors, claiming they were “tiny artifacts of forgotten moments.”

you keep a notebook filled with sketches of clouds, each one named and assigned a personality; gregory, the anxious cumulus, always on the verge of unraveling, and beatrice, the dramatic cirrus, stretching herself too thin just to be noticed.

you insist some clouds are in love with each other, their shapes shifting to stay close even when the wind pulls them apart.

you collect broken things—buttons with only two holes, cracked teacups, watches that no longer tick.

you believe imperfections tell better stories, that something flawed has lived more, felt more.

your dorm shelf is a tiny graveyard of beautiful, useless objects, each piece quietly existing, cherished simply because you decided they mattered.

you believe stepping over the same floor tile twice in a day brings bad luck. so you walk in zig-zags, completely serious, as if defying invisible curses stitched into the stone.

you think the grand staircase is alive, its moods dictating where it leads.

you thank it politely when it takes you the right way, as if it could hold a grudge.

you claim certain books whisper to you—that’s why you never pick them logically.

you run your fingers along spines until one hums beneath your touch, and that’s the one you choose.

and somewhere along the way, he realizes—he doesn’t just find your oddities entertaining. he finds them beautiful. because you notice things no one else does.

little, ordinary things most people overlook. and somehow, impossibly, you noticed him too.

but have you noticed?

have you noticed the way he’s liked you since the day he saw you.

have you noticed the way his body always leans into yours without thinking, drawn to you like your clouds in the wind.

have you realized that your warmth—simple, effortless—has been keeping him from the cold far longer than you know?

you had learned that george weasley was more than jokes and pranks.

that he laughed loud to fill silences that scared him. that he was brilliant with spells but terrible at remembering homework. that he carried grief like a hidden scar, tucked beneath his humor.

how, even though his hair is naturally messy, he can’t help but sometimes try different styles in front of a mirror, looking for a new, slightly better look—though he still always ends up with that signature wild hair.

when he’s on his own, he often talks to himself like he’s in a conversation with fred, sometimes even practicing jokes or brainstorming business ideas aloud.

when george is feeling stuck, he might have an internal debate out loud, weighing two sides of an argument like he’s trying to convince someone else.

his tone goes from passionate to ridiculous as he switches “sides,” eventually laughing at himself for how seriously he takes it all.

he’ll sit with a cup of tea or a crystal ball, pretending to read the future. “ah, i see… danger… or possibly just dinner. maybe a bit of both,” he’ll murmur to no one in particular, fully invested in the act for a few minutes before fred would burst out in laughter.

one night, near christmas, you both sat at the top of the astronomy tower, wrapped in blankets against the biting cold.

fred was off somewhere with lee jordan, and george had claimed he needed ‘fresh air.’

you talked about the stars, as always.

you pointed out constellations, tracing them with your finger in the sky.

george watched you more than the stars.

“do you ever feel like you don’t fit?” you asked quietly, breath visible in the cold air.

“all the time,” he admitted, surprising himself.

you glanced at him, expression soft.

“but you’re…you. you’re funny and loud and—”

“doesn’t mean you fit,” he interrupted gently.

he was right. people pick and choose—no one truly fits in. you just have to let everyone be themselves. it’s better than pretending, though george has mastered the art of that.

you didn’t look through him. you looked at him.

“i have a gift for you,” you said, breaking the silence as you reached into the pocket of your hoodie.

george cleared his throat; you always had a way of turning his thoughts into a tangled mess.

you turned toward him, suddenly shy as you held it out. a small, unassuming package wrapped in crinkled parchment, tied with a piece of deep blue thread.

george frowned.

he tore the present open with impatient hands.

he was always a little too eager, a little too curious for his own good. his mother liked to remind him that kind of curiosity could get him killed.

he thought differently.

driven by curiosity, he took the time to get to know you.

inside the box was a single glass orb.

a marble.

but not just any marble.

it was the same one from the day they’d collided—the day he’d knocked your books flying and picked up one of your tiny galaxies. only now, it was different.

no longer empty.

inside, colors swirled more vividly than before—brighter, richer— purple and deep crimson threads twisting together in a cosmic dance.

it pulsed faintly in his palm, warm despite the winter chill. george turned it over in his fingers. “what’s in it now?”

you didn’t answer immediately.

instead, you reached into your pocket, pulling out your wand “hold it,” you instructed softly.

george obeyed, the orb resting snugly in his palm. then, with a delicate flick of your wand, you tapped it lightly.

the world shifted.

george felt weightless—like the floor had vanished, like he’d been pulled through a bubble, thin as soap film. light blurred around him, colors stretching and folding until—

he was standing… somewhere else.

it was hogwarts, but not as he’d just left it.

the corridors were slightly hazy, as if viewed through frosted glass. and there—across the hall—was himself.

with a grin too wide to be confident, balancing a teetering stack of enchanted objects. fireworks tucked under one arm, a fanged frisbee spinning dangerously in the other hand, and—merlin’s beard—was that a bouquet of flowers made entirely of self-inflating balloons?

george groaned. he knew exactly when this was.

the day he’d tried to impress you.

it had been weeks after their first proper conversation, and he’d decided—against all reason— over-the-top display of “weasley charm.”

it had gone terribly.

in the memory, george watched his past self approach you, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor near a window, sketching in your notebook.

“greetings, oddball!” memory-george announced far too loudly, startling a nearby first-year. “got something for you!”

you looked up, quill paused mid-stroke.

memory-george attempted a dramatic flourish “behold!” he tossed the bouquet with a triumphant grin.

the bouquet exploded.

not with confetti. not with sparks.

with an actual bang.

the self-inflating balloons detonated mid-air, sending scraps of rubber and glitter everywhere.

the fanged frisbee panicked, bit memory-george’s ear, and the fireworks—oh, sweet merlin— the fireworks ignited prematurely, shooting sparks down the corridor, causing chaos.

memory-george stood in the aftermath, covered in soot, ear bleeding slightly, with nothing but his charred dignity.

you blinked slowly. then said, in your usual monotone:

“…was that supposed to happen?”

real george groaned, rubbing his face. “i can’t believe you kept this.”

but then something veered.

because the memory didn’t stop there.

in the scene, as memory-george turned to flee, humiliated;

you smiled. just the tiniest bit.

a smile hidden when he wasn’t looking. a soft, secret curve of your lips as you watched him walk away.

the memory faded, colors dissolving until george was back on the astronomy tower, the marble still warm in his palm.

you stood there, quietly watching him.

george cleared his throat, heart pounding. “you—you kept that? that disaster?”

you shrugged. “it wasn’t a disaster to me.”

it wasn’t. the way he tried so hard to keep everyone from panicking while the chaos seemed endless—it made you laugh. you found it cute how panicked he was.

[dustyrkives]

HCs of Ada Wong as your lover throughout the years

WARNINGS: this might get messy lol, but bear with me, pls. It's also kind of long😁.. also is this still even called headcanons? Anyways, NSFW in re4r Ada, markings, mentions of overstimulation, gp Ada (duh), rough sex, begging, cock-warming, secret wedding, pregnancy, domesticity, and that's about it peeps

RE2r Ada

🥀: The plan was easy: infiltrate the Raccoon City Police Department and steal the virus sample, never mind the swarming undead all over the city... until she came across a poor college girl whining and screeching for her dear life: you.

🥀: Ignoring you should've been easy, time is of the essence, and she can't have any distractions–she isn't being paid to be a guardian, much less a savior.

🥀: Every turn she takes, she can hear your shrieks echo through the city–plus your whining and complaining, and it's grating on her nerves. So begrudgingly, with a sigh, she decides to help you–from a distance. Can't have anyone blowing her cover, right? But upon doing so, she finds herself following you. You were heading to her destination anyway: The Raccoon City Police Department–so it doesn't really deviate from her mission.

🥀: But the police department is swarming with those undead. Ada sighs, great, the babysitting gig continues. But she can't as of the moment due to prior commitments–she'll check on you later, assuming that you'll stay alive for a minutes, that is.

🥀: And surprisingly, you did. And that's when she decided to weave out of the shadows. You look at her, wide-eyed, pale, tired, and trembling. You looked adorable, the short-haired mercenary thinks. Her eyes narrowed, her voice was cool and steely as she commanded you to get up on your feet, your inquiries about her fell on deaf ears as she led the way. She knows that you acknowledge that she knows more than you do, so you let her do her thing.

🥀: As the hours grow, you fill the silence with small talk, nothing too personal, just remarks and comments plus complaints about how nothing stays dead in the city–if you look closely, a ghost of a smile curls on Ada's lips before it disappears and barks you to hurry up.

🥀: You are skittish, that's for sure. Each time you hide behind her or grasp her hand to warn her of an approaching undead, the older girl scowls and yanks her hand back–but as the hour progresses, she becomes accustomed to it, besides having a cute girl such as you clinging onto her was... kind of nice. It makes her feel empowered.

🥀: Until Anette had her pinned down the sewers with a protruding shrapnel on her right leg, and all she could think about was you–were you safe? Did you make it out–? No. Ada grounds her jaw, she can't possibly think of you in this state. She's the injured one here... and you're probably looking for her out there, wondering where she'd gone when you passed out due to the toxic fumes of the sewers.

🥀: Until you arrived, calling her name with–concern? Worry? Happiness? Ada just looks at you blankly, trying to process your expression as you run to her side, examining the wound that she tells you she can handle, but when your soft, therapeutic voice fills her ears, she is putty in your hands. Almost.

🥀: It turns out you're a student nurse who is supposed to enroll for the second semester, but your luck decided to play a cruel prank on you and delay your life by a few more years due to the outbreak. Ada's eyes never left yours as you dress her wound, dirt, and grime taint your delicate features, her eyes drank up every single detail of your face, from the color of your lips to each individual eyelash. You were beautiful and innocent; it felt like a sin for someone who's as tainted and corrupt as her to look at you with reverence. For once, Ada felt soft and cared for.

🥀: But the longer she stares at you, perhaps... it won't hurt to try. You weren't a threat to her. You never were. To her, you're a sweet girl, caring girl–just scared and trying to get by, just like her. And hopefully, you won't mind holding her hands that were bloodied by her past actions.

🥀: As her mission comes to a close, Ada is woken up by the realization that she can't be with you–you don't belong in her world, and you'll reject her for who she is. But the selfish voice inside her head tells her that she needs someone like you, someone whose hands are gentle, voice soft and uplifting, whose gaze is gentle and never scrutinizing. Oh, she was in trouble. She wanted you.

🥀: So, at the end of the mission, she kisses you. She kisses you HARD until her lungs burn for oxygen–and her cold, unfeeling heart feels alive, jumping for joy when you return her kiss, she pulls you close, whispering an oath that she'll see you again as you board the train with the other lucky survivors.

RE4r Ada/Separate Ways

🌹: True to her words, Ada found you... 6 years later.

🌹: It took a while, yes. While she was completing her missions, transactions, and negotiations with her clients, she established called-in favors with her trusted connections to find you.

🌹: And it didn't take long before she was sent an envelope with your pictures, wearing scrubs–a nurse. The pads of her fingers caress your face in the photo, the years have been kind to you; your hair grew longer, and your features aged with elegance. No more of the fear you had once shown 6 years ago.

🌹: But there's a nagging feeling you had forgotten about her–and the thought made her eyes grow dark until she browsed another photo–you were wearing a trench coat; the one she blanketed you with when you were unconscious.

🌹: Perhaps meeting up with you before she boards her plane to Spain.

🌹: You spotted her in the cafe outside of the hospital. It was impossible to miss the air of mystery and allure the woman carried with her. Ada's lips curl to a noticeable smirk. Delighted. She stood there, allowing you to approach her. This gave the older woman the opportunity to have her eyes rake from head to toe. The photos taken of you did you no justice–you were beautiful as the day she whispered goodbye to you.

🌹: And when you drew close, Ada's arms immediately snaked around your waist, pulling you close to her–the smell of lavender and breeze infiltrated Ada's nostrils. While the smell of smoke, leather, and cherries fills your senses.

🌹: You invite her for coffee, and who is she to deny your offer? The entire time, Ada's eyes didn't leave yours, and your cheeks burned red under her piercing gaze. But she has to know... are you with someone else? So when she asked that question, behind her cool, collected facade, she was digging her nails against her thighs; bracing herself for your answer.

🌹: And when you answered no, Ada's lips curled to a smile, pleased with your answer, and outright told you that you were hers–still are. When you didn't protest, Ada sealed the deal by pulling you for a quick kiss and buying you a gift, telling you that she has business elsewhere and thought of buying you a gift before she leaves. Ada promises she will return to you.

🌹: Ada isn't much for gift-giving, but she buys you jewelry–proof that you're hers. When she returns to her mission with bruises, she lets you patch her up. Normally, Ada tends to her wounds by herself, but she doesn't mind you doing it for her. Your touches are gentle and methodical; your kisses soothe the sore ache all over her body. After that, she rewards you with kisses that will last for several minutes. Her actions do the talking when she wants to be showered with affection; she doesn't trust her words to do it for her–she isn't used to it after all.

🌹: When Ada loves... SHE LOVES. I know for a fact that this woman is both touched-starved and touch-repulsed. Her job made her like that. But when it comes to you, your touches are a cleansing to her. She tries for you. Yes, TRIES. It'll take a while, Jesus this woman is repressed; she stiffens but relaxes in your hold, but the more time she spends with you, the more she becomes bolder.

🌹: This woman's love is unfiltered and raw. All-consuming and possessive. There's not a time that your neck, chest, and thighs are covered with her marks. From wine red to soft purple.

🌹: And goodness, this woman fucks. She may look poised and collected, but behind closed doors, this woman destroys you. The bed would creak, the headboard would slam, and your legs would tremble and ache as she drove herself deeper into you. She wants it missionary just to see you fall apart for her, she'd grab your legs and wrap it around her waist so you don't leave her. Her eyes will roll back if you meet her hips and grind against her–you'd catch her letting out mewls and whimpers before it's replaced by a growl and fucks you back into the mattress. Her pace depends on her mood: sensual and loving, then punishing and rough, either way, she knows you love it.

🌹: This woman is an animal. A teasing one at that. She'd make you beg until you're practically sobbing before rewarding you with a bruising thrust. Her tip would kiss your cervix, and you'd see stars. Ada would pin your hips down, your right leg wrapped around her waist as she chases her release.

🌹: She takes you from the front, back, and side after her missions. You'd wake up to her cock snuggled deep inside you, your mixed cum dripping down the sheets.

🌹: When she came back after her mission just in time for your anniversary and saw the petals, her favorite wine bottle–she knew that you were the one... and one baby won't hurt...

🌹: Ada knew the risks that came with her job. You knew that when she told you seven months into the relationship, but you loved her regardless. And when Ada ripped the condom off of her, you knew you were to be hers for the rest of your life. Your heart swells as she pushes back in, staring at you with those soft brown eyes, pleading for you to be hers–to spend her life with you.

🌹: Weeks after that, Ada bought a ring for you–there are no weddings, a shame, really. But you knew it was for the sake of both your safety. She took you on a date that day, and as the sun began to set, she took you to the beach and sat on the sand with you. As you two listen to the waves and seagulls, Ada pulls out an intricate rose gold Vendome Louis Cartier Wedding band. Never have you ever said yes so profusely before.

🌹: And a month later, you told her your period was late.

DAMNATION and RE6 Ada

🌘: The moment your child is born, Ada's maternal instincts kick in. She is protective of you and her newborn baby. After you gave birth, she didn't let you lift a single finger. She made sure to tend to your needs. More diapers? Check, new toys? Got that covered. More formula? Sure.

🌘: But that was years ago now. Her beautiful daughter is now 8 years old. Ada's genes run strong with the little girl. From her soft yet curious brown eyes to her smile. Oh, you cherished your little girl. And nothing makes Ada's heart swell with love when she sees you with her little girl.

🌘: Ada has taken fewer missions now. Opting to spend more time with you and her little girl. She had amassed enough income to support the family, after all.

🌘: On her day off, Ada drops off and fetches your daughter to school with treats to offer for her. She'd help your daughter with her homework while you do OT in the hospital where you work at. And when you come home, you'll see Ada and the girl curled together, watching a movie or cartoon.

🌘: Ada doesn't keep her affections a secret. Not anymore. Whenever you three go out as a family, her arm will always be around your waist or her hand pressed on the small of your back, shooting glares at anyone, especially men who look at you for too long.

🌘: Ada is secretly a family person. Fight me on this, but when you gave birth to her little girl, she was fiercely protective of you and her. Keeping your identities a secret, especially in the line of work that she does. She spends her free time with you, and as the girl grows, there's no doubt that Ada teaches the little girl how to defend herself. She'd take her on a hunting trip, and give her a hunting permit as well.

"She's growing," Your wife says as she tucks the little girl's hair behind her ear and looks at you with a coaxing expression. "She needs to know how to defend herself, darling."

🌘: You let her, of course. You both want her to be strong and capable, after all. After coming home from a hunting trip, Ada would pull you for cuddles and watch your daughter show off what she learned from her mother, which leads to you chiding the girl to be careful (she nearly broke a window).

🌘: I know for a fact that Ada sleeps last. She'd get up and check on her sleeping daughter, leaning against the doorframe as the girl's chest slowly rose and fell. Who knew that she'd have this kind of life–all because she let her selfishness win and make a space in your life. She lived in a world that she thought was just black and white, but upon meeting you decades ago in Raccoon City–you changed the dull paintings of her world and decorated her life. And she doesn't fail to show it every night ;)

🌘: She may be in her early forties, but make no mistake–she can still wreck you like she did before. Every time your daughter is at school, Ada would have you on the table, couch, and on the counter, dress hiked up, trousers down–it's a mess of fluids that she cleans after she's done with you. Your legs would quiver, and she ends up doing the cooking and other household duties while you rest.

🌘: And in the privacy of your bedroom, you both made sure to keep it locked to avoid getting caught by your daughter. The bed would creak and slam, you can only thank her genius for making the room soundproof while she fucks you relentlessly. But now, you two make love sensually. You'd kiss her scars, and her hips would stutter before going back to her steady pace, making you see stars again, and again, and again. You know it won't take long for Ada to ask for another baby. And you were right.

🌘: After her mission in Lanshiang, Ada didn't waste her time and flew back to you. She greets her little girl first–giving her a souvenir before lunging herself at you and ravaging you in the bedroom. And my, did you both go for several minutes. Your wife would go from rough, then sensually loving, then rough again–my goodness, you were leaking with her cum–did the condom break? No worries, she tosses it and plunges back in, fucking you raw and muffling your moans with her hand while the veins around her cock rub deliciously at your battered walls, rope after rope her potent seed filled you.

🌘: The next morning, you're sore and filled with her seed, Ada, who has her arms wrapped around you protectively before waking up, squinting as if she didn't fuck you silly last night. She'd get hard again after seeing the marks and your slick thighs and have you ride her in the morning, her hands would guide your hips as she thrusts up, guiding you down to meet her cock. This goes on as the sharp-eyed woman whispers praises and filth in your ear, moaning and grunting about having you carry her second baby. You'd love to have her baby again, right?

🌘: After doing the deed, Ada, who is just as fucked-out as you are, looks at you with utter fondness and love, she'd kiss your forehead and press herself close to your warm body, never minding the sweat that coats both of your bodies. She'd press feather-like kisses all over your face, murmuring secret words of affection that only you get to hear. This woman loves you, and your daughter... and also, the growing child in your belly.

[princessmaeee]

Bisexual Lights _ P3

Hello Sweeties ! So, for this part, it's longer than the other ( I think ) but there's no S M U T cause I had other things to focus on. It will talk about passed Trauma and it gonna be more of a Angst but also with Fluff. It gonna talk about the Reader and Nam Gyu's relation and in the next part, it gonna continue on them but also gonna Talk openly about Nam Gyu's past. I'm getting tired of people who just write him as a mean Dom. I'm sure Nam Gyu is way more than That and that's exacly what I wan to show. Yeah He can be a Cunt, be he's not just that. Yeah he can be mean, but he's not just mean. I think all of that is just a shield to protect himself from getting hurt and who can't relate ? Whe all goes trought somethingwho changed us and made us take decision to protect ourself. In My head Nam Gyu did the same. So I hope you gonna Enjo that part even Is it can be hard on feelings. Tag : @ansleyyquinn

Loud music was playing all around but it felt so silent. It sounded like the music was playing in another room, like he was trapped in four walls. In fact, the only thing he could hear was the laughing of a girl and a boy échoing in his head, mixed with an unpleasant buzzing. His head hurted, he could feel something flowing from his head and tears from his eyes. A tight and firm grip on his hips, nail digging harshly in his skin, it was nothing compared to the pain he felt in his entire body. It was like fire, burning his skin, he was ripped apart with. As he try to say something, to move away, nothing came out of his mouth except desperate whimpers and sobs. For them, time flied, but for him, it felt like hundred years of torture.

A soft and manicured hand came to grab his jaw, making him look at her. She felt happy with the broken vision of his supplient eyes, asking in silence to end this torture.

«-So, that’s how you like It babe ? »

Nam Gyu brutally woke up, looking all around in fear. His body was all sweaty and he could’t stop trembling. His mouth felt dry as his heartbeat won't stop racing in his chest.  With a shaky breath and horrible trembling hand he try to reach the drawer of his nightstand, opening it up quickly. His hand is looking for something until he finds it. It was a pot of little pills with many colors. 

He could hear her voice again and again in his head. The voice of that bitch, laughing at him and the situation he was in.

Nervously and in an uncontrollable rush, he opened the pot and took one pill and put it on his tongue. 

Eyes closed, he tries to find his focus as the little drug melts in his mouth. But the voice never shutted up, making him grunt.

«-Shut up… shut up…»

He felt a shiver through his spine as he stopped breathing for a second. Just like he’s still there, he could feel the painful grip on his tight and the soft touch on his shoulder, on his jaw. Her kisses on his face. Cupping his head in his hands he put his face in the mattress, trying to scream all the hate and rage out of him.

Out of control, he threw the pill pot against the wall, making it explode and sent the other drugs everywhere in his messy room as his scream sounded like a desperate call for help.

«-SHUT THE FUCK UP !! »

The silent came back, no more voices, no more ghost touch. The only thing Nam Gyu could hear was the sound of his heartbeat, slowly calming down as the tears flowed from his eyes.

…

It’s been almost two weeks since the night with the boys and after you left Thano’s apartement, you were pissed and more confused than ever. You did a lot of overtime work, even on Friday night to avoid your usual Night out, but every night, when you're alone in your bed, your head goes there again and again, remembering how much you enjoyed it and it started to annoy you. It never was the relation you wanted with them but now you are unsure of what you want. Do you have an attraction for them ? Definitely, they’re always good looking. Would you like this to happen again ? Yeah. But you also need to think about each other’s feelings and Nam Gyu’s reaction last morning really pissed you off and worried you a little bit. You were sure he enjoyed it but what if I didn’t ?

You had tried many times to text him, to see if he was still mad but you got no reply. After three days back to back, you gave up. 

Thanos texted you a lot too, but you sort of ghosted him. You replied to some of his texts, when he invited you over, but you answered how much work you had to do so you could’t. You felt bad at first but it wasn’t really a Lie. It’s just work you put yourself on your shoulder just to keep your mind away from your erotic fantasies with your friends.

Tonight, it was around 9Pm when you came out from work, exhausted. You worked all week on a new client project and you liked the idea so you ran everywhere in Seoul to find nice spots or to organise meetings. You plan was to go home and relax in a Hot bubble bath, but when you noticed your purple haired friend who was waiting for you outside of your workplace, you knew you would have to cancel that plan.

«-It was about time you got out of there, he said, getting closer to you. -Sorry to disappoint but it’s not everyone who can decide and plan their own schedule. -Since when are you working on friday Night ? -Since I got more client cause I’m an amazing publicity manager ? You replied with an amused smile -Maybe I should Hire you. -Oh, I’m pretty sure You can’t afford me. -And I’m pretty sure I can pay you with something else than Money »

You rolled your eyes. That was the annoying part. Since that Night, you feel like Su bong only see you as an sex object and not like his friend anymore. As you both were walking, you stop and look at him, seriously.

«-What happened were nice. I enjoyed It but I don’t think we should be like that with each other, ever again. You never were … flirthy, with me before and It was perfect just like that. I don’t want you or Nam Gyu to see me in any other way than a friend. -And is it the reason why you have avoided me since all that time ? Asked Thanos. -Yeah, sort Of. I’m sorry, I needed time to figure out everything and find out how I felt and put it into words and- »

You Sight and continue walking.

«-I just want Us to be friends again. -And what If I would like Us to be more than that ? »

You stop walking again and look at your friend, surprised and obviously confused. Thanos just kept walking like he didn’t also say ‘’ we should be lovers instead ‘’ but stopped when He noticed you had stopped, turning around to face you.

«-What do you mean ? You want us like… you and me ? Or you, me and Nam Gyu together ? Or you just mean Sexfriend ?»

He came closer to you, hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

«-I didn’t come to talk about this, so let’s save this conversation for Later. At first, I wanted to ask you If you could go see Nam gyu and Try to talk to him. I’m getting worried cause He hasn't answered any of my texts lately. -He didn't answer mine either, but it’s more of a surprise he also ghosted you. And why do you need me to talk to him? Can’t you try yourself ? -I kinda did. I went to his place but he wasn’t there. I guess he’s at work, but I can’t go to the club without being chased by drunk or drugged fans, so I thought maybe you could try.»

You sigh. Of course you could, but you know how Nam Gyu will be more open to talk to Thanos rather than you, but you didn’t mention it since he seems to ghost you both and your friend made a point by not being able to enter the club in peace.

«-Fine, I’ill give it a try. »

That’s how you found yourself in front of the Club where Nam Gyu’s working, wearing something more appropriate for that kind of place. You put on a black dress with a laced back and a cut on one side and had put a small coat on to avoid getting cold. You had changed your makeup for something a little less casual and put on red lipstick. You normally pass without problem and skip the line when you are with Nam Gyu. He also gave you a card for a special pass if anything happens when you’re without him.

Lucky for You, the bouncer let you pass even If you had skipped the line with a lot of people who waited for a moment just to go inside. You felt sorry for them but at least you didn't come here to have some fun. You just need to find your friend and talk with him before leaving.

As you pass through the dancing people, avoiding any guy who would like to dance with you, you finally succeed to make your way to the bar. You recognized the guy behind it, he’s always there when you go out with the guys and a real sweetheart. When he noticed you, he smiled and stopped chatting with two hot girls, clearly trying to flirt with him, to come see you.

«-Hey Y/N long time no see. You normally come on friday. What’s bring you here tonight ? -I’m looking for Nam Gyu. I need to talk with him.»

He seemed surprised and came closer to me.

«-Anyone has seen him in the last 3 days. He didn’t come to work. And He did not answer any texts. -Really ? He did the same with Thanos and Me … -Do you think we need to call the police ? Maybe something happened. -No, don’t worry, I'm gonna go to his apartment and see if he’s here. And if he’s not, yeah I'm gonna call the police.»

He nodded and you quickly left the club, worried for your friend and made your way to his apartment. You didn’t get any answers when you knocked, just like thanos, but you insisted, knocking again and again, calling his name, but still no answer. Using one of the bobépine you  had in your air, you managed to skillfully unlock his door and open it.

Walking in his apartment, you found him, in his room, laying down on his bed, in the dark and at this exact moment, your heart started to race from the panic.

«-Nam Gyu…»

You come closer and shake him a little before you turn him on his back to hear his heartbeat. Earring the soft breathing of his heart calms you down. You felt better knowing he’s still alive. Looking around you noticed a lot of pills all over the floor and some syringe on his nightdesk. What tired this dummy ?

Taking your phone, you were about to call for an ambulance, but Nam Gyu’s hand grip your wrist frimley, scaring the shit out of you.

«-Don’t… I’m fine… -Nam Gyu, you need to go to the hospital. I don’t know what you took but it seems big. Why had you taken all that shit ? »

He stayed silent and sit down in his bed, taking the phone from your hands and throw it on his bed.

«-Not of your business. »

His voice was low but you could still feel in his tone he didn’t seem so happy to see you. He would probably like you to leave and let him rot here, but that wasn’t in your plan. Even if Nam Gyu can be the worst asshole you ever met, he’s still your friend and he’s probably in a hard periode right now and that’s why you can’t let him down.

«-Alright, but let me help you. I'm gonna prepare you a bath. I don’t know when you took one for the last time, you stink.»

You didn’t give him time to answer and left his room to go to the bathroom.

You opened the light, got a towel out of the drawer and opened the hot water before you went back to Nam Gyu, pulling his arms to make him follow you to the bathroom. It wasn’t an easy task. He seemed sleepy, but you stayed firm in what you wanted, warning him you were gonna have to call the ambulance if he didn't follow you. He wasn’t really happy with the idea so he finally followed you to the bathroom. You gently helped him to remove his clothes like his T-shirt and Pants. You blushed and looked away when he only had his boxer left.

«-Go one, remove it and go in the bath.»

He said nothing and removed his last piece before entering the bath as you stopped the water. As you were about to take to soap, his hand grabbed your arm.

«-Come with me in the water. »

You gave him a surprised Look, not sure if he was trying to play or tease you, but he didn’t even look at you. His eyes were empty, looking at the water.

«-Please, he said in a shaky breath. -Alright…»

Cheeks red, you started to remove your clothes. Nam Gyu didn’t even look at you, his eyes still fixed on an invisible spot in the water. It was less embarrassing but also it worried you more. Once Naked, you enter the water, behind your friend and start to gently rub it back with soap. You stayed in silence for a moment, not sure of what you should say. 

You passed your arms around him, pressing your chest against his back and put your chin on his shoulder.

«-Will you tell me what happened to put yourself in that state ? »

His hands were shaking but came on yours, caressing the top of it with his thumb.

«-I- ..»

His voice cracked and it broke your heart. You never saw Nam Gyu like this and the more he tried to talk, the more confused you were. 

«-I heard those voices again. Since-...Fuck…»

His grip on your hands getting tighter as his breath started to be more shaky and heavier. You weren't sure if he was having a panic attack. Not able to move your hand, you pressed you lips againt’s his shoulder.

«-Take your time, it’s fine.»

Another long moment of silence. Nam Gyu tried to get his shit together and not flinch in front of you. It was the war in his brain, struggling to confess his feelings to you. He wasn’t sure he wanted you to see the vulnerability in him. He wasn’t sure he could completely trust you, but on the other hand, you were there, trying your best to make him feel comfortable. You could have just given up on him and let him die from an overdose.

«-Since the Night we had the three of us and the Fight we had the next morning…It brought back some bad memories I tried to forget. I hear voices and I try to shut it up with everything I can. Whatever how strong or deadly or unsafe it can be. I just don’t want to hear it again.»

You started to feel bad. You never thought that night could have been such a problem. Did he really enjoy it ? Maybe he never wanted this ? No one really asked after all. You didn't say a thing and continued listening to your friend.

«-You were Right, I liked it. I liked how I felt with both of you and it scared me. You saw me like that scared me as fuck and it made me realise how hard I trust you Both. -And that’s fine because in that kind of situation we had too. I would never have done that If I didn’t like or trust you or Thanos. You don’t have to be ashamed to have been seen like this. I teased you about it, but I really enjoyed this moment.  -I’m used to less passion, less soft touch, less…attention. I’m used to get any bitch I want at the club, fuck her right in a VIP section and never see her again. I’m used to just…using people cause I need to be in control. And I didn’t have control on anything with you two. -And that’s okay, it proved that You trusted us enough. -No, You don’t understand ! »

Nam Gyu started to cry and quickly tried to stop the tears by whipping it from his face. His brain was racing off negative thoughts as he heard her voice again.

«-Fuck…fuck-fuck-fuck ! »

Seeing him like this made you panic, clueless about what you could do for him. You just act impulsive and turn him around to face you, stopping his hands. 

«-Nam Gyu, Look at me ! »

His wet eyes met yours for a brief moment as he quickly looked away. You felt Sad for him, wondering what could have happened to him to make him react like this. With your thumb, you whipped his tears before you gently cupped his face in your hand.

«-Explain Me, if I don’t understand.»

Nam Gyu calms himself by the soft feeling of your hands on him. Your eyes met his again and he could see you and her had nothing in common. Your eyes were full of concern and you cared for him.

«-Let’s finish the Bath first and after that I will tell You everything…»

[ponderingsoflife]

Almost there, the ghosts are so close you can practically taste it.

Grian Equinox:

Current Age: 26

Appearance: A pretty standard Grian. Messy light brown hair and eyes so dark they’re almost black. He usually wears a white button up under a maroon sweater as his workplace is kept decently cold, and a pair of khaki pants. A pair of glasses is constantly on his face but it’s a light prescription.

Backstory: One of two brothers who recently inherited a house from his recently deceased uncle. He gets a job at Cleo’s daycare and all seems to be going well for him until he falls out of a second story window while renovating the house. Now he has this annoying blonde guy following him everywhere and he wishes he would just leave him alone, but he never seems to do so.

Joel Equinox:

Current Age: 28

Appearance: Grian’s older brother so he is slightly taller but that’s not saying much. His hair is a good bit darker and his eyes are discernibly brown. He has his classic green stripe in his hair and he wears an outfit reminiscent of the limited life bad boys, with a leather jacket, a plain white shirt, and a pair of black pants. Nothing too fancy.

Backstory: The other of two brothers who recently inherited a house from his recently deceased uncle. He was relatively chill and laid back until his baby brother fell out of a second story window and now he seems to be seeing things. Still, Grian is a grown man and he trusts him enough to make his own choices… and to come to Joel for help if he needs it (and for anyone who figured out the method to my madness, yes, Joel should be a ghost, but that was a less fun idea and I was not dealing with the playboy nascar racer again).

Cleo Zemora:

Current Age: 46

Appearance: A tall woman with fiery red curls that go down to her mid back when tied up in a ponytail. Pale to a concerning degree, with green and blue heterochromatic eyes. A cheerful demeanor and a comforting presence abounds when Cleo is near. She usually wears a navy colored shirt with gold accents (a modified uniform) with a pair of jeans (or shorts depending on the season).

Backstory: The owner and manager of the daycare who runs the baby room alongside Etho. Not very physically intimidating but anyone who has worked at the daycare can tell you that she has screamed at negligent parents before with the fury of a thousand gods, and they are terrifying.

Etho Stone:

Current Age: 45

Appearance: An elderly emo at its finest. Short cropped grey hair and equally muted eyes. A stringbean of a man and deathly pale, somehow even more so than Cleo. He usually wears a simple white button up shirt and jeans, nothing fancy.

Backstory: An employee of Cleo’s working at the daycare in the baby room with her. Unlike his Losing Ghosts counterpart this Etho had nothing to hide. He’s just a chill guy who likes to act like he doesn’t care, only to be caught by Impulse and Cleo gushing over the kids and promptly getting mocked by the duo.

Impulse Siv:

Current Age: 29

Appearance: The only one of the early daycare staff who actually looks like he goes outside. Very short brown hair and deep brown eyes. A tall and large man with a prominent comforting aura. He wears a black button up top with gold accents (another modified uniform) and khaki shorts no matter what time of the year it is.

Backstory: The final employee of the daycare who works in the room with the kids who have aged out of the baby room (ages four and up, which is currently only four to seven). A gentle giant who takes a keen interest in the brothers who recently came to town. He’s also the biggest conspiracy theorist you’ve ever seen but in an endearing way and not the tinfoil hat kinda way.

Tell you what, if someone can name the ghost mentioned in Grian's character profile, I'll share that ghost's profile early.

[nightfurynova1217]

@deathnotetober 2024 #30 - Alone

Gosh, Near is such tragic character when you think about it too much...

Time Taken: 2:10 hours

DeviantArt Comic Tumblr Instagram Twitter AO3 YouTube Discord: @nightfurynova4112

[mbat]

im never going to not utterly adore the trope of eyes reflecting someones emotional state tbh. eye color, eyes glowing, hell, even something as human as pupil size, but especially if it expands past the limits of humanity and goes like how cats eyes go soo big lol. physical form changing inhumanly to reflect ones emotional state going out of their control is just so. mmm thats so delicious

[saja-star]

I've had a hard time articulating to people just how fundamental spinning used to be in people's lives, and how eerie it is that it's vanished so entirely. It occurred to me today that it's a bit like if in the future all food was made by machine, and people forgot what farming and cooking were. Not just that they forgot how to do it; they had never heard of it.

When they use phrases like "spinning yarns" for telling stories or "heckling a performer" without understanding where they come from, I imagine a scene in the future where someone uses the phrase "stir the pot" to mean "cause a disagreement" and I say, did you know a pot used to be a container for heating food, and stirring was a way of combining different components of food together? "Wow, you're full of weird facts! How do you even know that?"

When I say I spin and people say "What, like you do exercise bikes? Is that a kind of dancing? What's drafting? What's a hackle?" it's like if I started talking about my cooking hobby and my friend asked "What's salt? Also, what's cooking?" Well, you see, there are a lot of stages to food preparation, starting with planting crops, and cooking is one of the later stages. Salt is a chemical used in cooking which mostly alters the flavor of the food but can also be used for other things, like drawing out moisture...

"Wow, that sounds so complicated. You must have done a lot of research. You're so good at cooking!" I'm really not. In the past, children started learning about cooking as early as age five ("Isn't that child labor?"), and many people cooked every day their whole lives ("Man, people worked so hard back then."). And that's just an average person, not to mention people called "chefs" who did it professionally. I go to the historic preservation center to use their stove once or twice a week, and I started learning a couple years ago. So what I know is less sophisticated than what some children could do back in the day.

"Can you make me a snickers bar?" No, that would be pretty hard. I just make sandwiches mostly. Sometimes I do scrambled eggs. "Oh, I would've thought a snickers bar would be way more basic than eggs. They seem so simple!"

Haven't you ever wondered where food comes from? I ask them. When you were a kid, did you ever pick apart the different colored bits in your food and wonder what it was made of? "No, I never really thought about it." Did you know rice balls are called that because they're made from part of a plant called rice? "Oh haha, that's so weird. I thought 'rice' was just an adjective for anything that was soft and white."

People always ask me why I took up spinning. Isn't it weird that there are things we take so much for granted that we don't even notice when they're gone? Isn't it strange that something which has been part of humanity all across the planet since the Neanderthals is being forgotten in our generation? Isn't it funny that when knowledge dies, it leaves behind a ghost, just like a person? Don't you want to commune with it?

[pcktknife]

read the full post please and thanks!

Hi! Please don't vote without sharing‼️

This is Ahmed (@zinaanqar), who I've been talking with for a little while now. Who's been incredibly dedicated in reaching out to you all for help to save his family and promote their campaign. Ahmed is 34 years old and lives in Gaza with his wife Dina, who is 36, and their children: Zeina (8 years old), Eileen (7 years old), Yamen (5 years old), and baby Ronza (only 4 months old). Imagine if it were your own family member, friend, or child who should be enjoying school or playing with friends, but instead spend they're time hiding from bombs and relying on the kindness of strangers to survive. This family has been suffering for more than a year due to the relentless siege and devastation and we are their only chance to find safety and hope for a better future. Please help by sharing their campaign and spreading the word. Right now (10/22/24) their campaign is at €66,413 of their €75,000 goal leaving them with €8,587 left to raise!

vetted by:

@/el-shab-hussein and @/nabulsi on their vetted Gaza fundraiser list (#264)

@/butterflyeffect.project (instagram) on their spreadsheet (#741)

@/gazavetters on their spreadsheet (#213)

Never forget that Palestinians are not numbers on a list of deaths. Please think of each of them, think of their names and faces and know that you can help them. I think of them everyday. I think of the hopes and dreams they should be able to achieve. I think of their education, their future, and the love they show when they work hard everyday to get help. You may feel powerless to stop this genocide, but you do have the power to save Ahmed and his family. Even the smallest donations go a long way and it's important to remember that.

tags for reach

@90-ghost @heritageposts @neechees @khanger @beserkerjewel @appsa @nerdyqueerr @strangeauthor @neptunerings @dlxxv-vetted-donations @vague-humanoid @buttercuparry @sayruq @malcriada @sar-soor @feluka @ibtisams @sawasawako @memingursa @schoolhater @anneemay @tamamita @tamarrud @punkitt-is-here @turtletoria @sara-roz @ot3 @valtsv @t-800 @officialspec

[bi-writes]

ghost is such a daddy, isn't he? ;) too bad he's such a dick. (18+)

but it's hard to find a donor. you've been single for practically your whole life, it's the whole reason you're looking to just get pregnant by yourself. you don't need a man--you can walk into a clinic and pick from their little flip book.

but none of them fit what you're looking for. too short, hairline too far back, you don't care for the look in their eyes or the occupation they chose or their descriptions of how much they like model trains and reading george orwell every christmas. they're john does in different colored suits, and they reek of entitlement and the need for perfection and lack the individuality that you crave.

not special, no--you're looking for an edge. and none of them have it.

you're glaring at your lieutenant from three hundred yards away when your eyes soften with realization. ghost is such a bastard to you; he snaps at you easily, uses his obvious stature to overpower you in the most inconvenient of situations, and he always turns his nose up at you for being even slightly less than perfection, just a smidge off your target or just below your personal record.

he demands more of everyone he commands, but you in particular he likes to pick on. you used to think it was because you were the only woman around, but that wasn't it. ghost isn't a misogynist, he's just a right asshole.

but a gorgeous one. not in the way he looks, per say, because his face isn't all that pretty. you've seen his face, glimpses of it, enough to put the puzzle together in your head. he wears mangled skin, torn apart at the seams and scarred to high hell, but ghost is more than just stitched together skin.

he's huge. large and so fucking well in charge. he takes up space, and he does it with intent. spreads his legs when he takes a seat, crosses his arms over his chest when he's standing idly by. his expressions aren't visible under the mask he wears, but it is very obvious when he isn't happy. his glare burns through the fabric, dark eyes narrowed intensely; it is impossible to not understand when ghost is less than amused by you.

he's so capable. you've seen him take apart his gun and put it back together many times. big fingers sliding over metal and fastening it back together with practiced ease. you've seen him haul over two hundred pounds of man over a railing, seen him set up his sniper rifle and shoot a target more than a thousand yards away. he's smart, and he knows what he's doing, and even in the face of uncertainty and chaos, he's oftentimes the voice of reason in the field, and it's sexy.

god, he's so fucking hot. especially when he's rolling up his sleeves, showing off one sleeve of shitty military tattoos and telling the private that's practically in tears what a fucking muppet he is for assembling his standard issue pistol without a fucking magazine loaded into it.

that's what you want.

someone resilient. capable of overcoming tragedy, of finding purpose even when there really isn't anything to live for. the drive of bettering yourself, of not fucking it up, of being able to breathe easy and get out of a corner even when the path ahead is just more of the unknown.

unable to die.

"ever thought of being a father, lieutenant?"

he laughs, bitterly, licking the pad of his thumb before rubbing at a spot on the scope of his rifle.

"fuckin' hate kids," he mutters. "loud. dirty." he grunts. "besides. bloodline dies with me. don't need anymore fuckin' rileys mucking up this place."

you bite your lip. it's not the worst reason you've ever heard. it's just too bad he's exactly the kind of baby daddy you're looking for.

"that's too bad, lieutenant," you purr, standing up. you pass by him, your hips swaying and brushing against his shoulder. it's enough of a touch that his gaze follows you as you leave, his eyes flickering to the curve of your ass as you leave. "you'd make such a good daddy."

the fuck?

it's hard to focus. you keep bending over in front of him; dropping papers, picking things up, leaning over desks just to make his face twitch under the mask. you're constantly in his line of sight, wearing the tightest fucking shirts he's ever seen. cleavage on display, definitely a violation of protocols that no one is enforcing, and it's making his head spin as you lick chocolate off your fingers and swipe it off the curve of your breast. he thinks you must be mad when you make eye contact with him and keep it as you slip two fingers into your mouth and suck.

the worst was when he was stuck in the back of a humvee with you. the back was packed, soldiers pressed together as they rode back to base. he was sweaty and exhausted, leaning his head back as the truck rattled along the dirt road. on a particularly rough bump, you bounced into his lap, ass pressed back against his pelvis. on instinct, one gloved hand caught you by the curve of your waist, and you hummed as you leaned back against him.

"sorry, lieutenant," you had cooed, in that soft, honeyed voice he hated. "am i hurting you?"

"fuck you, sergeant," he had snapped, but his growl was cut short when you arched your back a little, nestling your ass against the fucking hard rock in his pants.

"just happy to see me then?"

acckkk, a fucking fiend, you are. pressing up against him when you slip into line in front of him in the mess hall. asking him for help because your aim is off, just to look at him from over your shoulder and give him that smile. the absolute doe eyes you give him when he berates you for the hundredth time that day, just for you to mumble back, "oh...yes, of course, sir..."

ngghhh...and he's thinking about you. thinking about smoothing a hand down your back as he bends you over a desk. thinking about what it would be like if you climbed over him on his cot and sat your fat ass down onto his face. thinking about the sounds you'd make, the big, wet eyes you'd give him, how good you'd look in his bed and wearing his clothes and cumming on his cock--

"the fuck are y'doin' ta me?" he growls in your ear. you blink up at him, tilting your head back, leaning against his door.

"johnny said you were training, so i thought i'd wait for you. got something real important to talk to you about."

you smile at him innocently, ducking under his arm as you slink into his room. when he shuts the door, you spin around to face him again, giggling.

"there's something i want."

"out with it."

"something i need."

"fuckin' tolk then, yeah?"

"want a baby, lieutenant."

"yeah, right mad about tha', luv."

"want your baby."

he laughs, humorless, "be fuckin' honest."

but you are honest. you're honest when you smile wider, and you're honest when you turn around. you're honest when you bend over onto your forearms against the cot in his room, and you're honest when you shimmey your trousers just low enough, right under your ass, showing off the wet cunt you've had since watching his arms flex as he stacked boxes after breakfast.

he steps forward, leaning over, smoothing two big hands up your plush thighs before spreading your ass, watching your little hole pucker. he smirks, chuckling low.

"'f y'want t'be a riley so bad, don't need to 'ave m'baby, swee'eart," he murmurs, but the echo of his belt undoing clinks in the room anyways. you squirm a little when you hear the zipper of his pants.

"but i want it," you whine, and you slide your arms out in front of you, pressing back against him as you grip the thin sheets on his bed. "i want it!"

"shhhhh," he scolds, gripping his cock with a calloused hand and shoving it between your thighs. you moan as he wets his cock along your folds, grinding slow, getting himself nice and slick. "y'want m'baby, swee'eart? wanna 'ave my cubs? gonna be bears, love. they're gonna split y'open, got such a little cunt."

you cry out, pressing back against him.

"want it! i want it!"

ghost chuckles again, laying over you, his weight pinning you down as he laces his fingers with yours. he's so big, you can feel him heavy and throbbing between your thighs. you need it, even if it doesn't take, even if he just takes you apart right now, you need it.

"you'll make such a good mama though," he mutters, mostly to himself. "fuck...you'll get so bloody nice and fat. nnghh..." he lets go of one of your hands to smack his paw against one side of your ass, gripping it tight and jiggling it. "every part of ya. right for the taking, luvvie. oll f'me."

he reaches down between you, notching the head at your entrance before sinking in easy. you're so wet now, dripping between your thighs, and he grunts as his hips meet your ass quick.

"tits'll get so big..." he smacks his lips together before giving you a heavy thrust. "fuckin' hell...takin' y'out afta this...gonna make you a fuckin' riley today. how's tha' sound, aye?"

you gurgle a little, a line of drool dribbling down your chin. he leans over, pushing his mask up, and he licks your spit off your face, his breath hot as he starts to pick up the pace, fucking into you quick.

"want y'just like this, every day," he growls in your ear. "in m'bed...spread out for me..." he sucks on the edge of your ear, making you cry. "gonna 'ave y'for oll three meals, swee'eart--fuck--until we know it takes."

you smile, your cheek smushed into the bed and rubbing raw against the sheets as he fucks into you from behind. his big hands squeeze your own, holding onto you tight, and you push back against him, your orgasm coming unexpectedly as he babbles in your ear about your tight cunt, your pretty face, the perfect place for him to empty his cock. it makes your vision go white, but you don't feel satiated until he holds his hips against you from behind and curses as he spills inside.

so creamy, slick and soft, but he refuses to waste a single drop. he keeps his pelvis against you, wrapping a forearm around your waist and yanking you up until your back meets his chest. you giggle, dizzy and a little drunk, leaning your head back against him.

"knew you'd fuck me," you mumble, sticking your tongue out, not satisfied until he leans down and kisses you, sucking your tongue into his mouth and kissing you wet and sloppy. he laughs, his chest rumbling, and you put your hands over his, scratching along his skin as he licks into your mouth.

"tha' right, luv? why's that?"

you giggle. "because i always get what i want, simon."

next

[spxllcxstxr]

Being in an Established Relationship with Jayce and Viktor • Headcanon

(Gif not mine)

Request: I am desperate for more Jayce x Viktor x Reader content! Would I be able to request headcanons for what an established relationship with them would be like?? 🥺 -- @spatialwave

Warnings: gn!reader, first time writing arcane and jayvik so I hope it's all good!!

A.N: Andy (@spatialwave) has inspired me so much so PLEASE go read their beautiful writing! You need to understand I got this request LAST NIGHT, I just had to bang it out I was writing like a FIEND. I loved writing this so much, I hope to write more in the future!! Hope you enjoy!

•

Being in a relationship with Jayce and Viktor is like being a part of an old married couple that simultaneously bickers all the time and is just falling in love all over again every day

Jayce is like a ray of sunshine on a summer afternoon

He's clingy--but not overwhelmingly so. Jayce just has to have some sort of body part on either of you at all times (except in the lab unless he's feeling especially in love that day)

He loves putting his arms around your waist, chest pressed up against your back and lips ghosting over your neck. Jayce is a bit more subtle with Viktor, since your other partner prefers smaller touches, so their fingers are always tangled together. Some days Jayce will even sneak his hand into Vik's back pocket, making the slimmer boy light up red from the neck up

Jayce is also the type of boyfriend that will always have you two on his mind. He picks a flower from someone's garden to give it to you because "the vibrancy of its color reminded me of your eyes," or buys a little knick knack for Viktor because "I thought you would find it hilariously stupid" (Viktor will put it on his already cluttered desk at the lab because Jayce was right, it is stupidly funny)

Jayce will always get an A for effort because even if he can't remember how you like your coffee or tea, it's the thought that counts

Has bigass puppy dog eyes and he fucking knows how to use them against you two

All he has to do is look between you and Vik with those golden eyes are you're both putty in his hands

Speaking of being putty in hands, Jayce is the cuddler of the relationship

Which is good because he is also the space heater of the relationship too

Will basically have Viktor curled up on one side and you on the other. His face will be buried in Viktor's hair, placing sleepy kissed on his scalp. His fingers will rub circles on the small of your back. Jayce is the best pillow and blanket in all of Piltover AND Zaun

Viktor, on the other hand, is like the moon at midnight

He loves the both of you in a slightly different way than Jayce

While Jayce is more touchy and exuberant with his love, Vik is certainly more subtle, though that doesn't mean he loves you two any less

He is actually exceptionally smitten with you and Jayce. It's like his walls come crashing down whenever you two are with him. He could come back from having a disagreement about a project with Heimer, with his jaw clenched and brows furrowed, and then he'll spot you and Jayce in your shared apartment and it all melts away

Viktor isn't carrying the world on his shoulders with his partners around him. He knows that you guys will lift the hefty weight from his shoulders

While Viktor isn't as touchy ad you or Jayce, he shows his presence in other ways.

Viktor will always have at least one eye on you at all times. It's not that he doesn't trust you two (on the contrary, you two are the only people he trusts with his life), he just needs to know his lovers are ok

Jayce could be tinkering with something in the lab and 50% of Viktor's attention will be on him. Making sure he doesn't shock himself or mix the wrong chemicals together. And if that does ever happen, Viktor drops everything to help him. He masks his worry with wit, but the mask is transparent for you and Jayce

Viktor is also the one with the extreme attention to detail. Your coffee or tea is always right and always the right temperature in the morning. A scarf is always hanging on the coat rack near the front door on chilly days for you. Puts a bookmark in the book you're reading when you unexpectedly fall asleep reading on the couch

He is so big on being a gentleman. Will open doors for you two, pull out seats during a nice dinner. Also is the type to lift up your hand so he can kiss your knuckles (he knows this drives you wild and he struggles to hide a smirk at your heated face)

The three of you are witty and biting and funny in your own ways, quips are basically thrown around every hour of the day. The day isn't complete without someone rolling their eyes. Teasing knows no bounds--the apartment, the lab, a fancy dinner, in front of councilmen and women--doesn't matter

Every day you feel lucky to have these two as your partners, you really hit the jackpot with them. They're caring and attentive and loving in ways no one else is

And they feel the exact same way

•

[evilmenenjoyer]

City of Love

Pairing: The Salesman x fem!Reader

Summary: Months after winning the Squid Games, you receive an unwanted visit from the man who's been haunting you since the very beginning.

Word count: 5k

Warnings: smut (minors dni), drinking, sex in a public place, some murderous thoughts. Don't be fooled by the title, it's very much not a fluffy romantic fic lol.

*

The City of Love.

At least, that's what everyone calls it. It felt like the place to be after all the horrors you had endured in the past year – horrors you don't dare to say a word about to another soul. Friends and acquaintances have told you about how great it is, how beautiful, how magical. About how just a few days here will heal any woes in your heart.

Of course, it didn't work. Now you're just depressed in Paris.

It's not all bad. The Eiffel tower looks just as pretty as it does in pictures, especially late at night when it lights up and sparkles. The historic architecture and cobblestone streets are a nice break from the modern buildings you're used to from Seoul, so different it almost erases the memories sometimes. Never for too long. Just when you think you're slipping back into something resembling normalcy, they return in your nightmares in the shape of blood, pink jumpsuits and children’s games.

This afternoon, it takes the shape of a ghost – a tall, handsome man, whose face you’ve only ever seen in dreams and in the subway lines of Seoul.

All color drains from your face in a matter of seconds, all that pink winter flush.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He smiles, like you're an old friend. It nearly throws you off your balance by how natural it looks, like he's not forcing it.

“Beautiful city, isn't it? Especially at this time of the year.”

This can't be happening. The whole reason you left South Korea was to put distance between yourself and those horrific games, and all the people associated with them. To just run into one right here, in a different continent, mere months after your victory; it makes you feel like you're about to pass out.

You stand up from your seat and walk right out of the patisserie, leaving your ridiculously overpriced hot chocolate nearly untouched on the table.

You knew, somehow, that he would follow you, but you still prayed he wouldn’t. That it had been your imagination, or the PTSD, or anything other than the Salesman himself crossing paths with you in Paris.

“I expected a warmer welcome,” a voice behind you says, making you pause your stroll down the street. Fortunately – or maybe unfortunately – you still haven’t completely lost track of what's real and what's not, and you can tell that voice is real, clear as day. He’s real and here and that terrifies you to your very core.

Turning around to face him, you hate how he still looks every bit as infuriatingly handsome as he did the first time you saw him.

“What are you doing here?” you repeat, your voice shaky and not nearly as incisive ad you’d like it to be.

“Visiting,” he replies. He turns to gaze at the scenery around you. In your hurry to get away from him, you didn't even realize you ended up at the Pont Neuf, the old bridge crossing the Seine River. Dusk settles around the two of you, the purple-ish color of the sky reflected on the river, almost too pretty for this situation. “Like I said, France is quite nice during the winter.”

You scoff. “You expect me to believe it's just a big coincidence that you and I ended up in the same place, five thousand miles away from home, at the same time?”

“Small world, isn't it?”

“I’m serious. I did everything you people wanted. I beat the games, I took the money and I kept my mouth shut. You were supposed to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Did what we wanted?” Something in his smile changes, shifts from warmth to something more sinister. “We never forced you to do anything. Remember that. You brought whatever happened on yourself.”

Cold air rushes over you, drawing a shiver out of you. It's not snowing yet, but it start might soon. It's hard to remember you were once excited for it.

He reaches out, ignoring the warnings in your eyes as he runs a finger over the smooth fabric of your scarf, then wraps it around your neck one more time. It’s almost a tender gesture, if he was someone else entirely. It should have you flinching, or slapping his hand away. Instead, it only makes you freeze in your spot.

“Yves Saint Laurent,” he notes. “I see you’ve been making good use of that money.”

It doesn't sound accusatory, but it feels like it anyway. Even after months, it still feels wrong to use the money, despite all the literal blood, sweat and tears it took to get it. Like you should be gathering it all in a pile and setting fire to it in protest. But what would that change? Why shouldn't you be allowed to use it to build a new life for yourself?

So you stayed in five star hotels. So you bought a few more pairs of Louboutin shoes than necessary. Therapy was out of the question, so this was the next best thing you could come up with for the time being. Best-case scenario, a therapist would think you're a nutcase. Worst case, they’d turn you in to the authorities for confessing to multiple murders you had committed at the Squid Games. You didn’t want to take the risk.

“I thought that was the idea,” you say. The Salesman’s hands are still on the fabric, merely touching it, but that doesn't stop your mind from picturing him gripping it, pulling on it until you suffocate in the garment you bought as some empty, mediocre sign of victory.

“It suits you.” He lets his hands fall with no damage to your throat or to your respiratory system. “Much better than those knock-offs you used to wear.”

It disturbs you that he even remembers that. As far as you know, you were only one of the hundreds of people who had played ddakji with him at the subway station. You remembered every second of it, replayed it in your mind over and over again, but there was nothing particularly memorable about you back then. You lost most rounds. You hoped against hope that he would ask you out, even after your cheek was red and stinging.

That was a different version of you. One that smiled more, even with all the hardships in your life. One that was too naive to realize she was selling her soul to the devil from that very first game of ddakji.

“Since the city brought us together,” the Salesman says, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

It would be impossible to keep the surprise from your face if you’d tried. Those are words you would've loved to hear all those months ago, and now that he says them, you can barely draw enough air into your lungs to tell him to fuck off.

“Why? So you can kill me the second we’re off the street?”

He chuckles, like he finds your confusion amusing. “Why would I do that?”

“Isn't that why you're here?” Why else would it be, after all? Maybe it's part of their sick games; to give one person the illusion of victory, let them enjoy the money for a few months, then go after them and kill them. Or worse, pull them back in.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could do it anywhere.”

You suppose there's no arguing with that, but you're not sure if it makes you feel better. Good news: you're still breathing. Bad news: you're still breathing only until he allows you to.

“You still didn't tell me why you came after me, then,” you point out.

“Let's have a drink, and I’ll tell you.”

You must be insane for even considering this. The naive girl that had first seen him in the subway, coming home late at night from work, would be enthusiastically urging you to go. You’re supposed to know better than her.

“One drink,” you say. “Then you go home and never contact me again.”

His smile widens. “I know a nice place.”

*

He brings you to a piano bar just a few blocks away from the bridge. It's a fancy place, the kind that makes you feel underdressed even in your designer clothes. He blends right in – not only because of the sleek, tailored suit, but because of his demeanor, the natural elegance with which he carries himself.

Not for the first time, you wonder if he was born into wealth, or if he was ever like you. Someone who had to claw his way out of poverty. You can't picture it, but there's so much you don't know about him. It's what makes him so scary and confusing to you, but also so damn intriguing.

He orders for you before you have the chance to open your mouth. Dom Pérignon, two glasses. You raise your eyebrows once the waiter walks away.

“Are we celebrating something?”

“Your victory.”

The response makes your stomach drop. “I don't want to celebrate that.” Not with anyone, but especially not with him.

He gives a small shrug. “Just a special occasion, then.”

The dimmed, warm lights of the bar make the place feel so intimate, almost romantic in a sense. You don't know what to make of it, so you force yourself to look away from him, even when you can still feel his stare unflinching on you. Luckily, the waiter shows up just in time, pouring you both glasses of the bubbly drink and leaving the bottle in a bucket on the table.

You turn back to the Salesman, glaring at him. “I said one drink, not one bottle.”

“You never specified,” he replies, fake innocence in his eyes. “Gives us more time to catch up. Maybe even play a game, for old time’s sake.”

The mere mention of a game makes you want to run away, to lock yourself in the restroom and refuse to come out. It has to be intentional; he has to know what kinds of things would be running through your head, after everything you’d gone through. You take a long gulp of the champagne, nearly done with the entire glass in one go. You can't let him get to you like this. You do your best to look unbothered.

“Do you walk around with ddakji tiles everywhere?” you ask. “Just in case you find someone who wants to play?”

That earns a soft laugh out of him. “No, not ddakji.���

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out what looks like a standard deck of cards.

“Have you ever played blackjack?”

You have, but hesitation is written all over your features. “What if I don't want to play?”

“Do you think I’d force you?” he asks, like you're a fool for even thinking so. “Like I said, you were never forced to do anything. It's your choice.” He sips his own champagne in a much classier, more contained way than you. Like he's happy to draw this out for hours, rather than wanting this night to be over as soon as possible. “But you’ve beaten much harder games before. This should be nothing for our big victor, right?”

There's a challenge in his voice, in his eyes. You should know better than to fall for it. So why is there a part of you that still feels like you have a point to prove? That feels like, with a little bit of luck and skill, you can finally beat this man at his own game?

“Fine.” You cross your arms over the table. “Let’s do this.”

Pleased with your answer, he shuffles the cards in his hands. You watch him, almost as mesmerized as you’d been watching him play ddakji at the subway station. It's so hard not to get lost in it, but you refuse to look away in shyness and hesitation again, keeping your eyes on him as you sip the rest of the champagne in your glass.

He refills it before placing four cards on the table: two facing upwards for you, one face-down and one face-up for himself, the dealer.

The rules are simple: your cards all together need to get as close to 21 without going over. Whichever one of you gets the closest wins the round. You have a nine and a four, totaling thirteen. The Salesman has a five, and a card that's invisible for you. 

“Hit me,” you say, figuring your odds can't be too bad.

He places one more card to your pile: a seven. Twenty in total. Your heart speeds up inside your chest, already triumphant even before the end.

He reveals all his cards to you: the five you’ve already seen, a nine, and a three. Seventeen. Your smile widens, relief washing over you like you’d just escaped a near-death experience. You don't think beating a game, no matter the kind, will ever not feel like this again.

“Not bad,” he compliments. He reaches into another pocket for his wallet, drawing a hundred euro note and pushing it towards you on the table.

You just stare at it with an eyebrow raised, baffled and, frankly, a bit offended. With the tip of your index finger, you push the bill back to him.

“Do you really think I still need your money?”

“It's just symbolic,” he argues, but still tucks the money back into his wallet. “Of course, we can bet on other things too, if you’d prefer.”

“What kind of things?”

“Whatever you want. You won.”

“Whatever I want?” A grin stretches across your lips as you lean forward on the table. “Like a dare?”

He leans forward as well, like he wants to meet you in the middle. His eyes never leave yours. “Like a dare.”

You wonder just how far he’d take this game, if he would do something outrageous or serious just because you told him to. Maybe not. But even this is the kind of power that you never, ever imagined you would have over this man.

“Okay. Let me see your wallet.”

He hands it over without a fight. You rummage through all of it, ignoring all the cash and instead looking for something else, anything personal. But there's nothing. No family photos, no old receipts, not even a condom tucked inside one of the pockets. At last you find his ID license, the name Park Ha-Joon listed beside a smiling picture of him that looks so normal you almost want to laugh.

“It's not your real name, is it?”

He smiles. “Smart girl.”

“It was worth a shot.” You close the wallet and hand it back to him.

He shuffles the cards, hands them over again. Seven and six. You tap the cards in a sign for him to hit you with one more.

“Do you really want to know why I came to see you?”

Your eyes snap in his direction, not even looking at the new card that’s placed in front of you. 

“I thought you’d be one of the first to die in a place like that.” He looks focused on the game as he talks, “When I found out you were the winner, I wanted to see it for myself.”

Your throat tightens, making it hard to draw in my next breath. You look around yourself, as if trying to make sure you're really here and not at that disturbing colorful scenario, or at the bunk beds in the dorm. Still the piano bar. Warm lights, soft chatter of conversation, piano notes ringing through the air. The mental image of that place still doesn't vanish from your mind.

“See what, exactly?” you ask, even though you know it would be better not to.  

“If you truly earned it, or if you’re just one more piece of trash who got lucky, like all the others before you.”

Your hand must twitch, an involuntary movement you're not even aware of, and the Salesman places another card to your pile. You look down at it in horror, realizing all the cards together total to twenty-three.

“I didn't say hit me,” you protest.

“You tapped. You know that's the sign.” He looks over the cards again, as if just noticing the source of your distress instead of directly causing it. “Too bad.”

It's not fair, and you both know it, but you doubt pointing it out will make a difference. You bite your tongue around any words as well as the lump that's formed in your throat, tears trying to rush to the surface. Your gaze meets his and holds it.

“Are you going to slap me?”

He’s still for a moment, considering it. It's one thing to hit you in the face in a mostly-empty subway station late at night, and another entirely to do it in this sophisticated bar, with all these people around as witnesses. Still, you don't doubt that he would do it. You hold yourself back from flinching when his hand comes out, bracing yourself for the impact.

It never comes. Instead, his hands merely cup your cheeks, tilting your face to face him fully. He looks at you like he's studying you, his expression unreadable.

“Not now. I want something else,” he says. “A round of shots.”

His grip on your face is firm, but he runs the pad of his thumb over the curve of your cheekbone, like wiping away a teardrop that never fell. A gesture that can only be described as affectionate, and it's messing with your head way more than the slaps on the face did.

You nod.

He holds on for just a second too long before he lets you go. He orders the shots to the waiter – you pay no attention to the brand, or even the type of booze –, and you don't say another word until after they're placed in front of you on the table, small glasses so clean they gleam under the light.

“I crawled my way out of that hell,” you tell him. “You have no idea what I had to do to survive. You don't get to sit here and tell me I didn't fucking earn it.”

He looks more amused than anything. “To kill for necessity, anyone can do. It doesn't make you as special as you think it does.” He nods towards the shot on the table, reaching for his own. “Drink.”

You count one, two, three in your head before throwing the shot back, unable to suppress a grimace when the drink comes down your throat like liquid fire.

“Why do you wanna get me drunk so bad?”

He empties his shot glass as well. “Drinking together ensures none of us has an advantage.” He picks up the deck of cards again, before you ever have the chance to tell him you’ve had enough of this game. The words die down in your throat.

One more round. Your cards add up to seventeen.

It’s too risky to ask for one more card; anything higher than four would mean an instant loss. Only then you notice the sweat under your palms, the rush in your ears overpowering the piano music in the background. You force yourself to take a deep breath, to remember that your life is not on the line anymore and losing doesn't mean certain death, even though it feels like it.

He reveals his cards. Eighteen.

“Fuck.”

He seems pleased with himself, accessing you as you brace yourself for whatever he has in mind for you now.

“Come a little closer,” he orders.

You frown, but you find yourself obeying without much questioning, getting up from your chair to slide to the seat next to him on the booth.

He pours you both more Dom Pérignon, and this time he doesn't have to tell you to drink. You focus on the way the bubbles dance inside your mouth, if only to have something to distract yourself from his proximity, from the faint smell of his cologne or from the fact he still hasn't told you what he wants from you for losing this round

His hand lands on your thigh.

You jump in surprise, and his hand tightens its grip there, digging into your skin and keeping you in your seat. Your eyes widen and search for his, a question clear in them.

With his free hand, the Salesman pushes the cards in your direction. “You’ll be the dealer now,” he says, “and for each time you lose, I get to keep my hands on you for one more round.”

Say no, you tell yourself. Say something. A better, stronger woman would throw the champagne in the glass on his face and walk right out of this bar. Instead, you find yourself still as a statue, a sudden rush of warmth overflowing your senses – first, it rises to your face, coloring your cheeks red, then it travels lower to the pit of your stomach and down right into the space between your legs.

You can’t even tell if it’s the alcohol, spreading through your bloodstream and bringing a buzzing sensation to your head that’s not all unpleasant, or the fact you haven’t been touched like this in what feels like forever, or simply the man sitting next to you. How many times had you fantasized about this, until you realized that he was the catalyst of your ruin?

Maybe even a few times after that.

You take the deck of cards. He grins like he knew you would, like a master pleased with a dog following his command. You want to wipe that look off his face, but you can barely concentrate enough to properly shuffle the cards.

If you felt like you were fighting for your life before, it’s nothing compared to right now. The hand doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as twitch until the very final moments of the round, when you realize the two of you are tied. A fingertip slides up the fabric of your stockings until it stops at your knee, your skin erupting in goosebumps following the movement. Your heart beats so hard inside your chest you can barely hear the chatter of people around you as the bar fills in with people.

You lose the next round, and the next, and the one after that. You can’t even tell if you’re doing it on purpose anymore.

With each passing minute that you don’t push him away, that you allow him to test and cross your boundaries, he gets more daring, drawing shapes in the perimeter of your leg and curling into your inner thigh. Your chest rises with a breath that comes tumbling out, the sound of it way too close to a whimper for your liking.

You can tell he notices it instantly, observant and apparently fluent in your body language like he’s spent years of his life studying it. He takes the opportunity to let his hand wander under your skirt, to the spots it hadn’t covered yet.

That’s enough. You need to win this next round.

It’s like, for once, God listens to your prayers. Your cards add up to an even, perfect twenty-one to his nineteen.

He retrieves his hand as if on cue. You thought you would be gasping in relief, but what comes out instead is a pitiful, almost desperate don’t.

He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t as in stop?” he asks. “Or as in don’t stop?”

Your body answers the question for him before your mind can even process what happened, grabbing his hand and pulling it to the spot where it was. Your skin comes ablaze the second he touches you again, like his touch is charged with electricity.

“Did you know,” you can feel his breath so close to you when he speaks, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “that you were the first person who ever challenged me to play ddakji at the subway? Usually it’s the other way around. Nobody but you ever made the first move.”

It’s hard to concentrate on his words like this, with his body leaning into yours and his hand that still touches you under the table and– whoa, that is not your thigh. The solid press against your core makes your whole body twitch, but you don’t jerk away. You try to focus on the memory.

“I didn’t give a fuck about the game,” you reveal. “I just wanted you to notice me.”

“I know.” He draws small, precise circles over you. “Do you ever think about how I would’ve left you alone otherwise?”

Of course you do, more than you would ever admit. But having him confirm it hurts. It’s bad enough to know you’re the one who caused all the trauma you’ve been through since meeting him, that you could’ve just carried on with your life, shitty as it as, if only you weren’t a foolish girl with a crush on a stranger. But to be in his arms right now, your head falling over his shoulder and your lips releasing a tiny whimper; it just makes it all the more fucked up.

“Was it worth it?”

The smile on your lips is devoid of any humor. “Never.”

“Let me prove to you that it was.”

Just like that, everything stops. He scoots away from you in the booth and stands up, bringing all the heat with him aside from the faint lingering warmth on your face. He leaves a few bills over the table, enough for the entire tab, and walks away.

He doesn’t head towards the front door, instead making his way to the opposite direction. You watch him, confused, for a few moments before you trail after him, past the kitchen and the restrooms until you see the red glow of an exit sign.

A chilly breeze rushes over you the second you step outside, and you expect to see him walking into the dark narrow street. But he’s waiting for you, leaning against the brick wall behind him. He raises his eyebrows in that same condescending way he’s done all night, daring you to make the next move.

You don’t hesitate for even a second longer. You grab a fistful of his impeccable suit jacket and pull him closer, crashing your lips together.

From the start, it’s not sweet or gentle. He digs his fingers into your hips hard enough to bruise, wasting no time before he lifts you up into the air and pins you against the wall. You gasp into his mouth, parting your lips and practically begging his tongue inside. Your legs part almost in unison, allowing him to settle between them and effectively trap you, his larger frame blocking any exit.

As if you would dream to get away.

In one swift movement, he reaches between your legs and rips at the fabric of your stockings, the sound echoing through the empty street. You’re already making quick work of his belt; or trying to, frustrated by your lack of mobility from his position. He doesn’t seem willing to let you go, so he does it himself instead, pulling his pants down just enough to free himself from the confines of his underwear.

You’ve soaked through your panties in whatever time it took to play all those rounds of blackjack. It felt like it was drawn-out for hours, but you know it couldn’t have been more than just a few minutes. He moans when he feels it, before he even pushes into you – a heavenly, otherworldly sound, one you want to hear again and again. You push your hips towards him, feeling yourself throb when he rubs his length over you, burning hot where skin meets even though everything around you is cold. He rewards you with another sound that you drink right in as you deepen the kiss, happy to never have your lips separate from each other ever again.

He pushes the fabric of your panties to the side and thrusts into you without a warning, drawing a strangled, sharp gasp from you. He doesn’t give you time to adjust to the invasion, setting up a punishing pace that pushes you against the wall hard with every thrust. You claw at his back, losing the ability to form coherent thoughts, helpless to stop it as he all but consumes you like this is his last chance to.

“Ah– fuck,” you have to break away from his lips to attempt to draw in some air, your breaths and sounds interrupted by the rhythmic, vicious snaps of his hips into yours. He takes the opportunity to tilt his head and follow the line of your jaw with his lips, to mouth kisses and graze his teeth over your throat.

Hands find their way under pieces of clothing, trying to cling to as much bare skin as they can. He does most of the work, still holding you up in the air with the help of the wall (you curl your toes just to test the waters, the ones on the foot closest to the ground, and they barely touch the pavement), bouncing you on his cock however he sees fit, and it’s embarrassing how close you are already just from this.

“Fuck, baby, that’s so good.”

It’s intoxicating how vocal he is, all the grunts and moans he breathes into your neck, how it rips more sounds out of you than you would usually make. The street is completely silent save for the two of you, not another soul in sight. You could kill him right here and he would never see it coming. Gut him with the knife tucked away in your purse, leave him on the pavement gasping for his last breath. Who would catch you? You have enough money to run to yet another country, to give yourself a new identity and reinvent yourself as many times as you want.

The purse is on the floor where you’d carelessly let it fall, out of reach. Still you run your hands down over his bottom, feeling for any guns or weapons he may have tucked into the back of his waistband, or hidden in his pockets. There’s nothing, but you don’t have a lot of time to be disappointed about it before you’re coming with a high-pitched, broken shout, like your orgasm has taken you by surprise. He holds you up, squeezing you against the wall for support, the only thing stopping you from falling straight to the floor.

The Salesman follows right after, a stream of goods and fucks and your name falling from his lips as he spills deep into you. You wish you had it in you to be offended, to tell him off for it. But all you can think about is how much you wish you knew his name so you could shout it, gasp it, whisper it, for as long as he keeps holding you this tight.

[beloveds-embrace]

I dunno if I've harassed you yet buuuut,

I just read the newest take on the text and they'll be there guard dogish 141, and just. What if an anxious little bird just walks up to one it the group and just squeezes into the crowd and just.

"ignore me I'm about to lose my shit" or just stands there and gives a small hi cause they're overstimmed or need a break or someone's been creepy and they see that people keep a wide berth from said person or group.

Hi I'm excited I hope anything here made a bit of sense. Also possible reverse 'guard dog' distribution system, the small bird doesn't find a dog. The dog finds a bird.

You aren’t harassing me at all! Please don’t ever feel like that 😭💕 i love, love both scenarios, so I’ll do the second one later as well. Thank you for this wonderful ask!

The dim hum of the pub was comforting- warm light glowing against worn wood, the steady murmur of conversations buzzing around you. It had been your usual spot for a quiet drink after a hard week, but tonight was different, and not in a good way.

Someone had been watching you, and not in the harmless, fleeting way most people did. His gaze lingered too long, his smirk too wide, his attempts to approach you far too persistent even when you refused the drink he’d sent towards you. When you’d brushed him off the third time like that, you could see clearly on his face that he didn’t like that.

Men like him were common, but that just made them all the more dangerous.

The weight of his presence was suffocating, so you’d bolted toward the one corner of the room where you felt the most secure. Them.

You’d seen them here before- an unassuming group at first glance, but the way they carried themselves screamed “don’t mess with us.” Four men with their thighs each bigger than your head at the very least, and tonight, they were your only hope.

Standing up and doing your best to ignore the angry gaze practically boring into you, you approached their table cautiously, feeling several pairs of sharp eyes land on you. Mutton chops tilted his head, pretty boy stood from his seat slightly, brow furrowed. Mohawk’s wide grin faltered, replaced with curiosity, while the last one’s gaze, though obscured by his balaclava, was cold and assessing.

You should probably ask for their names. If they let you sit you with them, that is.

“Uh- so sorry to bother,” you started, voice shaking slightly. “But…there’s this guy…” You didn’t need to finish. Balaclava’s attention shifted subtly, big shoulders tightening as his eyes flicked past you. Mohawk’s grin returned, but this time, even in the dim light, you could tell it was dangerous.

“Where?” Mutton chop asked, his voice steady but just as sharp as his eyes

You subtly nodded toward the man at the bar, who was now visibly trying to act like he wasn’t watching your every move. The second he noticed who you were speaking to, his face drained of color. He turned away, gripping his drink like it might shield him.

Pretty boy snorted. “Well, ain’t that something? Big man suddenly doesn’t have the guts, eh?”

“Stay here.” Balaclava said firmly, standing up with the kind of slow, deliberate movement that made your stomach flip. The other three followed suit, each moving with the kind of quiet unity that could only come from working together for years. Maybe they were a team? You knew there was a military base somewhere nearby, could they be from there?

Still, you obeyed and stayed behind, heart thundering in your chest as they approached the man- not from fear, but from excitement. Ghost leaned in, his imposing frame towering over the guy. Whatever was said was too low for you to hear, but the way your harasser paled, hands shaking as he grabbed his coat and bolted from the pub, told you enough.

When they returned and introduced themselves, Soap clapped you lightly on the back with a bold grin. “Dinnae think he’ll be botherin’ you again, lass.”

Price pulled a chair out for you, right with their table. “Sit. You’re safe here. Anyone who’s got a problem with you’s got a problem with us now.”

You sank into the chair, warmth spreading through your chest. You didn’t know them, not really, but in that moment, you felt like you’d just gained four overprotective, no-nonsense bodyguards. Is this what celebrities felt like? It was amazing.

“Thank you, really,” you repeated, giving them such a grateful, blinding smile. “Again, I’m so sorry for bothering you like that. It was just-“

Gaz shook his head, not letting you finish. “No need to, love. We don’t mind at all. Just enjoy your night now, yeah? No more of pricks like him bothering you.”

And judging by the way Soap was already offering to buy you a drink and Ghost’s subtle but watchful eye, you were honestly more than okay with that.

[the-raindeer-king]

Okay, So I'm the only girl on my team at work. And I'm telling y’all, regardless of age or relationship status, guys absolutely get excited when you give them stuff. Even if they act like they don't. All I can do is imagine how this would work with the 141.

Like imagine you make Gaz a bracelet. It's nothing too crazy, just a single strand of green pony beads. It didn't even take a lot to make it. Just some small, homemade thing that you give to him while you've got some down time between tasks.

He absolutely lights up, smiling wide, eyes bright. He thanks you with a side hug and a kiss to your temple. It's more than what you were expecting, but you're not gonna complain.

You don't think much of it, and move on with your business, nearly forgetting about the bracelet… until Soap interrupts you at the gym, demanding to know why Gaz got one and not him.

You didn't think he wanted one, and you certainly didn't think he'd be so distraught over something so silly. So, you promise him a bracelet, and you deliver it to him the next day. A single strand blue bracelet.

Johnny's ecstatic, grinning like a kid on Christmas. He gives you a bear hug, and a messy kiss to your cheek, practically singing your praise as he leaves.

Price is next. But thankfully you don't give him a chance to ask. You had noticed the way his gaze lingers on the bracelets that Gaz and Soap have, the small frown he's got after talking to them.

You make him a yellow one, and drop it off on his desk with some paperwork. No need for all the fanfare or even the chance he might reject it. He doesn't. He does bring you your favorite drink, his way of saying thanks. And the yellow bracelet is on his wrist the whole time.

Ghost is last, only because you didn't think he'd want one. But ever since Price got his, Ghost has been waiting with baited breath for one. He's not going to outright ask, will even scoff if Soap or Gaz brag about it. But he wants one!

It's late, when he drops by your barrack, quiet when you open the door. It takes him a moment to gather the courage. But eventually, he holds his hand out, asking where his bracelet is.

When you admit you hadn't made him one, he's a little hurt. You're teammates. Why wouldn't he want one? But you invite him into your barrack, letting him sit with you as you make the bracelet. It's just black, his color of course, but he leaves, smiling under the mask.

Oh, and when you show up for the next briefing with your own bracelet, a repeating pattern of green, blue, yellow and black, no one comments on it. But it's hard to ignore the way they all smile at you, a soft look in their eyes.