#ceiling materials basement

[tovarishch-dyke]

Last night my life could literally have been an episode of the bear. Not kidding no joke.

[malfnction-54]

[shotgunbunny]

*•.¸♡𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐩, 𝐁𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐩♡¸.•*

[𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫!𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

pinboard│playlist│dividers│word count: 7k+│not proof read│𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤?

warnings: weed/ oral f and m receiving/ public oral/ exhibition (slightly.)/ degradation/ praise kink/ smut/ p in v sex/ pure sweetness and fluff

The first thing you noticed was that he was leaner, cooler than the others, better than how he was described. Dressed in his dark navy blue compression top and black combat pants. His pink lips were full with a blunt between them and his beautiful blue eyes had a red haze in them. The way he was sat was just so casual and dominant, his legs spread and his back slouched against the ugly red sofa with his muscular arm resting around the back. His phone was waiting on the sofa’s arm rest and he ignored every notification that pinged at his phone. He was far more interested in you, in how you didn’t seem to fit the scene. You were in your friends basement, Claire. Her bother Chris was sat in the single chair with his head tilted towards the ceiling. The couple, Ethan and Mia, was sat in the corner kissing and cuddling while in their dazed state. Then sat on the floor was Carlos and Jill, best friends but one was pining for the other. Claire had told you all the gossip about these people, including the fact that she had a huge kiss on Jill and as you look at her it’s easy to see why. Her hair looked soft and her eyes charming, a clearing of a throat breaks you away from your analysis. You gaze back up and see it was the pretty boy who had first caught your eye, he was demanding your gaze back on him, your attention in the subtlest of ways. This was Leon. The guy you had heard so much about, how he hid his sweet side beneath a personality of sarcasm and coldness.

“Who’s this?” Leon’s gruff voice says as his eyes observe you, admiring your cute trainers and white leg warmers before letting his eyes trail up to your cute lilac skirt and your long sleeve green top that clung to your body. His gaze stuck on your hands for a moment, noticing your scrunching the material of your sleeves up in your hand. You were nervous. Claire smiles, “This is the sweetheart I’ve been telling you all about!” Claire chirps before she glares down at Carlos, “Hey! That’s my spot and you sparked up early, loser.” As Claire continues her bickering with Carlos about who sits next to Jill, Leon clears his throat catching your attention again. When you finally look up to him, he pats his thighs and moves his head to usher you to sit down and you follow the silent command immediately.

Just as you reach the sofa, his big hands gently cup your hips and he guides you to sit on his thigh, you plop down onto his thigh and swing your legs. He keeps an arms around your waist before he moves his other hand to tilt your chin to face him. “So what’s a pretty little thing like you doin’ in a place full of losers like this, Buttercup?” You heart hammers at the sweet pet name he slips in and you look around the room, observing the people around you. You turn back to Leon with a pout on your glossed lips “Hey, I don’t think anyone here is a loser, you’re all unique and cool in your own way.” You mutter to which Leon chuckles, his thumb rubs against your bottom lip. “Cool? How are we cool, Buttercup?” He practically purrs to you. “Well, Chris is strong and his music taste is awesome and fun plus he’s a biker, his motorbike is so coo. Claire is just fun and she has an awesome red leather jacket, Carlos has awesome fashion sense. Claire always shows me the belt buckles he wears. Jill is pretty and super relaxed. And Ethan and Mia are a great couple.” You babbles and Leon hungrily eats your words up, hooked on your every word in his high state.

He smirks, his eyes turning mischievous, “And what about me, Buttercup?” He whispers against your ear. You blush and when you try and turn your head away, Leon’s move his hand to grip your chin making sure you can’t turn away. “Ah-ah-ah Buttercup, c’mon you can tell me.” He continues to purr at you. You shyly glance back up into his eyes, “Well, of course you’re cool. You seem so mysterious but nice, ‘n your handsome, and so chilled out.” You mutter out in a small voice and within seconds a grin is plastered on Leon’s face. “What’s your number, Buttercup?” He coos and you shake your head. Leon tilts his own at your refusal, “Why not?” You bite your lip and play with the ends of your sleeves again. “Well, you’re attractive ‘n stuff. I just don’t wanna be played or get attached.” Leon snorts before throwing his head back laughing. You watch his Adam's apple bob up and down as you listen to his melody of joy.

His half lidded eyes stare at you, “Buttercup, that’s not gonna happen.” He says firmly but the hint of a smile still on his face. He grabs his phone and opens it, he grimaces it. “Y’see Buttercup, if I just wanted to use you I’d ask for your social media. But I wanna know more about you. Wanna take you out and buy you pretty things. So, what’s your number, Buttercup?” He was so dominating but soft with his words you couldn’t help but pull your phone out and give him your number. Within seconds of adding your number to his phone he texts it to make sure it’s you. He hums happily. “So why are you here, Buttercup? You don’t seem the type to get high.” You rest your head on his shoulder as you settle into his la. The ambience in the room is so relaxing, some music plays in the background while everyone has their own conversations. “Claire invited me, and I was just curious y’know? Just wanted to see the gang.” He hums in response. “Well, I’m glad. Feels more complete with you here Buttercup, feels balanced out. 4 guys, 4 girls. But you’re gonna be my girl, right?” After a few second of you not responding, he cranes his neck to gaze down at you, “Right, Buttercup?” You blink out of your little stupor of admiring the group and return to looking at him. “But ‘m Claire’s girl.” He tuts at you. “No, she’s Jill’s girl. Just like Carlos and Chris are too. Mia is Ethan’s girl. But you? You’re my girl.” His voice leaves no chance to deny or squabble with him and you just nod. “Good girl.”

You and Leon stay cuddled up on the sofa getting to know each other for the next few hours. You babble to him and he listens intently making notes about you in his head. He was love struck, you were his absolute opposite but instead of shying away or avoiding him, here you were sat on his lap swinging your legs while idly playing with his fingers telling him about your family and your hobbies. And in return Leon would tell you about his life, how he’s a cop and how he didn’t have a family as they passed away in an accident when he was young. You hugged him tightly when he spoke, pulling his head to your chest so he was left resting his head against your breasts as you stroked his hair cooing to him and he revelled in the attention and the soft touches. A pretty girl taking care of him with tender touches and sweet words, he could get used to this. He could get used to you.

As Leon is coddled against you, both of you rambling away happily to each other, his high was wearing down but his feelings for you didn’t. He felt safe and content here, like you were made to calm him down, like you were becoming his new drug. Something he could be addicted to without having to worry about his health or getting into trouble with. His eyelids flutter open as he gazes up at you, “Please take a chance on me, Buttercup. It feels right when you’re here. Don’t let my looks deceive you.” His eyes are pleading, begging you to not overthink him and instead keep him safe in your arms. You run your hands through his hair, “okay.” You whisper and a soft grin spreads across his face and he cuddles back into you.

He listens to your heart beating and the gentle lull of your breaths mixed with the sweet sounds of your voice as you talk to him. He could drown in you, in how magical this moment was to him. He adored you within the first meeting and he didn’t want to part with you. But sadly the time did come and when you shifted Leon from your embrace he growled. “No, Buttercup I’m comfy.” He rumbles to which you giggle. “I have to go home, I have curfew, sadly.” You murmur and Leon’s grump demeanour quickly shifts to a hopeless look. As you stand up, he follows suit and wraps his arms around your waist and snuggles into you neck. He was like a puppy, desperate for your attention and desperate to keep you. “Promise me, Buttercup. That you’ll call me up and let me take you out on a date.” He nuzzles his head into you neck and you laugh softly. “I promise my little puppy boy.” You tease to which he faintly bites at your neck leaving a small imprint of his teeth indented on you, marking you as his. “Call me puppy again and I might have to howl at your window until you let me in,” He smirks down at you. You pull away and kiss his cheek before heading to the door and flashing him one last smile, “I’d let you in.” You murmur and the door closes behind you.

You stuck true to your word and 3 days later, Leon was outside your house on his motorbike. He was dressed in his black pants, a tight black t shirt and a leather jackets, a helmet adorned on his head hiding his handsome face from your eyes. As soon as Leon sees you he pulls it off and reveals a bright a grin on his face, he shakes his messy blonde hair. You giggle at him and walk over to him, but he beats you to it by taking long strides towards you. “I hope you don’t find me too keen that I scare you off Buttercup.” He murmurs as he places his hands on your hips and mumbles down to you. You can’t wipe the smile forming on your face from his sweet confession, You places your hands on his forearms and gaze up at him. You stand on your tiptoes and nuzzle your nose against his, “I am just as keen.” You whisper to him and he chuckles in response. “Well ain’t I lucky.” He says with a smug grin on his face, he places a small kiss to your nose and pulls away.

“Damn, Buttercup! You look amazing.” He coos down to you, admiring your white summer dress that ad thin straps and stropped at your thighs. You smile bashfully at him and he quickly returns to you and holds your hand, “c’mon give me a twirl.” He murmurs and holds your hand up high. You giggle as you spin for him and he whistles. “I don’t know what you did to me, but I want you doll. ‘S like I’m sick and you’re the only cure.” He mumbles to you as his gaze is utterly transfixed on you. You bite your lip at how blunt he is, it was like he was your fever dream. “Is it a bad thing?” You ask tilting you head and he just responds by throwing his head back laughing at you. “Never. You’re a disease I’ve been waiting for Doll. I want you to leave me bed ridden with shaking bone and flushed cheeks.” He says it so easily, the innuendos easily seen but you can tell he means it in every way.

He coughs and walks to his bike, “Anyway, I said I’d take you on a date and um-” He hands you a pink helmet, something a man as grungy and dark as him would never have. “I um painted it, kinda hoping you become my permanent passenger princess.” He murmurs and you giggle. “Thank you, that’s really sweet of you.” He beams at you and his baby blue eyes gleam. “Yeah?” He asks almost shyly, “Yeah.” You confirm and place it on, you strut over to him. You pull up the screen of the helmet and gaze up at him, “Y’know, we’re definitely moving fast. Hold back the love confessions for a few months.” You tease him and he smirks and slings the screen of your helmet back down with a flick of his risk. He straddles his bike and you follow suit, wrapping your arms around his muscular torso, you can feel every abdominal muscle he hides under his tight shirt and you can imagine his smirk already getting even more smug. “Fast is what I do, Buttercup. But for you, I’ll take it slow. Don’t wanna love bomb you.” He says underneath his black mask.

He starts the bike and pulls off the side and soon you begin to drift with him on his bike. You flash through the streets with the sun beaming down on you and the purr of the engine rumbling between your thighs creating a delicious little tingle. Leon smirks already imagining the effect his bike is having on you, so he throttles it making the bike roar and he speeds down the road, focusing on his directions but his mind drifts off to the idea of how wet you panties are and how they were dripping all over his seat. He groans at the thought and changes his direction, and drives you both to the woods. As you stand off the bike and peel the helmet off, you gaze up and see Leon tearing his off and throwing it down. Before you can question him, he rushes to you and pulls you to a gathering of trees, barely any sunlight gets though and you doubted anyone could see you.

Leon’s large hand frame your hips as he pins you against a tree, he falls to his knees panting his once vibrant blue eyes now dilated and nearly black. He gulps as he gazes up at you, “Can I?” He whispers shyly and you blush but nod, “Words please, Buttercup.” He pleads, a vision on his knees before you begging and pleading to hear your voice and to let him take something that he’s desperate for. “Yes.” You murmur and Leon’s head disappears under your dress, You can feel his sweet kisses being littered on your thighs leaving little mark against your skin. His hands fall down from your hips and under your dress too. He grabs your panties and drags them down and you lift your feet up for him.

You let out a gasp as his hands slide to your ass and he squeezes it before he buries his head between you folds. He groans as you let out a whimper, he licks between your folds, tasting you. You watch how his shoulders slump and for a second you fear you’ve done something wrong but those thoughts are quickly silenced by him letting out his own moan of pure pleasure and he begins to eagerly lap at your pussy. Your cunt drenching his tongue, your thighs shake and shiver and he squeezes your ass again as he latches onto you clit, bullying it with his tongue lashes and kisses. He suckles on it desperately and you whine before moaning and folding over your hands landing on his shoulders to hold yourself up. You whimper and you feel his tongue exploring your hole. He licks against your walls before he moves back up to nuzzle his nose your clit.

You cry out as your thighs tremble again. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you cum hard and he laps up every drop, like a man who had been walking the desert for years without a drop of water. You whimper at every tender licks and he pulls away. His face is flushed and his eyes are still black, yet despite his lust he remained a gentleman and pulls your panties up. He stands to his full height and you rest your head against his chest and his arms wrap around your smaller frame. His hands gently stroke your hair. “Thank you, baby. Taste so good, could get drunk off your perfect, little pussy.” He whispers down to you, you whimper how crude his words are yet he said them so soft.

You can feel his bulge against your hip and your innocent eyes peer up at him, you bite you bottom lip as he looks down at you, “Can I?” You whisper and he crumbles, “Are you sure, baby? Don’t wanna overwhelm you or ruin your pretty makeup.” He mumbles his hands grazing your cheeks. “Please? Wanna practise and Learn.” His resolve snaps, he pulls his leather jacket it off and lays it on the floor, “Don’t want you hurting or dirtying your knees.” He mumbles. As you’re getting on your knees, he unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his pants before pulling his zipper down. His pants fall to his knees and you gulp gazing up at him shyly. Your delicate fingers slide under the waist band of his boxers and you pull them down slowly, you watch in wonder as his cock slings out. He was painfully hard.

He leans against the tree panting already over how erotic this was, he lets out a choked gasp as your fingers gently trace the veins on his cock, from the base all the way to his tip. You gently pull the foreskin back and gaze at his thick, pink tip in wonder. “Fuck, Buttercup. I’m about to cum over your damn face with your soft, little hands.” He grumbles out. His eyes are focused on your solely, and you lean forward and place a small kiss to his tip. You can feel his cock throbbing in your hands from where you’re holding it from the base. His hands catch in your hair and pull it into a sloppy pony tail. “Wrap your lips around it baby, gently.” He mutter and your wrap your puffy lips around it. Leon whimpers and you wish you could bottle that noise up and repeat it in your mind forever.

You ben to work your mouth up and down his cock, using your hand to move up and down to meet where your lips don’t meet. And soon you’re in a rhythm of sucking his cock and tongue lashing his tip, just like he did to your clit. He pushes your head gently down your cock and you gag, but Leon lets out a delightful little moan at the feeling of your throat tightening around his cock. He repeats this action being careful to not hurt you or make you throw up. Your eyes are teary as you gaze up at him, all while your nose is buried in his pubes, your throat tightening around his cock. And the second Leon looks down at you, the noise that leaves his lips is heavenly. He cums down your throat before you pull off his cock with a wet ‘pop’.

You stand up and swallow his cum, grimacing at the taste and texture but you knew you’d get used to it one day. He tucks his cock away and pulls his pants up. Once he’s finished buckling his belt, he strides quickly towards you and cups your cheeks and kisses you. His lips moving against yours desperately trying to find a way to make you feel as amazing as he did. He breaks away for air but places his forehead against yours. “I don’t deserve you, pretty girl. Haven’t even kissed you or taken you on our first date and you’ve made me cum. To fucking good for me.” He mutters.

You smile, “Could say that to yo-” He immediately cuts you off, “No, doll. This is different. You’re innocent, baby. I’m not. And you just rocked my world. You want me to spoil you, yeah? Let me.” He begs and you shake your head. “Let me, Buttercup.” You sigh, “On one condition,” You murmur, “Anything, baby.” He whispers earnestly. “Can we get a bottle of water first? My throat aches.” Leon lets out a bark of laughter and wraps his leather jacket over your shoulders and then slings his arm over your shoulders. “Absolutely Buttercup.” He coos.

Hours later, The sun was coming own ad the evening darkness was crawling up the streets but it didn’t matter as you and Leon were tucked in an underground bar. There were a few other couples around but none paid any mind, you were all far too wrapped up in your own romances. And at the moment you and your romance were gathered around a pool table, the balls were scattered around. You lean against the pool que and pout at Leon, “This isn’t fair you’re like really good! This is our fourth game!” You whine and he walks over to you. His hips knock against your ass, he makes you bend over the table and he folds on top of you. He directs the que in your hands, his mouth breathing against the shell of your ear, “Focus, baby.” He whispers and you shiver. He draws the que back for you and pushes it forward and hits the white ball and you pot 2 other balls.

Leon stands up and beams down at your proudly and you squeal in excitement back up at him. He can contain himself but lean forward and press his lips to yours. He moves softly and slowly against you, trying to taste your joy in that moment, he wanted you to share that feeling with him so you did and moved your lips against his. He pulls away, “Haven’t I let you win all four games?” He muses, his lips brushing against yours as you giggle. You nudge him away with your hips and return back to the game. All while Leon directs you and holds you, any excuse he jumps at it. He was desperate to be around you.

When the games finished he pulls you to his side, his gaze scanning you. Trying to memorise every part of you, from how your pretty eyes flash with happinesses, to how amazing you look. He was hypnotised by you, completely and utterly at your mercy. He wishes he could have this memory as a drug, his forever moment, your first date together. You watch as his eyes are filled with contentment, how fast his heart beats under your small hand that rests on his chest. You two were completely and utterly in sync with emotions, how they rose up and crashed inside you like the ocean that was trapped in Leon’s eyes.

He rests his forehead against yours, “Tell me,” he mumble, “Tell me this was the best date you’ve ever been on and you want a lifetime more and I will happily provide it. I can’t give up this. You. I haven’t felt this happy- no complete- no- I haven’t felt like everything was so perfect...ever.” He whispers and your heart aches. You close your eyes and press your head against his, embracing this sentimental moment. “This was the best date ever, give me all your dates, and I’ll give you an eternity more. This feels like the universe is finally right.” He chuckles and brushes a lock of hair from your face, “Had to out do me, huh? A lifetime of dates versus an eternity of dates. Damn baby, you got me beat and begging on my knees just so I can be near you.” He confesses and you giggle. “This is just the honeymoon stage thou-” He presses a finger to your lips.

“Yeah, and it means that in the future when we’re not in this stage it is still going to be the most wonderful thing. Even if we fight, it will always be good. You said it, I’m like a damn lovesick puppy, I’d follow you everywhere even when we hate each other. I’ll always follow you.” He whispers and your heart melts. He pecks your lips, “C’mon lets get you home. I do actually wanna take you on an another date and I wanna be in your parents good books.” He chuckles as you both begin to run to his bike, an almost silent race between you that he would obviously let you win. Always.

Of course, after that Leon was desperate for another date, for more time. And within two days you were on your second date. Riding on the back of his bike again in the pink helmet he had decorated just for you. Your arms were tucked around his waist tightly again as you flew through the scenery. Old friends seeing you cuddled up on the bike of the brooding guy they had so often thirsted for, and here you were riding freely with him while he was obsessed with you. Leon was a well known cop in the area, a sweet guy that served his community and made sure peace was secure. Grandparents loved him, and parents did too it seemed.

You had heard your father speak of Leon’s good deeds, but only a few knew of him breaking the rules. Of letting a few stragglers go, smoking weed. But in all other means, he abided the law and adored his job. And you did too, especially when seeing him in his uniform, he was hot and dangerous with a belt looped around his hips and a gun attached. The threat was sexy but the man was so soft you could never comprehend him ever hurting a soul. Even though his hands were calloused and rough, the way his touch was gentle and almost shy made your heart flutter.

As you daydreamed you had hardly realised that Leon had stopped and parked. He hops off his bike and pulls his helmet off, he shakes his messy blonde hair and grins down at you and offers one of the very same rough calloused hands you had been thinking about. You slide it into his grip and are gently pulled off the bike, his hands leave yours for a moment and he places them on the helmet and gently tugs it off your own head before hanging them off the handle bars of his bike. No one would steal them because of Leon being a sweet cop everyone knew him and what e rode so they would never mess with his bike. His hands frames your face and stoke your cheeks, “Hey Buttercup.” He murmurs and you beam up at him like seeing heaven’s light. And at that moment Leon can feel his heart melt he leans down and kisses your nose. He soothes any stray hairs on your head before sliding his hand back into yours. “C’mon doll.”

He begins to tug you to a brightly coloured building where loud fun noises swell out into the car park you are walking through. You scale your eyes up to analyse the building, seeing pictures of coins and ways to win, it was like a candy fun land, as you look up at gaze at the huge neon purple and yellow sign your eyes go wide with awe, it says ‘ARCADE’. You squeeze his hand and squeal, he just kept out doing himself and all you could do is give heart eyes to the man. You begin to skip, practically dragging him along with you and he can’t help but chuckle as he jogs to catch up.

As you step inside you’re greeted by flashes of colour, teenagers and couples and children. A place where many went too gamble but in a safer way, you walk further into the arcade looking down at the navy blue carpet that had a disgusting design but in this environment it fit perfectly. Leon follows you and grabs the classic paper cup which you put your coins in and empties a small money bag of coins into it. Leon had come prepared, he didn’t care how much he spent today just as long as you were happy. The reason why was because he felt bad about doing sexual things so fast while you guys hadn’t even been on your first date. Despite you reassuring him that it was fine and that you still had fun, through texts, he wanted to make it up to you. He wanted to win you a big plushie in those scam grabber machines. He was determined to make it happen.

Soon you and Leon were playing Mario Kart and you couldn’t help but giggle at watching his tall and big frame tying to fit into the seat. When he did eventually you were red in the face from laughter then the games began. Whilst trying to play the racing game, you both had a smaller game going on, ‘Who could distract the other the most?’ It was simple at first, you’d poke his side and he’d tickle you back but it progressed to you playing footsie and kicking his feet off the pedals and then he back to squeeze your thigh and began to slide it under your skirt. Eventually the game ended and you were panting at his teasing, despite it all Leon had let you win. You had come in 6th while he came in 7th and your heart races with love and joy, He had let you win.

You continued around the arcade trying to shoot hoops to which you were terrible but Leon loved watching your tits bounce as you jumped. When his turn came he began to shoot perfectly getting hoop after hoop. He had on so many tickets for you and after his round you both decided to team up, Leon’s front was pressed firmly against your back and as he kept getting the balls through the net you would gather than and hand them to him, and when the time was nearly up his hands held yours and together you both scored the last hoop. You couldn’t help but squeal and kiss his cheek. Leon was now your ticket carrier and you decided you’d get something at the end.

You traversed to the air hockey game, but this time Leon wasn’t going easy. You couldn’t help the laughter that spilled from your lips when you managed t score a goal against him. But for once he had one and his prize was a kiss form you which he eagerly accepted, how could he not? Having your lips against his was close to going to heaven and he’d take every second of his religious moment that he could. Eventually you looped ack to the grabber machine and pointed at fluffy gold wolf plush. He raises and eyebrow and you flash him an innocent smile, “What? It reminds me of you. ‘m gonna called him Leo,” You coo and within seconds Leon is loading his money into the machine.

By the end of the day, Leon had won you your mini Leon Plush and at the counter you both decided on getting matching bracelets and a huge bunny plush. It was a perfect date and at the end you sat outside on a bench eating greasy fries and giggling together. This was beyond perfect to you both. The sun was settling and you were sharing and stealing fries from one another as you gushed about the day and joking around. You knew that this was inly the beginning and you couldn’t wait for this fairytale romance to continue. It would never end not when life could be as beautiful and happy as this.

Seven magical months had passed and you two were beyond close, You had confessed your love to each other while camping underneath the starry sky. It was no mystery now that Leon as no longer a bachelor for the town, he was head over heels for you. To the point you had began to sleep over at his place. You clothes were beside his in his drawers and your big bunny plushie he had won you was laid in the middle of his bed. He was always waiting for you, always eagerly wanting you at his apartment. Everyday after work he would drive by your house and on most days you’d join him and drive to his where you would cook dinner together and Leon was kiss you senseless. The man worshipped you and you worshipped him. Together you were a perfect pair, soulmates.

But the reason you had started staying more often at Leon’s was because of a lot of reasons, but the main one was due to many incidents of you and Leon getting frisky in you bedroom and a family member nearly walking in giving you a heart attack while Leon’s fingers were deep inside you rubbing and thrusting away, almost daring you to cum all over his fingers and your pink bedsheets with someone so close to walking in. He would do it so often, his lust was insatiable. But he was smart and every time just as you were about to paint his fingers with your sweet juices, he would kiss you hard silencing your moan, leaving you breathless and panting beneath him as you came hard.

But the most notable incident that stirred this change was when you and Leon had stated innocently watching a movie together. His hand was rubbing up and down your back soothingly as you were dressed only in one of his t shirts and he was dressed only in his loose grey joggers after along day of work. You gaze coasted up to him and you began to lazily kiss along his jaw, and he couldn’t help but groan. His hands shifted down to your hips and he tilted his head don and caught your lips in a sloppy kiss. His tongue swirls around your mouth and within seconds the beast is loose, he quickly turns you and pins you down on your bed. Your wrist locked above your head with one of his firm hands. You whine and he bites your bottom lip, “No buttercup, we gotta stop before I spear you on my cock.” He breathes out.

You can’t help but squeeze your plush thighs together at his words, “Wan’ that.” You whisper and any sense of control is thrown out the window. Leon sits up his knees and thumbs the waist bands of pants and boxers and slides them down with one quick motion. You watch as his hard cock springs loose and before you can even begin to drool, his hands slide up your thighs and grip the waist band of your panties, “Hips up.” He commands and you eagerly obey and he pulls them off and throws them on your floor leaving them a crumpled mess near the bed.

He pulls a condom from his pocket and you raise an eyebrow and as he rolls it down his cock, “What? Gotta be prepared for fucking your tight little cunt.” He mutters and lays his body over yours like a blanket, you wrap your legs around his waist as he rubs his tip between your folds before nudging at your entrance. He slides into your tight, wet heat and you moan while arcing you back and throwing your head back. He arms cage around you above your head, you watch as his muscles flex and he pants. “Fucking perfect. This fat little pussy takes care of my cock so well. You feel it don’t you? How your tight little cunt wraps around every fucking vein. You were made for this cock, my slutty little buttercup.”

You whimper as he gives a sharp thrust, he smirks down at you. “Eyes on me, understood.” He whispers against the shell of your ear as his hips grind against yours, you can’t help but obey again. Your eyes hazy with pleasure as Leon pants down at you “Look at you, dumb on my cock, Buttercup. S making e so fucking hard,” He groans out and then he leans down and kisses you eagerly and sloppily, your tongues are wrapped around each other as the tip of his cock rubs against your g spot and bullies your cervix. You felt so full and Leon showed no sign of stopping.

You mewl and moan beneath him your eyes closing as he pulls away from the kiss, the string of spit that connects you falls down all over your chin, you were drooling and panting, your body complying to every thrust and drag of his cock. “Painted with my spit, need to paint you with my cum like a good girl, because you are my good girl, right?” You nod desperately and he can’t help but groan as he gazes down at you, as the sound of skin slapping fills the room you both hear the front door open and you tighten around him to which Leon buries his head into your neck and bits down to hide the whimper that leaves his throat. You were both so close to cumming and so Leon gives a few shallow thrusts and clamps his hand over your mouth. “Shut the fuck up, be a good little slut and don’t make another noise, just cum around my cock. Fucking mark it as yours. This is your cock, what you were built for.” He whispers down harshly into his ear, adrenaline running through his veins. When you hear footsteps climbing up the stairs, Leon quickly begins to circle your clit and thrust faster, his balls slapping and he presses his forehead against yours. “My cunt. My girl. My buttercup.” He hisses and gives one last thrust and you both cum.

You don’t have time to clean up, instead Leon quickly pulls his boxers and pants up and pulls you tot sit on his lap, the blanket covering your lap as you watch the TV just as your door opens. You heart hammers in your chest as your mum enters she smiles and waves at you and Leon and quickly babbles about her day and what’s for dinner and you nod dumbly, a little out of from your orgasm a few seconds ago. Leon holds the conversation to seem less suspicious and when your mum leaves, Leon pulls you closer to his chest and showers you in kisses and praises. You couldn’t help but shiver in delight and soon Leon is cleaning up and throwing his condom away, putting your panties in the laundry, cleaning your thighs up and your pussy gently before he puts on some clean underwear on for you ad passes you a drink of water. The only things hat ran through your head was That was too close and from then on, you decided to have sex at Leon’s apartment rather than your princess bedroom.

And of course the dates only got better, from carnivals to quiet cabins. You had gone on so many wonderful adventures together. Your family had met him so many times that they adored him, he was part of the family. He was the most wonderful man, a provider and he supported your hobbies and even drove you to work at the nearby cafe where you were a waitress. Multiple times a day older customers would ask how it was going and you would tell them the truth- perfect. You were out of the honey moon stage and were well into jut being a comfortable and happy couple, but it never dimmed your love and obsession with each other.

And now here you both were, a year later. You had moved in with Leon now, and his apartment was now a perfect mix of you both pink and navy blues mixed with blacks and whites littered the apartment and it felt good. It was home. It was heaven. Nothing could compare to the feeling of walking home from work and into the apartment, having a relaxing shower and beginning dinner just in time for when Leon arrived home. He would pepper you in kisses and whisper words of adoration before telling you about his day nearly pleading at you for you to tell him about your day.

But it came back to now, sat in Claire and Chris’ basement. Claire, Chris and Carlos all sat on the floor surrounding Jill who was talking animatedly. None of them had managed to date her yet and you can’t stop the giggle leaving your lips. They would continue to try and You and Leon had a bet, You bet that Claire would win Jill’s heart whilst Leon said Chris was going to. Poor Carlos, but in both of your defences he was a well known ladies man, a player but he had the sweetest soul. Chris was dressed in black baggy jeans and a heavy metal t shirt and you noted his hair was Cut. Clair had a cute long sleeved red t shirt on and black leather pants and she looked amazing, her hair was in a claw clip and she had some eyeliner on. Carlos just had his grey sweats on and a black t shirt, he was definitely trying his best but you noted that he had started to take care of his curls and his hair was beautiful and healthy. The leader, Jill, say in navy blue jeans and a black print t shirt, she was stunning without even trying.

But your attention was quickly pulled away by a clearing of a throat, but it wasn’t from the sofa like the first time, instead it was from right beside you. You turn your head and there he is, his eyes already red and a dopey grin on his face. His hair his fluffy and despite the red and dilated eyes you can still see that beautiful ocean blue colour shining through. He was dressed in his black compression t shirt and some black jogging bottoms. And you were dressed in one of his t shirts, it had long sleeves and feel to your knees. It was a black, long sleeve t shirt that had a cool goth design of death on it. Matched with some white thigh highs and white trainers, you hair had little white bows.

Leon gently guides you to the sofa where you first ever saw him and he sits down first before gently pulling at your hips and pulling you onto his lap. You swing you legs and look around before you see Mia and Ethan again, both of them whispering sweet nothings and making you awkwardly before sharing a blunt. Leon pulls you closer and he rests his head on your shoulder. “We’re back, Buttercup.” He whispers. You nod and idly play with his fingers, “We are,” He hums, his eyes dazed from the weed and from sentimentality. “My girl,” He mumbles and you remember when he first staked his claim on you.

So much had changed yet nothing had, it seemed mundane but it was so peaceful. The plumes of smoke fill the air and Leon presses a small kiss to your pulse points. “I’ll never forget when you first walked in, dressed so damn cute, what else was I meant do baby? Not fall in love with you? And you were scared I’d play you-” He snorts and bursts into laughter, “Not ever gonna happen. Prettiest girl, with the best personality. Best pussy, Funniest girl, Sweetest smile, Kindest eyes. Ain’t another girl like you.” He rambles and you kiss his cheek, getting your lip gloss on his cheek. His eyes light up and the dopey smile grows wider. “You’re the best man I’ve ever met. Thank you for letting me date you.” You whisper.

He nuzzles his nose against yours, “Don’t thank me. Was never gonna say no. That’s just dumb, only wanted you. Now I have you and I’m never letting you go. Gonna marry you, have kids anything and everything. ‘S me and you,” He coos and you kiss him slowly and softly as his hand creeps up your thighs and squeezes it. You smile and peck his lips again. “I love you.” You whisper. “I love you too.” He responds.

As you continue your idle babble together, watching your friends fight for affection and love you can’t stop yourself from repeatedly reflect on how it all started in this room. From a single glance and Leon being a stubborn and jealous pretty boy desperate for your eyes on him, after all he had his eyes on you from the second you walked in. You’re snapped out of your trance from shuffling and a clang, Leon huffs having dropped his lighter. You lean down and grab it and Leon puts the joint back in his mouth, “C’mon. Spark me up, Buttercup.” He mutters as the joint wiggles between his lips. You leave forward and light it up for him. “Anything for you, puppy boy.” You coo back, your first ever nickname for him and he smiles. Nothing could be more perfect than this.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, kissing / making out, heavy suggestive themes, teasing / flirting, Simon being boyfriend material, slightly possessive Simon

Word Count: 5.6k

A/N: Part Seven of Ink & Needle

You meet Simon at 141 Ink in the morning as promised. Tension ensues. An unplanned date commences.

Chapter Six // Chapter Eight

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Spiderwebs are delicate, intricate things. They are works of art that kill, trapping and tangling their prey within their glossy strings. Beautiful. Deadly.

Simon is a spiderweb. Has been since the moment you met him at Riot Room. His dark allure drew you in until you stuck and went with him into that green room. Then, he devoured you to the point of ruin.

No other touch has lived up to his. It doesn’t matter that it has been three years and you’ve tried to find him in so many different people. Not one could ever be him. No one could ever touch or worship you like he had in Riot Room’s basement.

Your wraith. Ghost. Simon. Who, after all this time, still thinks about you. Still craves you to the point of near obsession.

Have you not thought about me? Not once? Because I’ve thought of you. Every day.

Simon’s words are phantoms. They haunt you, clinging to you the rest of the day and well into bed when you stared at the ceiling and replayed his words in your head. Your response to those sweetened bullets was no lie. You’ve thought about him often, wanted to know where he was and what he was doing with his life.

Now you know. And yet it doesn’t feel complete. There are so many hollow sections to your wraith. But that hardly matters because the two of you are constantly in orbit of the other. Tied by a teether or maybe gravity. Spinning toward each other until the smaller mass succumbs to the greater object.

The two of you are moving dangerously close to a collision.

Which is why your hands nervously tug on the ends of your sleeves outside 141 Ink. You promised Simon you’d come see him in the morning, and here you are. And you do want to see him, to speak to him, to slide into his lap and feel his lips again.

Yesterday’s kisses roll up to the forefront of your mind, taking root in the cervices of your brain. Memory surfaces, causing your cheeks to heat. It is the recollection of his warm but rough hand in yours, of how his arms wrapped around you in a perfect embrace, and the taste of him that you never forgot and longed to keep exploring.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

Simon wants this to be more. He desires a relationship beyond what the two of you had in Riot Room. You felt it then, creeping into your bones and senses until it was an all-consuming sensation that made you bolt. Even then, you knew.

Now, the idea sounds wonderful. Beautiful. Terrifying.

The door to 141 Ink is shut. The lights are off. The front of the building is a deep purple in color, almost black in appearance like an eggplant. The door itself is black with the 141 Ink logo in the center above a small window on the bottom half. It’s an odd place for a window, but Simon has a dog, Bravo, and it’s likely for him.

Above the storefront are two levels of old red brick. There are a total of three windows on each level. Nearly all of the other buildings along the street have this. It’s likely an apartment. Maybe two. Simon might be up there right now if he in fact lives above the parlor.

You purposefully came early so that maybe—just maybe—Simon might not be there, and you could brush it off, saying that he missed you. Make up another time to meet. Because that’s what you always do. You run. You bolt. You hide.

And hiding seems awful. It is that instinct that drives you to do it, to keep yourself safe and protected, to keep control. Simon isn’t someone you want to run away from this time. He was so earnest and sincere yesterday when you were in his lap and his lips were pressed to yours.

You also noted how aroused he was, the solidness of him grinding against your core every time your hips shifted in his lap. In that moment, you were thrust back to Riot Room, to how he felt inside you, and how perfectly your bodies fit together.

You were made for him, and he for you. In that tiny room, you knew.

But you’re also starting to panic. Simon has not showed, and perhaps you’ve arrived far too early. Which is funny, since just a few days ago the door to 141 Ink stood open about this time. It’s not too farfetched to believe he’d be up at this hour on a Monday.

You’re not even standing directly in front of the door. You’re nearly on the curb, pacing, questioning whether you should turn around right now and go back home or see this through. Amelia is probably putting the kettle on, and you didn’t eat before you left.

On cue, your stomach growls and you frown down at it, beginning to walk away.

The moment you turn and take a step, the familiar sound of deadbolts unlocking snarls your attention. You freeze, clutching the front of your coat as the door to 141 Ink swings open.

Simon is right there. One hand on the handle of the door, and the other leaning against the wooden doorframe. He’s so tall and broad. Like this, you can see all of him clearly. Yes, Simon is a little softer in some areas, but it only adds to his thickness, making you hunger to know what it’ll feel like when you’re under him.

When. When. As if you know it’ll happen. That none of this will fizzle out but extend outward, heading toward that inevitable collision.

Because you were never under him before. But you think about it now. How those massive arms of his will hold you down, pin you beneath him, create a cage you won’t want to be released from.

“Hi,” you say, almost breathy.

“You came,” replies Simon. It’s an exhalation. A relief and happiness laced into the words that he speaks. You cannot see his features beneath the balaclava, but his body language and tone of voice tell you all you need to know.

Simon’s hand drops from the door frame and he steps to the side, gesturing for you to enter. He doesn’t move out of the doorway, and you’re forced to squeeze by him. The heat of him is strong, and his scent is decadent. Rich. Smoky. Like a foggy day in the Pacific Northwest or a quick, frantic kiss in a London alleyway. You have to force yourself not to turn into him, to inhale and remember him like this.

Now that you’re actually inside 141 Ink you can see the space for what it is. The inside of the tattoo parlor is industrial with exposed brick walls and dark wood floors. The lighting is warm, brightening up the space. Above you are black metal pipes and a solid support beam. In the back of the space is the tattooing area. While you can see some of the chair, most of it obstructed by a short privacy wall. Behind that and to the right of it is storage, and to the left is a small office space with a desk. Overall, it’s fairly simple, but inviting.

Bravo greets you with an enthusiastic tail wag that sends a breeze your way. You laugh and hold out your palm. Bravo immediately sniffs your hand like you have a treat hidden somewhere. But you don’t, and while the German Shepard seems briefly disappointed, it’s short-lived. He nuzzles your hand and you promptly scratch under his chin and behind his ears.

“Can’t have her all to yourself, Bravo.” Simon’s gruff voice slips over you like a comforting blanket. There is humor in his tone, but underneath is a hint of possessiveness.

Your cheeks heat, and you pull away from Bravo, only to turn to face Simon. He’s so close, and when you’re fully facing him, Simon slides an arm around your waist and draws you even closer. Your hands instinctually go out to rest against his firm chest.

Underneath your palms, beneath his shirt, are his pectorals. They flex under your hands as he inhales, and he draws you closer still. Simon’s free hand, the one not currently wrapped around your waist, delicately cups your cheek, cradles it so gently that you begin to melt.

Simon is strong. This man could easily break you—or anyone—and yet this tenderness is so out of place, like it shouldn’t be possible with a man like him. But your wraith is capable, loving, and you find yourself pressing into him, hands sliding up his chest to lightly tease the bottom of his balaclava.

While you’d like it off, to see Simon fully, you know that’s a limit. You don’t push it, but you do tug a bit, indicating what you want. Your gaze flicks upward, only to meet a gaze that is as soft as Simon’s touch.

Those perfectly pale eyelashes are gently halos against his dark eyes. His brown irises remind you of light through a whiskey bottle. Everything about his gaze is relaxed including his brow and eyelids. It’s a startling look, one that speaks to deep desire.

The very idea sends a ripple of heat to your core, warming you between your legs. This is the intimacy you noticed back at Riot Room, that Simon’s gaze was more than someone simply interested in a quick hook up.

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks, tone nearly a purr. “Or are you going to make me wait a bit longer?”

Your lips pull back into a soft smile. “Are you teasing me?”

Simon’s pulls you flush against him, and the hand attached to that arm slides from your hip to the curve of your ass, squeezing. “I think you’re the one teasing.”

You squeak, then laugh as Simon removes his hand from your cheek to wrap that arm behind your back. You’re trapped against him, and even though you cannot see his mouth, you can see the way the balaclava stretches as he smiles.

With gentleness, you slip your fingers beneath the edge of the balaclava, easing it up over his chin and mouth to rest against the top of his nose. His blackout neck tattoo is on full display, as is the scar that runs along his jaw. You remember that scar, and one of your fingers absently traces it.

Simon turns into the touch, and then your finger is brushing over his bottom lip. He lightly kisses your finger, and then nips at it playfully.

“Stop,” you laugh.

“Then give me your mouth,” replies Simon, his head dipping to chase what he’s asking for.

You happily give it to him.

The moment your lips meet, you melt into Simon, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. Simon surrenders to you as much as he seeks control. The arms around your waist shift as his hands start to explore, caressing your back, hips, ass, and thighs in tender strokes.

Simon does not shove his tongue down your throat. He doesn’t push or guide you anywhere. All he does is kiss you, as if that is all he needs. As if it is enough. There is the faintest hint of smoke and black tea on his tongue, and it is comforting.

That is what Simon is. What you’ve been missing. Comfort. He is so warm and bright and bold even though you know him as your wraith. He is not a demon at all, or a creature out of hell. At least, not with you, and it is fucking delicious.

The heat of arousal burns in your core, and though you’d love to take this to more private corners, you can maneuver Simon into a more intimate position. That way, you don’t have to be on your goddamn toes to kiss him.

At the moment Simon breaks away to take a breath, you turn out of his embrace, his lips meeting your cheek instead of your mouth. Simon grunts, and you attempt to wiggle out of his arms.

“No.” And it’s nearly a growl that escapes his throat. “I haven’t had nearly enough.”

Simon’s words are a bolt to your core. Your fingers tighten in the fabric of the collar of his shirt, and he dives in again, claiming your mouth in a deep kiss. You’re primed, wired. You want to have a little control.

Pushing on his chest, Simon reluctantly releases you, but he does not allow you to move away from him. You’re still tucked against his chest, and his head hangs low, creating a deeper sense of closeness. He runs his thumb over your cheek at the same moment your gaze darts to the nearby sofa.

141 Ink’s waiting area consists of two small sofas. One is pushed directly against the wall facing the street under the massive front window. The other is against the wall that connects to it, creating a tiny nook at the front of the shop.

Simon’s gaze follows yours. “You want to sit?”

I want to sit in your lap you think.

Carefully, you place your hand on his chest and push enough to indicate that you want Simon to move. He does, walking backward toward the black leather sofa as your hand guides him. When the backs of his legs knock into the couch, Simon sinks to a seated position.

At first, he’s sitting up straight, forearms resting on knees, all of his curious attention focused on you. With exaggerated slowness, you take off your coat. First the left shoulder, and then the right, tossing it onto the sofa beside Simon.

Simon immediately rests his back against the sofa, spreads his legs, and drapes his arms over the top of it. The corner of his mouth twitches with a hint of an amused smile. He drops one arm to rest his palm against his thigh.

He doesn’t say anything. He only rubs his hand there. Back and forth in silent invitation.

It’s so much like Riot Room that you forget you’re in Simon’s tattoo parlor.

His chest heaves, each inhalation deep like he too is full of anticipation. It’s clear that Simon is reigning himself in, pulling back enough to not scare you off or force you into anything you don’t want to do. All he wants is your permission first, and when he has that, it’s over. Done. You’ll submit to whatever he wants.

You know this.

And he knows this.

Standing between his legs, you lift one leg and plant your knee on the outside of his thigh, repeating the motion with the other, before settling in his lap.

“We need to stop meeting like this,” says Simon, as his head tilts back. Your mouth comes down on his throat, and Simon groans. “On second thought, I like meeting like this.”

You smile against his skin, peppering his throat with little kisses before following the line of his jaw, and then finally his lips.

Maybe it’s too much for him, because Simon immediately grabs for you, hands roaming everywhere, leaving nothing untouched. It’s a possessive, needful series of touches that is laced with desperation. You are equally needy—equally wanting to consume and touch and devour every bit of this man.

Simon sparks something bright within you. Gives it life. Blows the low embers into resounding fiery brilliance. You are perfect in his arms. You never want to leave.

His hands slide under your sweater, under your shirt, finding your skin. It’s just the tip of his fingers at first, and then his palm. Then he is grabbing hold, squeezing your waist, moving upward until his hand slides into the space between your breasts before retreating.

You whimper at the loss, and Simon breaks the kiss, only to give you more along your jaw and the spot behind your ear.

Simon’s head dips, nuzzling your throat, the balaclava scratching against your cheek.

“I want to kiss you,” murmurs Simon as his lips brush against the side of your neck.

You laugh, fingers lightly digging into his biceps. “My lips are right here.” You turn toward him and meet his dark gaze.

“I’m not talking about these lips,” replies Simon, his thumb gently pulling on your bottom lip. He releases it and it bounces back into place.

“Oh,” is all you say, startled.

Memories emerge. Sensual ones. Dirty ones. The ones from Riot Room when you were bent over and Simon was behind you, tonguing you like it was all he ever wanted.

But how far can the two of you go before someone interrupts this private moment. If you say yes, would he do it right here, or would he take you somewhere else, and if you agree, would that be it? Or would the two of you keep going until there was nothing between your bodies?

Just skin against skin.

“Oh?” he asks, amused. Simon’s hand slides to the back of your neck, drawing you back to his lips. This kiss is much gentler than the rest.

He lets it linger, only pulling away enough to look into your eyes. “I’d very much like to kiss you.”

You swallow, knowing what he means. He’s not talking about your lips or face or neck. Simon is talking about the rest of you. The place between your thighs. The small, sensitive flesh that has so easily made you come undone for him before.

As you begin to form a response, your stomach growls. It’s loud, completely betraying the fact that you were too nervous this morning to eat.

Simon’s lips part like he’s about to say something but your stomach interrupts him again. He shakes his head, grabs your waist, and easily lifts you out of his lap and onto your feet.

“Bravo, watch the shop.”

Bravo barks as Simon grabs your coat off the couch and presents it to you, opening it up for you to slide your arms inside.

“Simon—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, and you snap your mouth shut under his command, sliding your left and then right arm into your coat. Simon helps ease it over your shoulders, and then he walks off into what you guess is a back hallway. He returns with his own coat, tugging it on just as Bravo takes up position near the door.

There is no asking. Simon takes your hand and guides you to the door, ushing you out into the cold. The moment the door is shut, you see Bravo’s face appear in the window as he hops onto the couch.

Simon has not released your hand once, not even when he uses his free hand to lock up the shop. Dropping his keys into his pocket, Simon effortlessly pulls you into his side, releasing your hand to slide an arm around your waist.

The way Simon tucks you against him forces you to turn into him, to wrap one of your arms around his waist, to rest your head against his shoulder. For a moment—a brief flash—there is peace like this. It’s so natural to hold onto him. Even like this, everything is in place, as if you were always meant to occupy this spot.

Then, the two of you are walking down the street together like any other couple.

But are you a couple? Is this what it is? Or are you making it all up in your head, weaving a fabrication of what you desire versus the reality?

Simon snuggles a bit closer to you, and you immediately forget your trepidation. He is so goddamn warm, a buffer against the chilly autumn air.

It isn’t until the two of you come to the bakery you visited the other day that Simon untangles himself, leaning forward to open the door for you before you have the chance to. Inside, it is balmy. Freshly baked bread and sugar is in the air. It is heavenly, and you inhale deeply, allowing the sugar to saturated into your nostrils.

Simon is right there, guiding you toward the cases. You remember the croissants, and how crushed they were. You didn’t even get to enjoy it properly.

“Usual?” ask the woman behind the counter.

Simon nods, and she opens one of the cases, removing not one, not two, but three chocolate croissants. You look up at him, a question forming on your lips. Simon side-eyes you and shrugs.

“This one will have an American.” Simon indicates you with a quick tilt of his head. Your eyebrow arches, but Simon ignores it.

You cross your arms over your chest, turning toward him fully to ask him what it is he thinks he’s doing. But Simon still ignores you. He puts in an order for tea for himself, and then rattles off your coffee order.

How the fuck does he know that?

Simon digs around for his wallet but you’re already putting your hand on his arm. “You don’t need to.”

“I want to,” he replies, handing over some cash to the woman behind the counter. He puts the change into the tip jar, and then places his hand on your lower back. “Follow me. I know a spot.”

You surrender to him, allow Simon to take the lead. He escorts you to a set of stairs leading to a second level. You follow behind him, the stairs spitting the two of you out into a cozy space. It’s mostly sofas and armchairs with a few sparse tables, and there is no one else up here besides the two of you.

Simon guides you to the massive window at the far end of the room. There are two small lounge chairs and a table that face the large window. Simon takes off his coat and tosses it onto the back of one of the chairs. You do the same.

“Sit here,” he instructs. “I’ll be back.”

“Yes, sir,” you mutter, not thinking Simon hears you. He grunts and pinches your butt.

“Ow,” you say in response even though it didn’t hurt. Your arm goes out to swat at him but Simon is already gone, taking massive steps toward the stairs.

You watch him go, sliding into the chair in front of you. It’s overcast today, and the traffic on the road is starting to pick up. Simon arrives minutes later carefully balancing two drinks and two plates. You stand to help him, arms outward to catch anything that might fall, but somehow Simon manages it, setting it all down on the table without issue.

You didn’t know the bakery sold made to order food. And staring down at the plate, you’re close to tears. It’s a classic American breakfast with all the fixings you could want. Since coming to England, you’ve missed it.

Looking down at the plate reminds you of all the times you, Evie, Jade, and Sam would go for breakfast food after a night of drinking. There are so many memories of the four you packed into a booth at Waffle House consuming cheap coffee and smothered hashbrowns. But this plate before you is much nicer than the cheap breakfast you’d consume still buzzed from whatever alcohol you’d been downing.

Simon’s plate has the three chocolate croissants on it, and it’s clear that they warmed them up because the chocolate inside is perfectly melted. Simon sighs happily as he takes a bite.

“Sweet tooth?”

Simon drinks his tea before he answers. “I like sweet things.”

“Like chocolate croissants?”

“Like you.”

Your fingers hover above your fork. Your face steams like a pot of boiling water. There is no reason to be this nervous, to be this on edge with him. This man has been inside you. This man understands how to make you melt in his hands.

“You’re teasing again,” you reply, finally picking up your fork and digging in.

“Am I?” he asks, tearing away another chunk of the croissant to pop into his mouth.

The eggs on your plate are perfectly fluffy and melt on your tongue. You don’t even need to use your knife to cut into your waffles. They part like butter.

You’re in a bakery, eating breakfast that Simon ordered for you, and you have no idea where to take this conversation. This is too real—too date-like, and while that twists your stomach into a knot, it is also an uplift of wind.

Simon didn’t need to do any of this, but he wanted to. There was no question whether or not you wanted to eat, Simon just took it into his own hands.

Because he wants to take care of you says a little voice in your head.

Simon’s words from yesterday show their colors again, waving them around in front of your eyes.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

You swallow down a syrup-coated bite of waffle and decide to change the subject.

“You promised that you’d fit me into your schedule,” you say.

“I did,” he agrees, the slightest bit of hesitation in his tone.

“Do you have a time or date in mind?”

Simon smiles against the rim of his tea mug before he takes a sip. “You tell me when and I’ll make it happen.”

“So if I wanted to do it now, you would?”

Simon doesn’t even hesitate. “I’d call my first client and reschedule.” He says it so easily, like it’s not an inconvenience to anyone, even though forcing someone else to move to make room for you seems entirely unfair.

“You don’t need to do that for me,” you murmur.

Simon sets the mug down on the table. “What if I want to do it? Does that not matter?”

“Of course it does,” you breathe. “I just don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

Simon is already halfway through his second croissant. “You’re never that. Not to me.” He looks so serious, so upset that you’d even believe that about yourself.

“Do I book a consultation first?” you ask, trying to bring the conversation back to a lighter note.

“You can look through my portfolio when we go back. If you want.” Simon absently rubs at the back of his neck before stretching and resting one arm behind you on your chair. His fingers lightly brush against your spine.

He nods toward your plate. “Finish up and we’ll head back.”

Simon adjusts in the chair, his hips flexing slightly as he shifts. His gaze is out on the street, tracking every person and car. It’s odd. You recall him mentioning that he was military when the two of you first met, and perhaps this is just a habit.

You take your time, enjoying every bite, and when you’re done, Simon stands first, offering his hand before offering your coat. When it’s on, he checks you over. There are two worry lines that slice between his brow, but you’re unsure of what might be bothering him.

Should you ask? Would he even want you to? Simon has been open with you about what he wants, but not necessarily about himself. Those are pieces you don’t have. You don’t have a full picture of him. It is unclear, but you wish that it wasn’t. And you hope, with time, that Simon will open up, giving you those pieces of himself to hold within your heart.

With fingers intertwined, Simon escorts you downstairs. He stops at the counter to snag a large homemade dog treat from a glass jar before the two of you return to 141 Ink. Simon hands you the treat to give to Bravo, and the adorable German Shepard couldn’t be happier. His front paws joyfully dance against the floor, his entire butt moving with his tail as you remove the paper label from around the treat’s middle.

When you present the treat to Bravo, he doesn’t dive for it. He takes it gently from your hand and then promptly finds a spot in the window light, peacefully munching away at it.

“Here,” says Simon, offering a thick black book.

You take it with both hands, shifting the massive tome to one arm so that you can open the cover. It’s Simon’s official portfolio. The title page includes his credentials, contact information, and some stylized shots of his artwork. You flip the page, completely absorbed in the art before you. You don’t even realize how long you’ve been standing there staring down at the portfolio until Simon clears his throat.

“You can sit down.” He lightly lifts his arm in the direction of the sofa.

“Right,” you laugh, cradling the portfolio like it’s a precious gift and you don’t want to break it. You sink down onto the sofa and Bravo pads over, laying down next to your legs, resting his head on your feet.

Simon motions to the tattoo chair behind him. “I need to finish setting up.”

“Of course. Don’t worry about me.” You have your coffee, a foot warmer, and this beautiful book of art.

While Simon sets up, you take this moment to observe him in his natural element. He is so calm as he moves about the space. He’s efficient too, completely focused on the task at hand without looking rushed or stressed.

Bravo shifts, rolling onto his side. You reach down and scratch at the dog’s belly. When you return to the book, you’re lost in the color and talent, entirely absorbed in the artwork. Some of the photos are of actual tattoos while others are high-resolution photos of his artwork. Whether they’ve been sketched on paper or done digitally is unclear to you.

Regardless, Simon is talented. And you start to form an idea about where this talent came from. He’s ex-military. Did he have time on deployment to sketch? Did he ever carry a little notepad or sketchpad with him wherever he was in the world? It’s a sweet image, and one you’re achingly curious about.

“Simon.”

He immediately gives you all his attention. He sets down whatever it is he’s holding in his hand and walks over to you.

“You good?” he asks when he saddles up on the opposite of your legs from where Bravo lays. Delicately, he reaches out and runs his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Yes,” you say, flustered by the touch. “I had a question.”

He nods, indicating that you should ask.

“Did you make art while you were in the military?”

Simon shifts on his feet. “I did.”

He doesn’t say anything more, which is frustrating, but it’s something you want to know. So you push anyway.

“On deployment or…?” You trail off, hoping he takes it.

Simon shrugs. “Not really. My deployments were numerous but short term. Focusing on…covert assignments in classified locations.”

Short-term deployments? Covert assignments? Classified locations?

You frown. “Like American Special Forces?”

He shrugs. “They’re comparable.” It’s not the answer you wanted. But Simon must know this because he sighs and continues. “I created mostly on my time off, and sometimes on base if I was training new recruits. Had lots of time.”

“I see,” you reply softly, trying to imagine Simon curled up in a bunk late at night sketching away.

“See anything you like?”

Simon means in the portfolio but you can’t help thinking he means himself.

“It’s all amazing,” you murmur, flipping back through the pages. You point to several pieces that you particularly like. “But they don’t have to be like this. I’ll take whatever you come up with.”

Simon nods and takes the portfolio. “I can sketch up a few ideas, show them to you later. Start small and if you’d like more, I’ll add to it. Sound good?”

“Yes,” you nod. “It sounds wonderful.” Reluctantly, you push off from the sofa, and Bravo makes a muted sound in the back of his throat like he’s annoyed that you’d actually get up and disrupt his slumber.

“What do I owe you?”

Simon’s brow rises slightly. “Owe me?”

“It’s a consultation, isn’t it?”

Simon shakes his head. “Forget it.”

“Simon—”

“Not happening.”

“I need to do something for you.”

“You owe me nothing. Consider the tattoo a gift.”

You shake your head. “I can’t accept that.”

Simon shrugs. “You can.” He glances over at the clock and the middle of his brow creases. “My first customer will arrive soon.”

“Are you dismissing me?” You’re teasing him, and he knows it.

Simon steps into your space, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, keeping you in place. “You’re welcome to stay.”

You do long to stay, but there are so many things on your plate. Groceries is priority, especially since you’ll be staying with Amelia for a while. You’re not letting that woman pay for everything. You’ll be damned if you take advantage of such a sweet old lady.

“Probably better that I’m not a distraction,” you breathe, entirely on edge from how possessively he holds onto the back of your neck.

“Probably,” replies Simon, slotting his pelvis against yours. You feel the hard length of him and shiver. His other hand reaches for your hip, and you cannot do anything else but allow it, melting into his body as he pulls you close.

“One to keep me hanging?” he asks softly.

You smile, and push up the balaclava enough to press your lips to his. You go back to flat fleet. “So you can think about me all day.”

“Count on it.”

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @lialacleaf @theshrikeandcanary @coffeecaketornado @wren5650 @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @creamwhxre @pearljamislife @wrathofcats @keiva1000 @pertinentpostmortem @enfppixie @bbyfimmie @cinnabeanz @berarenado @rogerrhqpsody @c0pernicus @josephquinnschesthair @corvusmorte @saoirse06 @therealbloom @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf @knight4xmas @jupiternighties @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics

[modcroissant]

Dandys world hc becuz im too lazy to draw rn + haven't done these in a long time

- Astro has a tower stock of blankets, all of the same design but different fabric material. Don't ask him why, he just does

- Dandy is love starved as fuck after Gardenview's closure, he's used to getting all the attention and love so being revoked of all of it suddenly is not something he's used to and probably never will. It's why to me; he holds onto any sorts of friendliness and bonds from the other toons to keep himself sane

- Sprout can crochet, he learned it when his toon handler made his signature scarf. So whenever Sprout feels pretty nostalgic, he crochets. He doesn't really show his pieces to most toons though

- Boxten can straight up remove his key, specifically when he needs to sleep. He unintentionally scares his friends whenever he does this out in the open

- Finn sometimes rant about marine life, especially towards Shrimpo, idk why I just like to think Finn would rant about sea life at random ahh times

- I like the thought of the holiday toons being kept on the floor of their theme (aka; the christmas toons are sheltered on the christmas floor) rather then being in a dark basement or cell, not only do they have more room to run around but they feel at least more at home

- Looey is ace/aro to me and you can't change my fucking mind

- Toodles got her dog plush from Poppy

- Shelly has a lot of historical books in her room, from dinosaur to non-dinosaur related books and LOVES ranting about it to anyone who's willing to listen

- Connie likes eavesdropping on conversations, before and after gardenview's closure

- I like to think that toons would look up at the glass ceiling in the lobby a lot after gardenview's closure, specifically when it is morning

- Dandy still has all the gifts and letters he got from both his toon friends and the children, he wants to hold onto the happy memories

[bellavitasims]

◼️3420 Angus Drive | Family Residential | By BellavitaSims

Where walnut meets bold black...This villa features a bold dark palette with soaring ceilings and expansive glass elements, creating an open, light-filled space. The blend of sleek materials and contemporary design makes it a luxury style.

▶Property Features：

This three-bedroom, four-bathroom villa features a double-height living room, open kitchen, and a versatile basement with a workspace, fitness area, bar, and reading nook, a private lounge completes this luxurious, modern home.

Highlights of This Home

▶Dinning Area

▶Kitchen

▶Breakfast Area

▶Living Room

▶Home Office

▶Bar&Reading Nook

▶Primary Bedroom (With walk-in closet)

▶Second Bedroom (ensuite)

▶Third Bedroom

▶Laundry

▶Outdoor

🖤DOWNLOAD HERE [PATREON: BellavitaSims]

If you like my content, please consider supporting me on Patreon.

💟 All files are well-organized and ready to go! Just click and install. I release new builds and CC regularly, and you're always welcome to suggest the types of homes you'd like to see next!✨

🤍Happy New Year🤍

[albondiguilla007]

Bottom Tom Riddle

✨ Tom Riddle and the Quest for Vulnerability / 15k /

They found him in an old house, under the stairs. His face was pale and instantly recognisable.

aka

Auror Harry Potter has eighteen-year-old Tom Riddle bent over the table barely a day after he becomes his ward.

✨ In Your Soul is Sealed a Pleasure / 22k / “So confident,” Voldemort murmured, “to be waiting here alone, this late at night.” He let a little menace seep into his tone.

The man merely smiled in return, cocky. “Oh, is this a bad area?” he said. “I hadn’t realised, what with the lack of streetlights and the not-so-distant screams. Silly me.”

***

Harry’s been sent back in time, but he’s still not worked out what it is about this specific moment that gives him the best chance to change things for the better. All he’s managed to do so far is talk to an oddly intense man in an alley and try not to get mugged.

✨A moment of your time / 10k / “I think... it’s best if you go home,” Minister Potter says softly. Tom hears the threat underneath, gentled by the man’s compassion and empathy. Go home, it says. Leave this be.

Tom feels sixteen again, discontent and disregarded. He hates it. He won’t stand for it. “And if I refuse to?” Refuses this refusal of his person. This denial of what lies between them, the mystery of those unreadable eyes, the hum of danger that dances over Tom’s skin like pinpricks of static. He has waited too long for this opportunity to slip away from him.

✨ A matter of Perspective / 6k / Potter shakes his head before Tom is even done talking. “I... Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you with this. I can’t have sex with you. It’s... physically impossible.”

Tom frowns. “Physically impossible? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means exactly what I said. I can’t have sex with you. Or anyone, really. It just doesn’t work. Don’t look at me like that, it’s the truth!”

Tom curls his lips. “Fine, if you don’t want to help me through my heat, then I suppose I’ll be gone for a while. We’ll just have to hope that the ministry won’t fall apart in the meantime.”

✨ Prizefighter / 11k / Dolohov can predict his tastes now.

Marvolo eyes up the caged, muzzled street-mongrel in his basement. Dolohov's men have done a number on him, sure, and he looks battered. But Marvolo can spot a fighter when he sees one.

And those green eyes.

"Twelve Galleons." He makes his bid. "Put him in the rings."

✨ as long as you come home to me / 5k /

What Tom Riddle and Harry Potter have is not a relationship. It is an arrangement, one where Tom comes and goes as he pleases and takes whatever he wants. Harry seems to understand without being told what to do. He sends expensive gifts to Tom’s flat: endless sweets, luxurious clothes, and rare magical baubles.

Tom provides in return. He provides a shoulder to cry on and a hole to fuck.

✨ Karma’s a bitch / 4k / Tom betrays Harry. Harry’s not happy about it.

✨ Cane Sugar / 14k

Euphoria, invincibility, power — there’s nothing quite like the rush Tom gets when he’s high on cocaine. Nothing, perhaps, except for being with Harry, who also happens to be his dealer.

“Have you ever had one of your clients suck you off, Harry?”

Breath came in shallow bursts as Tom pulled Harry's pants down to mid-thigh. Harry shook his head, his cock springing free just as Tom ran his fingers down the length. When he opened his eyes, he was looking up at the ceiling. “No one’s had the nerve to offer.”

“They mustn’t have wanted it enough.” Tom’s hand was wrapped around his cock, and Harry could feel his breath against the tip, fanning over in soft, quick huffs. Harry’s hand tightened in his hair.

✨ Hit ‘N Run / 17k / His eyes skated over the crisp lines of the stranger's bespoke robes- decidedly fancy evening wear to be clubbing in- and the large black stone set into an ugly gold ring on his middle finger. No other bands- perhaps he was unmarried, or looking to hide it.

Completely sugar-daddy material. Rich, hot and interested.

Harry threw back his drink and leaned towards the other man.

Seventeen was a ripe age for mistakes.

✨ Quid Pro Quo / 3k / Tom is a billionaire financier and buys an entire football club for the sole purpose of signing Harry Potter—the best up-and-coming striker in the British Premier League—to his team. After all, Harry has been the singular focus of Tom’s obsession for the past 20 years.

[audiart]

RAAAAAHHHH I LOVE YOUR WORM UZI, What were everyone's reactions to Uzi going all wormy at first?

THANK YOUUUUUU its only months after Uzi takes control of the solver and things are settling in then BOOM Everyone including Uzi freaking the FUCK OUT not knowing what's wrong. V tries to kill Uzi on reflex thinking she's lost control, and Uzi hides in the ceiling for days thinking she's gonna start snatching people like HoloSpookySnakeCrab J before realizing thats stupid, and figures out how to mask as her normal body again then showing up at home like nothing happened.

Thus an ✨intervention✨(Uzi has a lot of those she doesn't know how to trust others yet) where Cyn still in Uzi's body confirms its Uzi in control still, and that centipedal form is just excess energy and material built up with nowhere to go- easiest way to make sure she doesn't slip into it again is to use up that material.

Thus the "Build Nori a Body" project starts! Can't use most of the insides of a standard Worker Drone Shell since Nori's core is already so far fleshy modified and it'd do more harm than good to her already weak core, so Cyn walks Uzi through the 'Manufacturing' of Solver-infected drone innards to better prepare the body to accept the Solver fleshy bullshit (same way the DDs were originally modified in the Manor Basement). Takes a few months of trial and error, but in no time at all they're shoving Nori's core body in a modified WD shell and letting the Solver do the rest!

Uzi's oil intake is monitored and steady, but she has to be careful with eating raw materials. there's always that hungry urge to take more

[timesorceror]

Inktober Dreamling [Day 31 – Blood]

Having already done a vampire for a previous day's prompt and the last day's prompt being this one, I wasn't too sure what I wanted to do.

But, I had a vague composition in my head of one of them being held by the other, and the thought of a fishbowl rescue with Hob covered in blood hit me while I was looking for potential references. So... boom there was my idea, haha.

Fishbowl rescues are my favorite, so it's fitting this was the last one. (And I'm sure this is fine for the censors. It's just a butt. :P)

The guard slammed into Hob, pressing his back to the wall and his head against the stone. Hard. Blood, hot and wet, began to roll down the back of his head and under his collar. His shirt was black and wouldn't stain, but Hob knew that matted blood would make combing it later a problem if he needed to make himself presentable afterward.

Hob grit his teeth and took hold of the old soldier that lay sleeping within him, shaking it into waking as he swung out a leg and pushed back when the shorter woman's leg buckled, and her grip loosened. She cried out as he tackled her to the ground, and Hob's brain glitched for a moment as he tried to calculate whether or not it was better to cover the sound or to silence it. He made his decision half a beat later, scrambling for the metal baton he'd brought with him for this job and hoping he could find it before she unholstered her weapon or more backup came.

The other guard, a heavier-set man maybe 5 centimeters shorter than Hob, had gone down easily, but the woman on shift with him was scrappier despite her size and weight disadvantages.

She had claws, though, which – though an odd choice for a guard – were useful enough when she lunged forward with a swipe once she had recovered, nearly catching Hob at the edge of one eye. The nails carved bloody grooves into the flesh of his left cheek and up toward his forehead, and almost immediately, Hob's field of vision narrowed as more blood poured across his left eyebrow. He had to close his left eye, hoping that none got in, though it made his job more difficult.

Hob swore but felt a thrill of elation as his hand finally found the baton off in the corner, nearly half a world away from where he'd thought his ears had told him it had landed. (His hearing was ringing too, from the one shot the woman had been able to get off before he had decided to tackle her to the ground.)

He swung blindly back around as though the little metal stick were one of the claymores he had so favored once upon a time, and Hob was delighted when he was immediately rewarded for his instincts. The baton caught the woman across her right temple, and he saw her eyes go wobbly before a gurgling little gasp escaped her mouth, and she crumpled. He quickly knelt to check for more weapons but only came up with a taser and a little silver nail clipper. The gun must still be somewhere in the dark hallway, but Hob wasn't sure he had the time to go looking for it before one of the guards woke up or more came down, as he was certain that someone had heard some of the scuffle that had just occurred.

Well, priority number one was stopping the bleeding on his face or at least cleaning it up enough to see. Hob's jacket did a fine job smearing it around; it wasn't made of the right material to be absorbent, but it got enough of the stuff out of his eye so that Hob could reorient himself and keep going.

Rounding the last corner into the basement, Hob was surprised to see that it was so clean and spacious. He was also surprised to see the large glass sphere suspended across a moat, sealed up with great iron welds chained to the floor and ceiling.

Hob was definitely surprised to see a familiar form curled up within it. His Stranger was partially angled toward the entrance where Hob stood, his hair a wild riot of ink-black tendrils, his eyes wide and filled with similar black voids that were each lit with a single star for pupils.

"Stranger!" Hob gasped, taking no more than three strides to get to him. "How do I help?" He pressed his hands against the glass.

His Stranger pointed to the circle on the ground, and Hob took his baton to it, scraping the paint before immediately taking a swing at the glass. Once, twice, and then – shatter.

There was a flash, and when Hob could see again, his Stranger was collapsing into his arms. Hob hefted him up, though he weighed almost nothing. "It's alright, Stranger," Hob whispered. "I'm getting you out of here."

[thewriterg]

𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐠

pairing(s); johnny cage x fem!reader, kenshi x fem!reader, johnny cage x kenshi

summary; You’d do anything to keep them safe if you need to sing your song to get through war so be it. —angstober day; 12—

word count; 1.5k

warning(s); violence, weapons, siren coded reader, blood, injuries, kisses, and language

playlist; wet by dazey and the scouts

A/n:—GIFs; @mortal-kombat-1— played mk1 and don’t know how to act

“You sent them on a mission without my knowledge or and experienced supervision” You hissed your eyes leering into Liu Kang's pale glowing one as he sighed gently looking upon your angered expression that leered holes into his powered body

“You underestimate them Y/n the group consists of strong warriors if they weren't prepared to be sent to accomplish this mission then I would have no desire send them but they were” The sensei tied to reassure you yet it wasn't visibly enough to ease your troubles

“I'm going to aid them by the sound of it the mission at hand should have not taken this long they should have been back days ago” You stated stepping to put your swords on your back your eyes flickering that glowing black that your rivals and enemies feared the last thing they’ve seen before they were put to rest finding peace elsewhere while the brunette said nothing to stop you deep down somewhere in his subconscious he knew that your concerns were valid

“Y/n!” The warrior called out as you opened a portal black fog spilling out of it your eye now completely black in response you looked over your shoulder not making a single move to step back or back down

“Be noble in your bloodshed, I would like to be able to step foot into the realm again”

“With all due respect Liu Kang they shall be lucky if their head stays intact with their bodies let alone if their realm is still liveable” Without another word you you stepped through the portal before you were across the tower of Shang Tsung laboratory you didn't have time to linger the probability of getting caught high if you stayed in one place too long

Stealthily you snuck passed the guards after throwing an empty elixir bottle at a wall the sound of the glass shattering causing them to rush to the scene allowing you to wipe pass the entrance without much fuss you let you instinct guide you to the brick wall closest to the forest of the building pressing your palms against the rough material as you mended yourself into the cold basement of the building

The sound of footsteps bounced of the walls and you sucked in a sharp breath trying to think of something quickly scanning the hallway with the speed of light until you found a solution bending your knees and locking your feet into the ground to give you a power boost before you jumped you fingertips clinging to the little basically nonexistent space to hang onto swinging your legs up to kick in the grilles as it clashed open downwards its dividers now sitting with a bend in their metal

You quickly slipped into the vent as the sound of rushed footsteps approached your location you legs slithering behind your torso before you stuck a hand out of your temporary hiding spot pulling the cover up back in its place you watched through the metal slots Shang Tsung looked around to find nothing you would laugh at the fact that he look up directly at your peering eyes if you were in the mood

You waited until the footsteps started up once more to start moving behind the perpetrator making sure that you made no sound or shuffling noise there was a slant downward inside the cool dark vents the same time the sound of a door unlocking was heard you were in the right place

Your heart dropped as you inched closer toward the laboratory like dungeon the muffled groans of Johnny and the even worse whimpers of Kenshi you fought the urge to burst out the ceiling swords up thoughts down

“This process I call it electric love, after your done with it you'll learn to love the chambers the most… they hurt the least” Shang Tsung voice rang out in the cold hollow basement like room the sound way carrying through the vent clear for your ears while you perked up at the source of light in the predominantly dark ceiling

“Make sure they're withered to nothing, they should be a easy session for the tarkata” This was it if you wanted a chance to capture the adversary it had to be quick and it had to be now you waited until the footsteps approached the exit gate before kicking through the grilles landing in front of Tsunes with a hand positioned to your side one knee to the floor the other directed up towards the air

“Siren, see you've come to join your peers” His voice littered with a dark chuckle and you stood to your full height starting bullets into sorcerer

“No but you shall join your brother in the under realm” The mans face dropped at the mention while Kenshi perked up at the sound of your voice having to rely on his hearing to get past without his ability to see

You charged towards him with a punch landing directly towards his jaw taking a blow not only at his mandible but at his vulnerability when you went to swipe your feet under the sorcerer he grabbed you leg tripping you up you head hitting the cold concrete floor with a sickening thud before you could get on your feet there was a rough impact on your shoulder as your head was forced to look at your lovers captured the electricity having ceased on their bodies you noted Kenshi's masked eyes making your eyebrows furrow and Johnny's protest as he shook the bars of his enclosure you were forced to the ground with a knee in your back

“Your lovers courage and loyalty is honorary yet the execution is pathetic” You you heavily breathed through your teeth your fist clenched against your side

“Tell me Siren, can a heart still break if it stops beating?” A man dressed in green armor approached your line of sight about to open the cage you red masked love slouched in the keys jingling in his slightly shaken hand

“Can your brain still pump blood if it's in my hands?” You muttered taking all your strength to propel your body up from under the sorcerer's hold your taking swords from your back the once silver blade wielding black before your fingertips you sliced the at the mans back him hissing in response

“I'll end your misery quick and precisely” You stated voice void of emotion before Shang ran at you while you blocked his attacks swiftly a black fog falling over the room making it difficult for him to maneuver his senses were overloaded he was at his full charge yet had nothing to force it on causing him to burn out your attacks came silently and stilly he was running himself dry exactly what you wanted him to

The voice of desire called out to him your silhouette shined through the gloomy dark fog your voice promised him everything he could conquer in the biggest dreams and most wealthy realms he followed the sound your form getting closer until he walked into the blade of your sword a grunt resetting on his lips as he kept walking pushing it further into him until his torso met with the base of black reflective piece yearning for the promise of his desires the source being the song that fell from your lips until he dropped to his knees unconscious

You didn't waste a lasting second running towards the cages Reptile unconscious from the poisoned smoke Johnny and Kenshi along with the reaming earth realm team was trained to withstand it become immune to a certain point you felt your body weakening but ignored its call to rest it had been days since they left since you had

“Oh Kenshi” You whisperer after taking the gate from its hinges off the swinging cage his body fell into yours as you gently lowered yourselves to the floor a more prominent black trail of smoke tracing to Johnny's enclosure wailing him free as he rushed towards you both you opening your arms making room for him to fit your eyes scanning over their bodies the Hollywood stars body you deemed fine apart from a couple battered bruises Kenshi on the other hand the red mask on his eyes made your heart pick up as your fingers inched towards his face rubbing your thumb against his cheek as he grunted holding back a whimper at the pain you gently pulled the red cloth from his eyes sucking in a sharp breath at she sight of his gouged eyes tears brought to your own as you pressed a shaky kiss to his forehead

“I'm here, I'm gonna find a way to heal you, I'll find a way”

“We’ll find a way” Johnny mumbled into your armor clothed shoulder as you rocked the three of you back and forth. It would work, you'd find a way.

©2023 thewriterg spooktober do not copy, translate, or modify.

[hunk-never-dies]

Words That Were Never Spoken

A Valenfield Fanfiction

This is my first attempt at writing a Valenfield fanfiction. If the characters are off, my apologies. Attempts were made lol

Synopsis: Jill has always harbored feelings for her partner, Chris, but she has never been able to express them. So, she buries them and focuses on her job. But then, a terrible nightmare plagues her dreams, preying on her emotions and deepest fears—fears that just might become reality.

(Trigger Warning for Violence and Graphic Descriptions of Undead)

Chapter One

Jill made her way down a long hallway, flashlight in one hand and pistol in the other. The hallway was decrepit, and the wallpaper was peeling off the walls. The wooden floor was cracked and caked with years of dust and dirt. Just seeing this portion of the home would deem it condemnable. A crackling sound came from ahead, and Jill trained her flashlight on the noise. A piece of the ceiling hung by a strip of material, swinging until it fell to the ground before her. Jill watched it land, dust flying up in its wake. Jill held her breath and waited, but nothing sounded from the shadows beyond her light.

Jill let out the air she had been holding and continued forward. She stepped over the ceiling piece and reached the end of the hallway. Pausing, Jill leaned against the wall, clicking off her light. She held her weapon steady before she quickly poked her head out, looking to the left—a wall. To the right was another stretch of hallway with three doors—one on the right, one on the left, and one at the end. The area was clear of any threats, and she glanced back at the hall behind her before proceeding around the bend. As she did, she pressed the earpiece in her left ear and spoke quietly. “The upstairs hallway is secure. There are three rooms. I’m going to check them out.”

There was silence before the radio crackled in her ear, and Chris responded. “Basement is secure. Hold tight, and I’ll meet up with you.” 

Jill contemplated waiting for her partner to catch up. She could handle herself, and the intel had said there were only two B.O.W.s in the house—child’s play. Jill continued down the hallway, keeping her firearm low and her grip comfortable. Jill stopped at the first door and got as close as she safely could. Silence greeted her on the other side. Jill took a step back, straightening as she reached for the doorknob. Before she could grasp it, Jill heard footsteps coming from behind her. Jill quickly turned, aiming her light and firearm toward the sound. She kept her finger on the trigger guard and waited. The footsteps fell silent, and it made her tense. “Chris?” She called, keeping her voice as quiet as she could. Jill glanced over her shoulder to ensure she was alone in the hallway. Satisfied she was, Jill took a step forward. Chris would have answered her. Jill spoke loud enough that he would have heard her. That only meant one thing: that whatever was approaching was not her partner.

Another footstep came from around the bend, and a shuffling sound soon followed. Jill moved toward the opposite end of the hallway, putting some distance between her and whatever was approaching. A groan broke the silence, and around the bend came one of the two B.O.W.s they were to terminate. It was a young woman, her clothing torn and blood splattered all over the fabric. Blood crusted her mouth, chin, and neck as she stumbled forward. Her skin was ashen and bore yellow pustules, some weeping a foul, black ooze. Jill took a step back and aimed for the woman’s head. As she did, a loud crash erupted behind her. Her eyes widened as she glanced over her shoulder. ‘Shit!’ Out of the door at the end of the hallway came the second zombie. This one was a male with a missing arm. Blood had stained where the man’s arm once was, and he bore the same pustules. Fresh blood dripped out of the zombie’s mouth as it staggered toward her at an unnatural gait. Jill found herself surrounded. 

The woman zombie then lunged at her, going for her throat as she heard the other rush at her. Jill fired off three rounds, hitting the woman in the shoulder, chest, and forehead. The zombie staggered forward and collapsed onto the ground with a sickening thud. A snarl came from behind, and Jill turned as the zombie tackled her. The two flew through the air and landed on the ground; the wind knocked out of her. The zombie growled above her and went for her neck. Jill quickly withdrew her knife and used it to block the man’s mouth, the blade digging into the sides of his mouth. The skin split where the metal met it, and decaying flesh began to drip. Jill struggled to get the undead man off her but found her other arm pinned down. The zombie snarled before he went to bite her again. Before it could even lower its head, the sound of a firearm echoed through the hallway. In the dead center of the zombie’s forehead was a bullet hole, the back of its skull splattering behind it. The zombie twitched as it fell to the side, and Jill shoved it off of her entirely.  

“Thanks. I would have been fine.” Jill said as she sat up and saw her partner, Chris, walk over. 

He stopped at her side and smiled at her. It made her heart skip a beat, and she quickly summed it up to the adrenaline from the attack. “I didn’t doubt that,” Chris said as he offered her his hand. “I just didn’t want you to have all the fun without me.”

Jill let out a soft chuckle as she took his hand. “Right.” He helped her to her feet and let go of her hand. Part of her wished he would have held on just a little longer than he did. Then again, this wasn’t new. Ever since she met him, she had had a schoolgirl crush on the man. He was handsome and pretty funny then. As he got older, it only added to his charm. Chris had gained a lot of muscle and let stubble grace his face rather than staying clean-cut like on the S.T.A.R.S. unit. He still had a sense of humor and seemed more relaxed with her than with others from the BSAA. He would adopt a more serious demeanor, but Jill liked that. Hell, over the years, she wanted him more and more. It was no longer a crush but a yearning instead. She wanted to spend more time with him than on their assigned missions. But that could never be. Not in their line of work. On top of it, she knew Chris cared about her, but he cared about everyone. He always treated them kindly and did his best to put their safety before his own. Jill knew that there was no chance of anything happening between them. They were friends and partners, and she would have to be happy with just that. Nothing more.

“Looks like we got them all.” Chris broke her from her thoughts as he looked down at the corpse that Jill had shot. He nudged it onto its back with his foot and stooped down to inspect the body. “They have the same pustules as the others.” 

Jill walked over to him and squatted down beside him. She looked at the zombie’s head and the visible parts of her skin. More leaking bubbles formed on the decaying flesh, some oozing the same liquid. “It is strange. They normally don’t have this many, and I haven’t seen them ooze this black stuff either.” 

“Neither have I,” Chris said, and she looked over at him. He was concentrating on the body before he looked at her. Jill could get lost in those soft, grey eyes, but she needed to stay focused. “We can send them over to Rebecca. Maybe she can analyze it.” Jill nodded before she rose to her feet. Chris followed after her and pressed the radio in his ear. 

“HQ. The targets have been neutralized and are ready to be picked up.” Jill looked from the woman to the man and back. A pang of melancholy hit her as she stared at the corpse. Just how many more people could suffer such a terrible fate? How many more innocent people would die before everything would be over? When would selfish companies stop with bioterrorism? The answers would never come. As long as these types of people were out there, this would keep happening again and again. All they could do was try to stay one step ahead of them. Jill was snapped from her thoughts as she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”

Jill looked over at Chris and saw a mix of worry in his gaze. “I’m fine. I just could use a shower.”

“Me too. Let’s get out of here. HQ is sending a helicopter.” Chris smiled at her before he started around the bend. Jill looked at the bodies one last time before she followed after him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jill let out an inward sigh of relief as soon as they touched down at the BSAA headquarters. She wanted nothing more than to go home, eat, and shower. Then, get some long-awaited sleep. She could feel her body beginning to lag as her muscles eased their tension. A dull, aching pain started in her back at the site where she hit the floor, and she was sure she’d have a bruise. A report could wait until tomorrow. Right now, she wanted to head to her apartment. She exited the helicopter, keeping her head low to avoid the blades. Chris followed her, and she spoke after they had left the aircraft. “I’m going to head home if that’s okay with you. I will write up a report tomorrow.” Jill said as she looked over at Chris. He was walking beside her, a small space between them. Something Chris always did that she noticed was only with her. He usually kept some distance from others, but not her. ‘No, Jill. You're reading too much into this. He's your friend. That's all.’ She pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind, burying them once more.

He looked at her silently briefly before he nodded and spoke. “That’s fine. We can wait until Rebecca contacts us about what she finds.” He then slowed to a stop, causing Jill to follow suit subconsciously. He turned toward her. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Chris was looking at her with that same expression again. He tended to do it a lot and made her almost feel hopeful. However, she once again reminded herself that they were friends and partners; they couldn’t be more than that as much as she wanted them to be. He was only looking out for his teammate, which he always did.

Jill smiled at him. “I’m fine, Chris. I’m not fragile. I’m pretty sure I can kick your ass even.” She gave his arm a light punch, eliciting a soft laugh from him. The sound made her heart skip a beat. It wasn’t very often he laughed anymore, but when she heard it, she loved it. 

“You probably could,” Chris said, playfully rubbing his arm as if her punch had caused damage. Jill rolled her eyes and smiled, shaking her head. Damn him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jill said as she waved a hand and started for the parking lot. 

“See you tomorrow, Jill. Get some rest.” Jill looked over her shoulder, and he smiled at her. She returned it before facing forward. Her heart was beating loudly in her chest. She was sure he would hear it if she did not leave now. ‘Damn you, Chris.’ Jill thought to herself as she pushed her feelings to the back of her mind. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jill unlocked the door to her apartment and opened it. She stepped through the threshold and locked the door behind her. Jill flipped the light switch to her right and flooded the living room with light. The living room was orderly and lightly furnished, though she hardly spent time there. Then again, she never spent more than a day at most in her apartment. A television sat on a mount to the wall across the room, and before it, there was a sofa and coffee table. A few potted plants sat on the windowsill, and two hung from the ceiling by the window. The walls were soft, creamy-white, and the floors were dark hardwood.  

Jill removed her shoes and set them on the shoe rack by the door before entering the room. She crossed it, heading to the left, where an archway was in the wall. It led to the kitchen, and she also turned the light on. It, too, was kept neat and orderly, with a small table in the center. Two chairs sat on opposite ends; she never needed more. It wasn't as if she had company with her busy work schedule. A fridge sat across the room with a stove, microwave, and sink. She debated on cooking something but opted against it. Jill felt too tired to eat, and standing at the stove felt off-putting. 

Instead, she crossed the room and opened one of the cupboards above the stove. She grabbed a glass and closed the cupboard, bringing it to the sink. She filled it with cold water and took a long drink. Once finished, she set it down in the sink and left the kitchen, shutting the light. What she needed was a shower. Jill walked to the opposite end of the living room, which opened into a hallway. A door to the right led to the laundry room, and the door at the end to her bedroom. Jill reached her room door and opened it up, turning on the light. The room was a perfect size for her. A single bed sat in the middle of the room with a bedside table to the left. There was a window on the far wall, and dark blue curtains blocked the remaining light. A long dresser took up the wall opposite the bed, and a small television sat atop the wood, a remote beside it. To the right was another door that had been left open. It led to the bathroom, and she walked over to it.

Jill walked through the threshold and turned on the light. The bathroom had tile flooring and walls, and soft mats rested by the sink, toilet, and walk-in shower. Jill shut the door and let out a breath. Finally, she was home. Moving over to the sink, Jill looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her clothing was dirty, and she had a bit of dirt on her face. She could see how tired she looked, and it was no wonder Chris kept asking if she was okay. If he looked the same, Jill would have asked as well. She removed her phone from her pocket and placed it beside the sink. Jill turned away from the mirror and walked to a small closet near the shower stall. She opened it up, got a clean towel from one of the shelves, and set it down on a towel holder on the shower door. She shut the door and slid the frosted glass door open to the shower stall. Jill reached inside and turned on the water, adjusting the temperature to a warm, comfortable setting. She then shut the door and undressed, dumping her dirty clothing into a hamper near the door. 

Once finished, she got into the shower and shut the door, standing beneath the water. Jill closed her eyes and breathed as warm water covered her body. It felt refreshing on her sore muscles, especially her back. She opened her eyes and thought back to the mission they had just been on. They had received reports of strange B.O.W.s showing up. They were not exactly the average run-of-the-mill zombies. Instead, all they had encountered had odd pustules that leaked a black fluid. It was assumed to be some sort of contagion, and they had taken extra precautions not to come in direct contact with it. Could a mutated strain have made transferring the virus easier than just through infected saliva? She hoped that Rebecca would have the necessary answers and that it wasn’t a new strain altogether. Jill sighed as she picked up her shampoo and poured some onto her hand. Thinking about this now would only chase away the sleep, not welcome it. Instead, she focused on how nice and warm the water felt on her skin—the clean scent of the shampoo as she lathered it in her hair. Tomorrow would be another day to worry about the cases. 

Jill rinsed the shampoo and washed her body, being careful of her bruised back. Once finished, she shut the water and opened the door, grabbing her towel. She wrapped it around herself as she stepped onto the mat, a slight chill running through her despite the lingering steam from the shower’s water. Jill stood there briefly before moving over to the bathroom door. A robe hung from a hanger, and she grabbed it, removing her towel. Jill pulled the robe on, tied it tightly around her waist, and then used the towel to dry her hair. As she did, she heard her cell phone buzz and paused. Jill walked over to the sink and wiped the screen on her robe before she clicked it on. There was a text message from Chris. Her heart rate increased upon seeing it. Why was he texting her? She stared at the screen and knew deep down what it was about. The case they were working on. Why else would he text her right now? Jill clicked the message and swiped her screen up, reading it. 

Hey Jill, I contacted Rebecca. She said we should meet at her lab tomorrow afternoon to review her findings. I can pick you up if you’d like. 

Jill thought for a moment before she texted her answer. It would be easier to take just one vehicle there. They were going to the same place, after all. Okay, that would work. She sent it and set her phone down as she dried her hair. Jill then hung the towel to dry on the shower door when her phone buzzed again. Jill returned to the sink and picked it up, reading the new message. 

Perfect. I’ll pick you up around 11. And Jill, please try to get some rest. Don’t keep yourself up all night thinking about this case. 

Jill arched an eyebrow at this and typed back. Who said I was going to do that? The response was almost immediate. 

I know you. Another one popped up after it. Get some sleep.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. You too. Good night, Chris. 

Good night, Jill. 

Jill clicked the side button on her phone, and the screen went black. He knew her, huh? Jill smiled before she left the bathroom, shutting the light off. She entered her bedroom and changed into a clean pair of undergarments and night clothes before setting her robe back on the hook in the bathroom. She returned to her bedroom, grabbed the remote for the television, and hit the power button. The television came to life, with two chefs making a dish and instructing viewers on their steps. She crossed the room and turned off the light before walking to her bed. Jill pulled down the covers and got in, pulling them up to her chin. The mattress felt heavenly on her body, and she discovered how tired she was when she lay down. Jill set the remote on the side table and looked at the television. Chris had told her not to think about the case, so this would hopefully take her mind off it. Jill watched the cooking program until her eyelids grew heavy, and the kitchen sounds lulled her to sleep.

[altrbody]

Abstraction:

"Abstraction is flying. Abstracting is ascending to higher and higher levels of conceptual generalization; soaring back and forth, reflectively circling around above the specificity and immediacy of things and events in space and time, from a perspective that embeds them in a conceptual framework of increasing breadth and depth, a framework without horizon, ceil-ing, or basement; a framework composed of increasingly comprehensive concepts that generalize over increasingly comprehensive classes of things, organize them relative to one another, unify them into a coherent tapestry, a dizzying object of contemplation the details of which stun one into panic by their connectedness, significance, and vividness.

Abstraction is also flight. It is freedom from the immediate spatiotemporal constraints of the moment; freedom to plan the future, recall the past, comprehend the present from a reflective perspective that incorporates all three; freedom from the immediate boundaries of concrete subjectivity, freedom to imagine the possible and transport oneself into it; freedom to survey the real as a resource for embodying the possible; freedom to detach the realized object from oneself more and more fully as a self-contained entity, fully determined by its contextual properties and relations, and consider it from afar, as new grist for the mill of the possible. Abstraction is freedom from the socially prescribed and consensually accepted; freedom to violate in imagination the constraints of public practice, to play with conventions, or to indulge them. Abstraction is a solitary journey through the conceptual uni-verse, with no anchors, no cues, no signposts, no maps, no foundations to cling to. Abstraction makes one love material objects all the more."

--Adrian Piper

From Adrian Piper: Reflections 1967-1987, Alternative Museum, New York City April 18-May 30, 1987.

[silverzoomies]

Polaroid

peter maximoff x reader smut

warnings: solo masturbation. that's pretty much it, sorry

word count: 2,625

a/n: i wrote about him jerking off again. whoops. i've been absent for a week. but i'll be home tomorrow !! and hopefully i can get back into the flow of writing. until then, here's this rushed, unpolished thing i wrote on a whim !! it's super clunky and i'm so sorry lol !!

edit: made some minor changes to this. fixed some things that felt off, but overall it's still the same idea.

taglist: @dewberryobssesed @violetharmonscupcake @kaismanwich @jellyluvr @icannot3 @taintandviolent @ahoyladiesz (as usual, ask to be added !!)

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Home alone, at long last. Helllllllz to the yeah. Down in the heart of his (mom’s) basement, Peter lies lazily on his back in bed. Today, it's one of those slow, hot afternoons midway through summer. Sunny, with a slight overcast. Peter hasn’t been outside to see it for himself. But he heard some guy on the radio call it “totally tubular��� weather for a day at the beach.

He almost wishes he’d take a two second run to the Bahamas, or somewhere else. Peter could kick it back on a towel and watch babes in bikinis walk by. Maybe he could even stir up some trouble in the sand. Like he used to do, way back in his childhood. Just for some extra mayhem.

Alas. Today, Peter feels lazier than lazy. He’s found a new name for himself in Lazyville. As the leading candidate in the office of laziness. Speeding all around the globe for the umpteenth time this week sounds like too much work. Even a super powered mutant, living life in the fast lane, has his off days sometimes. What’s one break, eh? Breathing a sigh, he stares up at the ceiling. Earphones rest over his ears. Peter listens to a melodious tune by Jefferson Starship. Over his belly, he twirls his thumbs, bobbing his head along with his jams. Chillaxin’ and relaxin’ as one should on his day off. Hm.

Except, Peter’s kind of antsy. No one’s home at the moment. He has all this free time to do whatever he wants, in the privacy of said home. With not a soul around to judge him, or even bug him. And listen. It’s been centuries since he got off. Which may or may not be a slight exaggeration.

But wouldn’t you believe it? Despite his uniquely handsome features and outrageously fit bod; Peter has absolutely no game whatsoever. Crazy, right? Who woulda thought it? The dude who locked himself away in his (mom’s) basement for a good ten years. He’s awkward as hell? Say it ain’t so! Whoa!! Insane in the membrane!!!

Not to mention, it might as well have been a geological age since he got laid. Whatever. Who needs the companionship of someone else to have a totally righteous time, huh? Haha…

Ahem.

Today, Peter dubs himself the crowned king of slacking off and jacking off.

Pulling his earphones down to rest around his neck, his fingers move to find his jeans. He teases himself for a beat or two, his palm rubbing over the denim. Another beat, and his cock is freed from the tight, restrictive material. Peter makes a mental note: He might need to invest in looser pants. This pair is rough and uncomfortable around his legs, so he shoves them all the way down to his ankles with virtually no shame.

What does it matter anyway? For the time being, he’s free. At least until his mom gets back, that is. He should really stop thinkin’ about that. Every time Peter remembers - oh, yeah - he’s a grown ass man still living at his mom’s place; it kinda wrecks the vibe. Makes the mood crash and burn. Total boner killer. And he’s not even hard yet.

His half-hard cock rests limply over a curly patch of silver hairs. Peter would never admit it to anyone, but he’s always been self conscious of his hair situation. Some chick back in high school - he can’t even remember her name - said his silvery bush “looked really weird.” Like the pubes of some geriatric. 

Peter can barely picture her face at this point. But the sound of her giggling at his expense is, unfortunately, locked away in his brain forever. Another embarrassing memory to withstand the test of time. Probably until he dies, or becomes a geriatric himself.

What was he doing again? Oh. Right.

Peter gives his dick a firm squeeze, like he’s checking to make sure it’s still there. Before taking the semi-hard length into his hand. Slowly, he strokes himself to hardness. Breathing a relieved sigh, Peter settles into the groovy-patterned sheets of his bed. The smooth tip of his cock inches through his closed fist with every stroke. As his frustration blossoms, his length throbs with an intense longing for something more.

Thick veins pulsate under his hand. Sparkling beads of precum leak from his tip. He coats the head in a generous glaze of slickness, eliciting a hushed noise from the depths of his throat. Keeping himself as quiet as humanly possible is basically a instinctive response. But he doesn’t have to hold himself back right now, does he?

Sweet. Peter’s gonna be as loud and obnoxious as he wants.

Pumping his cock a bit faster, he momentarily stops to fondle his balls. They rest heavy in his palm, smooth to the touch and loose between his fingers. After teasing himself impatiently, Peter redirects his attention to his twitching length. Aching for more stimulation. He jerks off with a pleasurable rhythm. Subconsciously following the beat that resonates from his earphones, his strokes fall into a more consistent pace. He leans further back in bed, letting his lips part. His nerves tingle. And as he revels in the sensation, he loudly moans. Letting the noise rip through the silence of his ( mom’s ) basement.

Said basement has now become more stifling. Kudos to the summertime heat for that one. Peter’s Conan the Barbarian T-Shirt - now damp with his sweat - feels like too much of a hindrance. He pulls the fabric up, letting his upper half breath. With his shirt clamped between his teeth, Peter leaves his body exposed. A sheen of sweat coats his abs, and his pecs raise with each labored breath he takes.

He takes a half second to admire his own physique. Honestly? No bullshit? His body looks pretty damn amazing. If only there were someone around to appreciate how naturally jacked he is. It’s a hell of a tragedy, really. All this smokin’ hot, speedster bod goin’ to waste. Tsk tsk tsk.

Who was he even kidding? Why would anyone wanna waste their time messin’ around with a total shut-in like him?

Dammit. Now's not the time for some hateful, self-ribbing. He should distract himself with something. Something like-

Using the gift of his mutation, Peter increases his speed by a few notches. His fist squeezes tightly around his length, stroking his cock even faster. He groans into his shirt, knitting his brows as arousal washes through his groin in waves. It feels good. Really fucking good.

But it’s not enough. He wants to utilize this free time as much as he can. It’s the perfect opportunity to get even more frisky than he usually would. Peter bolts around the basement, searching for a few hidden…uh…treasures, we’ll call them. In a blink, he reappears on his bed, leaving his overly tight jeans and boxers discarded on the floor.

Lying next to Peter over the wrinkled blankets, rest a bottle of lube - the tingly kind, a stroker toy - clear, with literal, silver lining, and a polaroid photo. The toy hasn’t been used in eons, but its quality is still up to par. Peter made sure to clean it the instant he found it again. And the photo, well…

It’s his own, filthy secret.

A low-res, high flash picture taken of you at last year’s, X-mansion, Halloween party. Whoa, mama. You were scantily clad in the most outrageously suggestive Indiana Jones costume Peter ever saw. Back at the party, you even tipped your hat and cracked the whip a couple of times. Which may or may not have awakened something in him. But that’s beside the point.

You were so tipsy that night. Way more flirtatious than you naturally would be any other day. Peter remembers you pressing your body against his, hanging over him all night like a sexy sack of potatoes. He sat next to you on the couch. With a cheesy grin on his face, he watched your every move. The tiny shorts you were wearing kept riding up your thighs. It was obvious you were braless under a tight, cropped, button-up shirt. Leaving so little to the imagination.

Point blank, it was fucking awesome.

You crossed your smooth legs. One over the other. And you leaned in to whisper something hot in Peter’s ear.

“Take a picture with meeeee, Quickie, I wanna remember this moment forrrever and everrrr.” You pleaded, your breath tickling the skin of his neck. 

What followed, he hadn’t seen coming. As someone - it’s all a blur, Peter can’t remember who - snapped the photo, you pressed your glossy lips to his cheek. Your giggles were so coquettish and teasing, he felt shivers race through his body at mach speed.

“I’m, like, sooooooooo scared of snakes. Geddit? ‘Cuz I’m Indiana? But your snake doesn’t scare me. Can I pet it, pllllleeeassse?” You giggled again with a little whine.

Making an abrupt move, you reached for Peter’s crotch in front of everybody. After zipping away to grab you a solo cup full of water and some bread, Peter snatched the photo from whoever. And he bolted home in a fit of shameful embarrassment.

In retrospect, you weren’t just tipsy. You were majorly smashed. You didn’t remember a single minute of it. Figures. He’s not too surprised you wouldn’t remember flirting with him.

Peter sighs, blinking himself out of the memory. Eager to continue his once-in-a-silver-moon, jerkin’ session. He squeezes a fair amount of lube into his palm, wrapping his large hand tightly around his cock. Over every inch of his aching length, he spreads the slick substance. Tingles sparkle like stars across the hot, velvet skin of his cock. Wet noises echo lewdly through the basement, as Peter pumps his leaking dick fast and hard.

Clenching his shirt between his teeth, Peter tilts his head back. A loud, seething moan slips from his lips, slightly muffled. He pauses again, grabbing the stroker and guiding its smooth slit over the swollen head of his cock.

“MMmmmnnn~!” Peter hums a steady moan, exhaling through his nose.

The inside of the toy feels nothing even remotely close to the real thing. Kind of a bummer. But the tunnel’s soft, bumpy ridges are still a double A plus. A little too good sometimes, actually. The toy slides down Peter’s cock as he pushes his entire length through. It’s a tight fit around him. Tighter than it should be. Which is doing wonders for his confidence. Maybe he should be more proud of his size.

He’s above average enough, the small toy can’t contain the length of him entirely. His weeping tip peeks out the other side of the stroker, prodding through with every pump. Peter breathes another, shuddering moan. His brows crease in pleasure. Pumping his cock with the squishy toy, he whines in desperation. Forcing his thick length through the toy’s tight grip, slick with lube and smooth as silk. The ridges inside tickle and massage his cock, stimulating his buzzing nerves. 

The muscles in his groin tighten, stiffening his legs. Shoving his cock rapidly through the ribbed tunnel of the toy, he groans louder. Letting his needy noises slip as they please. Fuck it. No restraint. Indulging himself further in his degeneracies, Peter keeps your photo close by. He shoots a glance at it, admiring your soft thighs and amazing cleavage.

He daydreams about you. Imagining the way you’d feel around him, squeezing him so much tighter than any toy. You’d be needy and wet for him too, making it so easy for Peter to bury himself balls deep inside you. 

Peter thinks about the way your titties would look, bouncing with each thrust of his hips against you. Would your nipples peak, stiffening under his fingers? How would you react if he had a little fun, and teased you with a superspeed buzz? Would you even like that? Would you think that kinda thing was weird?

He really does want you sooooo bad. But you have absolutely zero idea. Peter knows he’d treat you right if you let him. If you ever gave him the time of day outside of missions, he’d take you on the wildest ride you ever strapped yourself into.

Clenching his teeth hard into his shirt, he wraps both hands tightly around the stroker. Peter leans as far back as he can, bracing his feet flat on the bed. The blankets curl under his toes, as he lifts his hips. Driving his cock through the slick, textured toy and fucking it hard.

“Nnghh…fuuuuck. Fuck.” He groans, voice catching under fabric.

His breaths quicken, and his moans morph into desperate whimpers. Peter aches for your heat, and the closeness of your body. Your gentle touch. Your sweet voice and little whines. He knows, without a doubt, you’d feel beyond amazing. And you’d probably taste so sublime.

Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Peter whimpers into his shirt. Saliva seeps through the fabric, melting off his tongue and dribbling down his chin. His cheeks burn hotter, turning a brighter shade of crimson.

“Mmmmmfuckyeah-” Peter moans, followed by a muffled mumble of your name.

He fucks his cock through the toy at rapid, superspeed. Lifting his hips off the bed as if roughly drilling into your tight heat. Peter’s cock throbs as powerful surges of electricity erupt in the pit of his belly. Glossy, white streaks of cum spill from his tip, flooding over the toy. Dripping down the squishy sides of it. His cum stuffs the inside full, coating his dick in its stickiness. Peter thrusts his cock fast enough to appear a blur, until he’s completely spent.

Lying in a sweaty heap over his blankets, Peter pants easy breaths. Tousled, silver hair rests messily over his head. He pulls the stroker from his cock, and slick cum trails after it. Wet and thick against his softening dick. He throws his head back into the bed, taking a moment to compose himself.

It’s really crazy that he’s thinkin’ about you like this, isn’t it? He’s honestly really embarrassed by it. Peter grabs the polaroid and stares at it longingly, unable to suppress the grin pressing into his dimple. Damn. He just can’t help himself. No matter what, he’s kinda ride or die for you.

If only he had the balls to tell you up front.

Peter gazes at the photo for a few seconds too long. Lost in the sight of your sexy body again. You’re such a goddamn knockout. He guides his attention to his dick to find…he’s rock hard again? Seriously? Dropping his head onto the bed, Peter groans with agonizing frustration. He just can’t catch a break, can he? Why’s he always gotta be so antsy, so on edge, or so horny all the time??

A faint sound, like creaking wood, graces his ears. Peter tilts his head up instantly.

Only to be greeted by none other than the unexpected sight of you.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck-

You’re standing in his (��mom’s ) basement with your mouth agape. A faint indication of blush paints your cheeks, though he can barely see it. Peter should be moving. He should do what a speedster naturally would do in this kinda situation: Clean up and dress himself in less than a blink’s time. Just to play innocent afterwards. Maybe he could gaslight you into thinking you didn’t watch him get his rocks off.

But he’s stunned to the point of being frozen. Neither of you make a single move. Except for Peter’s dick. It twitches subconsciously in his lap, catching your attention. And your eyes widen further.

He really should’ve gone to the Bahamas. Peter’s betting those beaches are seriously bangin’ at this time of year.

[arcadia-of-pluto]

Twist of Fate; Twenty-One

Pairings; LADS OT4 x reader

Word count; 3,309

Themes; isekai, slow-burn (eventual smut), canon divergence

Rating; 18+ for swearing and mature themes

Notes; I would apologize for taking so long (both for this update and for Foreseer going on too long–), but I'm tired of doing that so just buckle up because Foreseer Zayne is still on-going! I haven't really felt like writing or doing anything lately, so I'm still only on chapter 23 so the chapters might be a bit slower to drop. I'm doing all I can, but I only feel like writing when I feel like it so– I'll get back to it soon!

As much as I love writing for LADS, I have so many original story ideas and if I ever start writing them, I'd love to post them here. I'm just not sure how well original content would go on Tumblr tbh? I'm sure yall will grow tired of isekai content, but I have so many original ideas for stuff like that. Like seriously– I could count at least five in my Google docs! But I also have a few non-isekai ideas, like a possible miraculous ladybug type idea (with superheros and the hidden identity trope), a game of thrones type of story with my own set of gods and goddesses (I came up with it in the 11th grade and I'm desperate for people to know about it, it makes me so mf happy)...I could go on and on about it tbh but I'll just say more about it after the chapter is done since I don't want to clog this section up too much! <3

Enjoy this chapter of ToF!

prev || next

☆ Masterlist ☆

Under your care, the jasmine bud grows bigger and bigger by the day. You’re happy, but also a bit nervous. According to your expertise, the jasmine will bloom in less than a week…That means you don’t have much time. You’ve also learned that, other than reading and checking on the jasmine, the Foreseer stays at a location hidden behind an ordinary door in the basement.

What does he do in there? Is the Creatio protocore’s location perhaps…

When the Foreseer disappears behind the door again, you pretend to lose your way and follow after him. What greets you is unbelievable, a sight to behold. Behind that door is a library, the ceiling nowhere to be found. Bookshelves stretch as far as the eye can see.

“Huh…Does the Foreseer obtain his books from here? How can he find anything in this place? I don’t even know where he is…” Your mumbles activate some sort of switch, ice materializes beneath your feet and carries you into the air. “Wha–” You’re in disbelief. “...I guess the mystery of how he acquires his books has been solved.”

You feel as if you are lost in a sea of books, for shelf after shelf is filled to the brim with them. The ice stops in front of a bookshelf. You’re a good distance off the ground. “Where is he…” You mutter to yourself, struggling against the ice that held you in place. You sigh and decide to make the most of your time, reaching out to carefully grab the book that’s right in front of you.

Its title is Philos: Floral Inquiry.

Philos? Was every single male lead from Philos?

You open the book and see the pages about jasmines have been read the most. “Jasmines again…Why is this flower important to him? Is it just because he wants the one atop the Tower to bloom?” Reading the notes, you try to piece together an answer.

When you turn to the title page, there is a single word on it: Zayne.

“Zayne…? Who is this Zayne?”

While this version of you would clearly be confused, you were not. You were more shocked that he had the same name in this life as well.

You’re not sure what you expected, but you assumed he’d be called the Foreseer until the end of your dream…

“He is the person you seek.”

In your surprise, you fumble with the book in your hands and turn around. On a platform of ice, the Foreseer stands behind you. His steadfast gaze sends a chill down your spine.

“I had no intention of intruding, Foreseer. The ice clearly kidnapped me–”

“Are you claiming the frost coerced you?” He raises an eyebrow and you take a step back, forgetting that you’re standing on a sheet of ice. Your foot touches nothing.

“W-Woah! Help!” You windmill your arms in the air to stop yourself from falling, but it doesn’t help much. In a moment, you go from descending to being caught in the air.

“Expressing your regret does not require theatrics.”

“...Are you mocking me? I find that hard to believe.” You look up at him with a frown and his eyes, their depths seemingly immeasurable, are close to your face.

The Foreseer carries you to the ground with your heart pounding in your chest.

Was it hot in this room?

Yeah…That’s the reasoning behind your reddened cheeks.

You come to your senses and quickly lower your head. “You…can let me go now. It was good that you were present. It must be dangerous to acquire your books like this.”

“Likewise, ‘tis dangerous to push one’s duty onto others.” He still hadn’t put you down yet.

“Others..?” An ice cluster appears in front of you and slowly spins. “The ice at my feet…Is this its original form? Are you its creator?”

“‘Twas not the work of magic, but a phantasm.” The Foreseer taps the ice cluster. “Carrying her to the higher shelves without a reason was your doing. Am I wrong?”

He’s…talking to the ice?

It unfurls and blooms like jasmine, ice particles ripping around you both.

“Does it understand our language?” You ask, once he finally sets you down.

“We are like-minded in our distaste for lies.”

Well…that doesn’t answer your question.

Though part of you is still in disbelief, the Foreseer’s spells and this library’s very existence are starting to convince you that what you’ve experienced is real.

“My apologies…I snuck in because I wanted to know what you did here. The ice heard me talking to myself, so it flew me up there.” You look down and the phantasmal jasmine runs circles around you before leaping into your hand.

“...Your forgiveness is boundless, for better or worse.”

“So…it accepts my apology?” Ice gathers under you again, and it lifts you into the air. You stumble, about to fall again.

Yet another piece of ice appears beneath your foot, steadying you. Curious, you take another step. Regardless of the direction you take, ice forms beneath you. You walk around, excitement in every step.

It’s…so fascinating.

It’s like having a platform at your command.

“Incredible! It knows what I’m about to do.” You clap your hands together with a gleeful smile.

“The individual subconscious is also a form of energy. It can sense even the smallest of changes.” The Foreseer is still as curt as ever.

“Oh!” You look down at him as you smile. “May I name it Jas? It was reminiscent of jasmine when it unfurled.”

“You and the phantasm should decide. I am but a witness.” You stop before the Foreseer. With your icy platform, you can look him straight in the eye.

“Then may I…call you Zayne?”

With a piercing gaze, he stares at you and you stumble over your words. “A…name defines a person. ‘Tis important, I would think.”

You are unable to read his expression.

“Do what you must.”

You mutter his name under your breath a few times in front of the mirror in your dimly lit room. All your mind can focus on is him in the library, watching you scurry about.

“I encroached on his territory by sneaking into the library…Why didn’t he lash out? Does he perhaps trust me now?” The icy marks on your chest are reflected in the mirror, tendrils spreading and twisting, approaching your collarbone.

Your time is nearing its end. At this time, an idea presents itself.

Since Jas took you to the Foreseer in the library, could you also use it to obtain the Creatio protocore?

“Jas…Are you here?” You call out to it. The sound of swirling ice reverberates in the air. The cluster of ice manifests and makes an arc in the air to greet you.

“You’re here!” You smile at it before clearing your throat, “Jas, I…I have a request. Could you take me to the Foreseer’s scepter?”

The phantasm stops moving. By Astra’s eyes…Does Jas know of your true purpose?

“I wish to–”

Before you can fully explain yourself, Jas expands and lunges at you.

…Are you destined to perish in the cold?

Before you could utter a scream, you realize the crystals phased through your body. There is only darkness. The faint sound of running water catches your attention.

Where…are you?

A distance away, you can make out an indigo spark. That’s…surely the Creatio protocore.

So Jas really did listen to you! As the light is within your reach, you take note of your surroundings.

Oh…

Steam escapes from behind a dark-coloured curtain. Moonlight shines through the window, landing on Zayne’s shoulders and revealing the drops of water running along his back.

Oh my…Wait, why were you brought to his bedchamber? Shit, you’ve got to get out of there before he notices.

You hold your breath and take one step back…Your foot bumps into something and makes a barely audible noise, but Zayne turns around and your gazes meet.

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry for disturbing you! But I swear on my name that Jas brought me here..”

Maybe the turmoil in your mind is playing tricks on you, but Zayne is unperturbed. With the slight curl of his finger, the steam around us turns into a white cloth that hangs around his waist.

And with another wave of his hand, an unseen force pulls you in his direction. You stand before him, doing your best to look him in the eyes.

“What brings you here?” His hair, his face, his chest– all wet from the water– You are unable to avert your gaze, and you feel a rising heat on your face.

But what is more astounding is the number of scars etched on Zayne’s body.

“I thought the jasmine was about to bloom…I was unaware you were bathing!” Having coughed up a pitiful excuse, you close your eyes in embarrassment. You sense the invisible force is gone and when you open your eyes, Zayne is putting on his robes.

“No one could have predicted Jas to be unwavering in its loyalty to you. However, I expected as much. It knows only of us, thus it considers you a friend.”

Aww...That’s really sweet!

Wait—

“Are you going to punish Jas? It only indulged in my whimsy…”

“Should I punish you instead?” Zayne’s unwavering gaze meets your eyes.

“If the jasmine meets something terrible as I sit in an icy prison for three days and three nights…”

“Worry not, punishment awaits.”

Huh?

You shake your head, eyebrows furrowing as you look up at him. “What do you mean? Are you going to kill me after the jasmine blooms?”

“...Is a horrible death the only consequence you can think of? I have no interest in taking the life of another.”

“Is it for this reason you will let me leave?” Your head tilts to the side and Zayne turns his head to look away from you. “You should decide that for yourself.” With a wave of his hand, you are pushed out of his bedchamber by an unseen force.

After another few days of deliberating on what to do next, you take a few notes. Zayne will catch you if you are anywhere near the Creatio protocore…and the more you learn about Zayne, the greater the mystery enshrouding him.

Those scars etched into his flesh. It seems like…he was stabbed in the past. Yet no one else lives in this Tower.

How could he have been wounded? He is also blessed by Astra. Who could be powerful enough to injure him?

But…more importantly, why would Astra allow His follower to become injured?

Your curiosity extends beyond your current relationship. In other words…You will never be given an answer.

The very next day, you visit the library at midnight. Jas takes you to the same shelf that has Philos: Floral Inquiry.

“Is Zayne always reading this book?”

Everything…seems to be connected to the jasmine flower.

You open the book and study the text, paying special attention to the pages with notes left by Zayne.

“ ‘Once again, jasmine appears…’ How is it related to all of this?” You read his note out loud, and responding to your voice, the pages begin to glow. “What…is happening!?”

You squeeze your eyes shut as a bright light shines in front of you.

When your vision returns, you find yourself in a sea of white flowers. The sun’s golden rays shine across the field of jasmines. Except the flowers that aren’t in bloom. They are all flower buds.

Nearby, a familiar figure, its watcher you presume, observes this field. “Huh– Zayne? Why are you here? Where are we?”

You slowly walk in his direction, running your hands through your hair.

What was this?? A dream within a dream or something?

Zayne turns to look at you, confusion in his expression. “Have we met before?”

“Um..”

“Who are you?”

As you approach him, you realize his body is but a mirage. Sunlight passes through his robes. His appearance is that of Zayne’s, but he lacks the Foreseer’s frigid character.

“Through what means did you enter this place?”

Well, whatever he was, this version of Zayne seems to be the most similar to your Zayne, so you didn’t want to give him too difficult of a time.

“I was just reading a…Huh. Am I in the book?” You bring your hand up to your chin to think, but Zayne speaks once more, “You stand in an illusion crafted by words and words alone.”

“Then what are you?”

A corner of his mouth curls up and he turns his gaze away from you. “A lonely wraith.” The sight of Zayne’s face smiling was the last thing you thought you’d see in this life.

Then again, you’ve met Jas. You have come to accept these bizarre events.

“Were you the one who planted these jasmines?” You crouch down near him to run your finger across the buds.

“They are more than just mere flowers.” His voice felt as free as the wind. While he was lonely here, he was able to express his emotions.

He didn’t feel cold at all.

“Are they phantasms?” As you ask him, you inspect the growth of the flowers. They seem to be in the same state as the jasmine on top of the roof of the Tower.

An image appears in your mind as your fingers touch the buds. Zayne lowering his head to kiss the jasmine.

The man in front of you seems just as surprised as you are.

“My memories..Or perhaps it would be better to say they are the jasmines in my memories.”

You wonder if the jasmines are actual flowers or if they’re meant to represent something…or someone. You touch another one.

This time you see Zayne in an unfamiliar garb, but still lowering his head to kiss the flower.

Wait, you recognize that outfit!

That’s…his hospital coat.

“Why does the Zayne in these memories appear to be from another era?” You look over at this Zayne and, even if this is a dream from the past, you can still feel anxiety bubbling in your chest.

“Each one is my life of another time.”

“Is your destiny and the jasmine intertwined?” As this version of you asks questions, you are left with no one to ask anything to.

Questions going unanswered and you ponder if maybe you– well, the protagonist of the games– are supposed to represent the jasmine flower.

“All I can recall is my end with that moment.”

“So…you know what I saw just now?”

At this point, you’re not sure if Zayne is upset or relieved to finally have someone to talk to.

“Again and again and again like a cycle…I do not remember what happens after. Therefore, these buds can never blossom. ‘Tis why I bring each one here.”

You stare out at the seemingly endless ocean of flower buds. If each one represents a memory without an end, then how many are there?

If you recall Zayne’s note: ‘Once again, jasmine appears…’

“Isn’t the Foreseer able to see the fate of everyone in the world?” You decide to sit down in the grass next to the man, running your fingers through the dewy blades.

“He cannot see his own.” The wraith, seemingly moments away from dissipating into the sunlight, looks into the distance. “Such is Astra’s will.”

Astra this, Astra that. You’re starting to think this guy isn’t as great and everyone says he is…

With a sigh, you leave the library and slowly climb the staircase to check on your jasmine. Your thoughts still linger on the book’s illusion and especially the wraith within.

You reach the top of the Tower and there, Zayne stands in the moon’s immaculate glow. It seems he’s thinking deeply while gazing at the jasmine. You understand its significance to him now.

He’s pinning his desire to remember onto the flower bud.

“You are not forbidden from entering the library, but you cannot venture there as you please.”

It seems he knew you were inside of that illusion…

”Zayne, have you ever considered leaving the Tower?” Your voice was soft, hands nervously grabbing onto one another as you tried to keep the pitied expression off of your face. Zayne looks at you, his emotions inexplicable.

“What text did you find to make you ask such a thing?”

“Maybe…These jasmines represent the outside–” Zayne silently lifts his hand up into the air, and you are abruptly pulled toward him. His hand grasps your throat, his wintery gaze meeting yours.

“Your insolence reveals itself. Allow me to remind you of your place.”

What the hell is his problem!? Why did you even have to worry about him in the first place..?

Just steal the protocore and leave, simple and easy…Right? Well, it would’ve been easy if you hadn’t– No, don’t even finish that thought.

You are not in love with the guy who is literally choking you right now.

Fear spreads through your very being, your fingers clawing at his hand around your throat. All of the sudden, the Creatio protocore on his scepter releases an eerie, indigo light.

Frowning, Zayne relaxes his grip and pushes you away. “Stand back.” Your brows furrow as you cough, holding a hand up to your slightly sore throat.

Now what?

“Zayne?”

“Stay away from me.”

Before you can do anything, a myriad of brambles sprout and slither with serpentine precision toward Zayne.

“What are these things!?” You were clearly in a panic, worried for yourself but also…worried for Zayne.

Seemingly alive, the brambles ensnare Zayne’s entire body and dig into his limbs and torso. It’s exactly like your first meeting, when he was bound to the throne.

“There…Are they preventing you from leaving?” You bring your hand up to your mouth in shock.

This…was how Astra treated His followers?

Zayne’s gaze is as cold as winter’s sting. “The Foreseer cannot set foot outside of the Tower of Thorns.”

One of the brambles rushes for you and you try your best to move out of the way. It manages to scrape your arm, a clean cut, almost as if it were trying to send a warning toward you.

Zayne lifts his finger and a wall of ice appears to shield you from the remaining brambles. “A few swipes is all it needs to take your life.” You remember how the Creatio protocore glowed when you talked about being outside the Tower.

“...Is it because I suggested you leave this place? Your wounds…Are they from the brambles?”

Is this your fault for mentioning anything?

“He is warning us.”

“...Astra?”

You were really starting to dislike this so-called ‘God’.

Though, you do recall that only Astra could “perpetually freeze” His Foreseer. The Creatio protocore…is that His method to keep an eye on the Foreseer?

Not only does Astra punish any attempt to leave the Tower, but even the mere thought of it is also intolerable.

“You’ve attempted to leave this Tower before…Haven’t you? That’s the reasoning behind all of your scars.”

What kind of God punishes His own followers?

“I have no recollections of such.”

“I’m sorry. I was unaware…I assumed you didn’t want to leave.” Your hand clenches into a fist.

Maybe…If you broke the Creatio– No, you still need it to ensure your survival.

“You’ve begged enough for forgiveness. Destiny’s guiding hand may have brought you here, but it is time to abandon your curiosity.”

The brambles seem to have calmed down and disappeared into smoke. If not for your wounded arm, you would’ve assumed you were dreaming.

“There will be a solar eclipse tomorrow. I must wait at the Tower’s pinnacle for the prophecy. Unless I tell you, you are prohibited from entering.”

“Astra gifted one of His eyes to the Foreseer. By walking the winding path of time did the Foreseer understand His passings. This is the power of a god.”

- Philos: Tome of the Foreseer

Hey guys! Hope you didn't forget about what I said earlier <3

I'm gonna soft-drop a few ideas I have here, just because I don't want to make a separate post if no one is actually interested!

So here's some old Google docs ideas I had; one was a marvel version of my hero academia– with like Iron Man as All Might and Spiderman as Izuku and our main character would've been someone else entirely. Gertrude Yorkes who is an actual character in the comics, who has a pet velociraptor (or a deinonychus). I have everything fleshed out (and by that I mean all of the teachers and I even included the Titans because...lets face it. They're some of the best DC characters.

I also had a sword art online fic and some black clover ocs but...let's not talk about them 😭

My miraculous type idea was instead of kwamis, there's spirits in the items. And it'll be slightly asian inspired with the two heroes being Yin and Yang to each other, like how Cat Noir and Ladybug are the opposites. Like the jewelry is called shinzō (which means heart), so if the jewelry is destroyed the divine beast inside of it will die. And the top evil person being a hot lady, possibly the female mc's older sister or something.

I had another my hero idea, but since it's hard to insert ocs into the main plot, I made my own school with teachers, students, etc. So instead of trying to fit an oc in, I decided to make it so much more difficult for myself by making over 20+ new characters and quirks for a new school in the universe of mha. 🕴 I still have it, but I honestly doubt I have plans to write it 😭 or any of the above ones besides maybe the miraculous spin-off one.

I had a BL (boy's love, gay, yaoi) isekai idea where either the mc is afab non-binary and isekai's into the body of a male character or I might just make them a boy instead? However, I might scrap this idea because I had a better one a few months later that was the mc being a trans man, but not being accepted so he uh...possibly unalives himself and then wakes up in an alternative universe where he's a man (and it's a/b/o for some reason) and the plus side to this is, the version of him in this universe was a trans woman. So, they switch realities and it's a whole "they were put in the wrong universe on accident" type of thing. Either way, both ideas were a/b/o and I definitely had more written for the first one (I even named it "Out of Tune"), but it's a toss up for if I'd write it or not.

I have an isekai one where the mc went into a game she was playing, a mature game so– yeah. I have an S-rank hunter story since there's not many dungeon stories with a female mc. I have a random regression story that I don't have much written on...one called "All the villainess wants to do is die", which I might change tbh, but the mc possibly isekai's ofc. And of course she's a wrongly accused villainess who is actually a saintess. There's magical powers usually based on family lines, there's divine beasts, just wild stuff like that!

Then I have a non-isekai story similar to the manwha "Philomel" where the mc reads a book about her life at a young age and learns she might be a fake princess and eventually gets executed for being a fake.

And then finally, my magnum opus, the game of thrones-like story. I had no name for it, the Google doc is simply named "Vothad, Odura" which is the name of the world it takes place in. Vothad is the capital in the North and I have the other names as well, but this note is getting pretty lengthy tbh 😭 so I'll make Odura have it's own post if anyone is interested in the gods and the universe itself. I made all of this for a project in the 12th grade to create our own country, only for my teacher to say...it had to be based in the real world on the day of the presentation so...imagine my surprise. I even had to come up with a stupid national anthem 😭

There is a lot more I could say about this one, but just let me know if yall wanna hear about it and I can make a separate post for it! Like I have some mythos I was working on, a lesbian goddess couple who spawned a kid from their brain like Zeus having Athena– and just about the geography of Odura!

Anyway, I am so sorry for the rant, I doubt anyone came here for original work. Yall are just here for the hot LADS men and, honestly, I can't blame you 🩷

Taglist; @orphicmeliora , @yoongi-tunes , @mitzkooni , @hiqhkey, @tanspostsblog , @shypotatoes013-blog

[minervadashwood]

Daryl Dixon x NB!Reader (afab, plus-size) 🏹 Daryl x Reader x Rick 🛡️

The Cop and the Criminal - Chapter 32

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Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Taglist

~~~~~~~~

Summary: It's been a week or so since Glenn and T-Dog saved Rick. Now, your pack is getting settled in new place. Word count: 3K This chapter contains: Nesting, going into heat, firearms, smut.

Author's note: I am a little behind on posting chapters to tumblr. So I'll be trying to fix that in the next few days.

==

Nest.

It was all you could think about as you took water and soap to every surface in the kitchen. The other rooms had been cleaned, from top to bottom, including the loft and the basement. The loft had a low ceiling, but Ro and Merle had made their bed up there, using an air mattress and sleeping bags. Carl slept on the main floor, closest to the wood stove, while you, Rick, and Daryl had a makeshift bed in the basement. It was a far cry from your house, a home filled with Daryl’s handiwork, not to mention modern furniture. All that remained were some old, hand-made chairs and a small kitchen table.

This cabin, like the others around it, was old, from the 1850s, you’d guessed, based on the structure and style. In more recent years the land had been repossessed then abandoned. Before then, generations of Dixons had lived here, in their own version of Walton’s mountain, before the Great Depression.

Despite the bedding downstairs in the basement of this old, cozy cabin, your omega was desperate for safety, seclusion, and comfort.

As you cleaned, you were also looking after Carl. He sat at the table, still and focused as he drew pictures to give Lori and Shane when they arrived. He’d grown quiet over the last few days, since you left home.

You hoped, for his sake, that Lori and Shane would get here soon.

The past few days remained a chaotic whirlwind, made all the worse by your biological imperative. Soon after you met Glenn and T-Dog, your mates decided it was time to get out of town, before things got worse.

The next morning, you packed what you could: clothes, food, and supplies. When it came time to pack up the pillows and blankets from your nest, you sat frozen in your nest, trying not to cry. That’s how Daryl found you when it was almost time to go.

“C’mon, Bubbie,” he said, clearing space so he could sit next to you. “You’ll make a new one.”

“You built this for me,” you replied gesturing at the bed, then running your hand along the shelves behind it. “You made this a home. For us.”

Daryl gathered you in his arms. “Yer the one who made it a home. ‘Sides we’ll come back when it dies down.”

You shook your head. “I don’t think we will. The way Glenn describes the city…I don’t think this will be safe for a long time if the dead are migrating here.” You took a deep breath. “I know we have to go.”

“Don’ mean it’s easy,” he said, hugging you. After a moment, he got off the bed and opened one of the cherry wood chests he’d made for your nesting materials. He dumped out all the unused, pillows and blankets, still in their plastic wrapping.

What to take was your decision, but Daryl helped you, arranging everything in the chest, and packing it tightly.

Later, when it was time to go, Rick reassured you, too. “We’ll get you a place for your nest in time.”

“What if we have to move again, while I’m in heat?” you asked. “It will be soon.”

“I know. We both do. That’s why we’re goin’ now. And it’s why we need to stick together. Not just us, but the new guys, too.”

You nodded. Rick wrapped you up in a tight hug.

“We owe them. I owe them,” you said. “They brought you back to me.” Even in the short time you’d known Glenn and T, you knew them to be good people. T-Dog, an alpha, kept his distance from you; he must have known you were close to your heat, but you’d gotten to know Glenn a little. He had strategic way of thinking, and you thought maybe he was some sort of weekend warrior. But no, just a delivery driver.

Now, in the cabin, you gripped the edge of the sink, panic rising. Trying to control your breathing, you glanced at the wooden chest sitting by the basement door. Then, you stared at Carl’s back, as a sudden, unwelcome wave of frustration came over you. Your omega didn’t want him near your nest. In fact, it didn’t even want your mates near it, not yet.

Outside, Merle and Ro kept watch while your mates were clearing out other cabins, making them livable. T and Glenn took one, next to yours. You bristled at having strangers so close by when your heat was imminent, but you owed them.

The front door swung open, and you flinched, letting out a whimper of surprise. Despite the gust of cold wind from the door, you were too hot to even notice, but Carl shivered.

Daryl stepped in, quickly closing the door, and going to add logs to the wood stove.

He took one look at you, and whether it was your bond or Daryl’s keen eye, he seemed to know exactly what you needed. Jutting his chin toward the basement, he sat down next to Carl, distracting the boy while you went to make your nest.

The chest was too heavy for you to carry, and through your bond you felt Daryl’s impulse to help you. Rejecting it and putting up a mental wall, you grabbed armfuls of your blankets and pillows, making a few trips up and down the basement stairs. When you were done, you locked the door at the top of the steps and got to work.

The padded mats you cleaned earlier had dried. One still held hints of Daryl’s musk, pine, so you put it in the center foundation of your nest and started arranging everything around it. Nestled in the corner of the room, the nest began to grow. Releasing your perfume, you set about making the entire area yours. Blankets were piled on top of each other, pillows lined the walls. After hours of work, you were almost satisfied and crept back up the stairs to find the house empty except for Daryl and Rick, who were both pacing in the open-spaced living room and kitchen.

“Carl?” you said, still on edge, but in control of your anxiety for the moment.

“With Jesus.” Rick assured you.

“Whaddaya need from us, Bubbie?” Daryl asked, his voice low and soft.

“I need your clothes, something,” you said, your voice almost whiny. Your first heat had been so perfect. But this heat was different. You couldn’t be sure your pack would even be safe here, or how long you could stay in one place. Especially with Rick and Daryl unable to protect everyone like they had been.

Wasn’t it selfish of you to need them like you did? Not just one, but both? Yet how could you choose? Yes, you were more in sync with Daryl, but he’d claimed you and been with you for half a year now. You cared just as much for Rick, and soon you’d be bonded with him, too.

Daryl started striding across the room, but you backed away, shaking your head.

“Not yet.”

Rick shrugged out of his fur-lined deputy’s coat and untucked his shirt, unbuttoning it as you watched. His bare chest gleamed with sweat, his soft dusting of hair enticing. Your stomach clenched and all you wanted was to lay on top of him and let him ease the growing ache in your belly.

Meanwhile, Daryl froze in place, and, although it took you a moment, you finally realized what you’d inadvertently asked of him. Quickly, you opened your suitcase and started pulling out unwrapped Christmas presents. What a simpler time that had been, when your most pressing worry was dropped stitches and miscounted rows.

Setting some things on the kitchen table, you approached Daryl with his poncho, it was hooded, with two layers of thick wool.

“Trade for your coat?” you asked him.

He took it and brought it to his nose, sniffing deeply.

“Ya make this? Fer me?”

You nodded. “I did some research and it’s supposed to keep you warm while you use your crossbow.”

Your mate’s face was red, and he was blinking quickly as he stared down at the gift.

“Merry Christmas,” you said quietly. Daryl nodded without looking up, refusing to meet your eyes or Rick’s.

“I-I-I have more,” you stammered, unnerved by Daryl’s reaction. Why would he cry over a poncho? You gave Rick his wide scarf and matching gloves. Daryl had a pair of gloves, too, fingerless with rubber grips sewn on the underside—for driving his motorcycle.

“Bunny,” Rick breathed, still shirtless and sniffing his scarf. “These are amazing. And your scent is all over them.”

Daryl grunted, and got out of his coat, handing it to you, and putting on his poncho.

“’S real nice, ‘mega,” he said, adjusting the poncho on his shoulders then grabbing his crossbow from where it sat nearby.

Clutching Daryl’s coat and then grabbing Rick’s shirt, you said. “Soon. But --”

Daryl looked up. “Ya dun wan’ anyone in ‘ere but us.”

You nodded.

Rick said, “While your finishin’ up, we’ll get Carl settled in with Jesus. Already talked to him about your heat.”

“You did?”

“Carl knows that you’ll need me— us -- for a few days.”

Of course, children knew, vaguely what an omega in heat entailed. Not the actual mating, but the privacy, the duty of alphas to care for their partners.

“And the others?” you asked.

“Merle swore off drinkin’ an’ Ro’s good with the kid. Glenn and T helpin’ with keepin’ watch.”

Their reassurances consoled you. Besides, the betas in your pack knew what they needed to do, and you trusted them. But Carl…he had been taken from his mom and now his dad, too.

You pointed to two crocheted Woobles on the table. “These are for Carl.” Both were dinosaurs from his favorite cartoon.

“I’ll make sure he gets them,” Rick said.

“Go’n now,” Daryl told you, jutting his chin at the basement door. “Be dark soon, an’ cold.”

You nodded, renewed determination compelling you to tweak your nest until it was perfect and cozy for your alphas, for yourself, and for the days that followed.

*

Finally, your nest was as close to perfect as it was going to get. Surveying the pile of blankets and pillows, your omega was finally happy to have a place to share with your mates.

Despite the stress of the past few days, a glimmer of happiness bloomed. Rick could claim you. Daryl would make love to you. And the world outside would fall away.

Skin still hot, you left the basement in search of your men. You’d been cramping steadily for the past hour, nothing unmanageable but growing more intense as time went on.

Outside, you heard the rumble of engines, and a wave of tension hit you. Not your own, but Daryl’s

Grabbing your coat, you ran outside, finding Daryl on the porch and Rick standing in the worn path near the house. A little behind Rick were Merle and Ro; Merle with a shotgun pointed at the winding path that led to the cabins.

In the distance, three vehicles approached, a Jeep, a Cherokee, and an RV.

“That’s Shane and Lori,” Rick said, but his hand was on the butt of his revolver, you noticed.

You approached Daryl, standing next to him as he held his crossbow, lowered, but seemingly ready to aim at a moment’s notice.

“You said it was just them two,” Merle shouted. “Then explain the rest of ‘em.”

The cars continued to approach, Rick glanced around, his eyes landing on Merle, who had his rifle raised.

“Put that down, Merle,” Rick ordered.

“Ya gonna make me?”

Daryl gruffly shouted, “Merle!”

Merle shrugged his shoulders. “Fine. If y’all wanna risk it, but don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

Glenn, from across the way, spoke up. “It’s all good. More people, yeah? Safer that way.”

You agreed with Glenn and Rick, at least on principle. Yet, right now, on the verge of your heat, the thought of strangers being near you or your nest, felt like a threat on your pack’s territory.

Just then, Carl ran out of the cabin next door, without a coat on. Merle lowered his gun even more at the sight of the pup, but you could still see the tension in his shoulders. Next to him, Ro was quiet and still, his hand at his side holding a gun.

The red Jeep barely came to a stop before Lori appeared, throwing herself out of the passenger side door and running to Carl. Shane got out, too, and you relaxed at that. If Rick trusted Shane enough to tell him about this place, then the people with Shane had to be trustworthy, too, right?

Shane’s scent didn’t alarm you, not like it had the first time you’d met him, but there were more alphas’ scents emanating as other people emerged from their vehicles. One alpha’s odor burnt in your nostrils; when a balding, scowling man looked your way, you knew it was him. In the same car were a thin woman and a cowering little girl, who was around Carl’s age.

The alpha stared at you, his eyes bulging, it seemed, making you gasp and hide behind Daryl. Daryl squared his shoulders and adjusted his grip on the crossbow as Rick took an intimidating step toward the strange alpha.

Still, the frightening man didn’t look away.

Rick’s voice sliced through your fog. “Inside. Now.”

Not a command, and not directed at you.

Daryl said, “Holler if—”

“I will,” Rick replied, keeping his eyes on the strangers.

Daryl took you by the arm and guided you back into the cabin. Inside the warm living room, you took off your outerwear as quickly as you donned it moments ago. Your body was at war with your mind. Cramps of need swept through your middle, beginning the incessant pulsing at your core. You reached for the kitchen table to steady yourself, but Daryl caught you, holding you tightly against him, your backside pressing against his front. Slick moistened your underwear, and Daryl’s reaction was nearly instantaneous as you felt him grow hard against you.

Glancing out the windows to see Rick shaking hands with the strangers, you trembled as Daryl let out a possessive growl and rubbed his scent on you. Melting against him with a whimper, you let your instincts take over, ignoring the activity outside. With a huff, Daryl let go of you for just a moment to shoulder his crossbow, then he practically shoved you to the basement door. Eagerly you obeyed, flying down the stairs and burrowing on top of your nest.

“Daryl,” you whined, stripping off your layers of warm clothing and gazing up at him.

He locked the door, and after placing his weapon nearby, Daryl laid next to you, pulling you against him and running his teeth along your neck.

“Fuck, Bubbie,” he groaned, and began kissing his mark. With his hand on your hip, he pulled you to him and threw a leg over you, kissing and fondling you onto your back. Ridding himself quickly of his clothes, Daryl lowered himself above you, his bare skin on yours as he settled between your legs and kissed you again.

Your core throbbed, clenching and unclenching, demanding more than kisses from the alpha on top of you. Daryl started pressing his cock to the apex of your thighs, just slowly grinding his hips against you as his mouth and hands worked you to a fever pitch. You grabbed at him, too, sinking your nails into his back, squeezing his upper arms, reaching for his ass to urge him closer. Daryl was frantic and somehow still gentle, knowing all your favorite places for his mouth and hands. The scent of your arousal only grew stronger, and Daryl groaned in response. Fumbling, he rearranged himself so he rested on one forearm while his other hand cupped your mound. Taking one breast into his mouth, Daryl sucked and nipped at your sensitive bud as he slipped a finger inside you.

“Yer so wet, ‘mega’” he told you, “Jus’ lettin’ me right in. Feel so good on my hand.”

Your belly fluttered at his praise. Raising your hips to meet his hand you moved slowly, then with more intensity as he added another finger. His hand knew just how to make you come unraveled.

“Yes, Daryl, please .” you begged, getting close.

Suddenly, Daryl’s fingers left you, and you cried out in protest. He silenced you with a kiss on your mouth, immediately breaching the seam of your lips with his tongue. At the same time, his cock slipped through your folds and found its home in your soaking, needy pussy.

“Ye-e-e-sss,” you moaned. His cock was so big and perfect, stretching you and filling you. When he started moving you hung onto him for dear life, savoring the feel of him inside you, of his mouth on yours, of his entire body caging you in.

In your soul, you felt Daryl too, his passion and his desire, crashing into you the more he worked your body. He paused his kisses and locked eyes with you, holding your face in his hands as he thrust, the steady movement of his cock inside you sending you over the edge.

“I love you, Daryl,” you moaned, pulsing around him and holding his gaze. His knot notched into place, and he came, filling you even more. Nuzzling your gland and his mark, Daryl kissed you gently, then his mouth moved, lightly kissing your jaw then your mouth. He collapsed on top of you then rolled you over so you could lay on his chest, his knot holding you together. Reaching beside you, you found one of your favorite knitted blankets and covered you both.

Still breathing heavily, Daryl cradled you in his arms, teeth teasing your earlobe as you sighed against him.

“I love ya, too, Bubbie,” he whispered, speaking the words aloud for the first time.

You wondered if he felt the fullness of your heart through the bond. He must have because he sighed and relaxed, whispering more sweet words in your ear.

“So perfect, my omega, so strong.”

Almost nothing else existed as Daryl held you in your makeshift nest. Only one piece was missing, and as you nestled into Daryl’s chest, you hoped that Rick would join you soon.

==

Next chapter.

==

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[dbmars]

NOW ON A03...

The H-Files, Episode 1 Part 1

Relive everything you loved about the pilot of the X-Files but better now that it's Hannibal as Scully and Will as Mulder... "Spooky Graham"...!

The aliens may be responsible for Will's empathy powers, and Mischa was abducted...

If I get a decent response/support I'll finish the episode and maybe write some more!

No time like the present. I make my way back through the violent crime section, and downstairs, revisiting the secretary. She directs me to an elevator that sinks me down to the first sub-basement level. The doors open and I move through the cinder block hallway that smells of industrial floor cleaner and wet ceiling tiles. At the end of the hallway, past shelves of case file boxes, is an office door cracked open. The placard reads GRAHAM. I can hear shuffling within, the movement of a chair. My nose wrinkles against cheap aftershave and stale coffee.

        I knock. I knock again. “Sorry, nobody down here but the FBI’s most unwanted,” comes a wry voice. 

        I push the door open, revealing a small, windowless room packed with filing cabinets and shelves of still more files and paperwork. Despite what must be the vast amount of material crammed into the space, it is remarkably tidy, stacks neatly organized, lines clean. The bulletin board above the desk, however, is a mess of photos and handwritten notes. My eye is immediately drawn to a large poster of a science-fiction style flying disc, emblazoned with the phrase “I WANT TO BELIEVE.” 

        They don’t look like inverted bowls. More like saucers, thin and fragile, somehow meant to support an even more fragile teacup. 

        Against my will, my mind shows me the images that have haunted me most of my life – my mother’s teacup shattering against the floor, the white light filling every window of our hunting lodge, my sister’s screams, the whining, mechanical hum of the silver beast that descended from the heavens. My mother’s terrified shrieking as I raced out to save my sister, only to be rendered weightless, floating in searing blindness, and borne away. 

        I slam that door in the memory palace and attach another lock to it. They seem to rust and break at the most inopportune times.

         Agent Will Graham is bent over a light box, examining a series of slides. He, too, seems to forego the typical FBI uniform of dark suits and white shirts with uninteresting ties. He looks more like a rumpled professor or domesticated outdoorsman in brown pants and a green collared shirt that could just as easily be worn for yard work. His hair is curly, untidy in places, and he wears a layer of scattered stubble. When he turns to me, Will Graham lowers his tortoiseshell glasses down from his head. Fascinating. Nearsighted? 

        I give him my best introduction smile, oozing friendliness and ease. “Agent Graham. My name is Hannibal Lecter.” I approach and offer a hand. He shakes it very briefly, and a shadow flickers over his expression as I hold on just a little too long for his comfort. “I’ve been assigned to work with you.” 

         He glances at my eyes for a fraction of a second before turning his head, putting the frames of his glasses between us as a barrier. “Nice to, ah, suddenly be so highly regarded,” he says, all barbed irony. Rude. He turns in his seat and fiddles with the slides, deliberately disengaging. Ruder still. “So, who’d you piss off to get stuck with this detail, Lecter?” 

    He knows full well why I am here, it seems. Rather, why I’ve been sent. But they could have sent anyone. I was not chosen at random. There are multiple chess pieces moving at the same time on a three-dimensional board, and I have control of the queens. I am here because I seek truth. Because I cannot trust my memories – they might be nothing but a traumatized child’s nightmares, a wounded brain trying to explain what happened the night the world went away. Will Graham may very well be the lantern to light my way.

         “As it happens, I’ve heard a lot about you,” I say pleasantly as he gets up from his desk chair and opens a tidy file cabinet drawer, thumbing through the immaculate plastic tabs. I wonder if his drawers at home are kept just as meticulously. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

         “Really? I was, ah, under the impression you were sent here… to spy on me.” He opens the file and glances through a few typewritten pages before returning it to its proper place. I let my eyes wander over him as he stands in profile. I’d jump at the chance to spy on him. Voyeurism is one of my favorite parts of my process - to see without being seen. To stalk. I imagine him moving through his assuredly modest home, stretching, scratching his head, sleepy. Ready for bed in, oh, a pair of dull boxer shorts. I think of him illuminated by the light of his refrigerator as he searches for a little something before bed, uplit by its unholy glow as I watch him through the window.

            Interesting. My body is responding sexually to the image. I wipe it away as though I’d drawn it in steam on a mirror. “Agent Graham, if you have any doubts about my credentials or qualifications-”

            “-you’re a medical doctor and you’re teaching at the academy.” He interrupts me. Rude. Instead of imagining my knife piercing his skin, I picture him on his knees, waiting to make it up to me. Again, I force the image to dissolve. “You did your undergraduate degree in physics, while, ah, concurrently double majoring in psychology and art history with a focus on Renaissance Italy.” He selects another file from the cabinet and slides the drawer shut. “I dunno about your artsy stuff, but your senior thesis was ‘Einstein’s Twin Paradox: A New Interpretation’. Now, there’s a credential: rewriting Einstein.” 

            I successfully mask my surprise that he’s so familiar with my work. “Did you happen to read it?”

            He returns to his desk chair and compares something in the file to a slide. I glance over at his computer screen as he bends over to retrieve a dropped report from the file. I make out the words force, abduction, and light before he rights himself. “Yeah. I liked it,” he says, still not looking at me directly, the rims of his glasses in the way. “It’s just that in, ah… in my line of work – the laws of physics rarely seem to apply.” He adjusts another slide, then turns on the projector, flashing a washed-out image on the blank bit of cinder block wall kept clear, it seems, for this purpose. He has a curve to his lips on one side that strikes me as impudent. I want to wipe it off his face, one way or another.

            “Not fond of eye contact, are you?” I say, an attempt to derail and destabilize. 

            Now he swivels in his chair and looks directly at me. His eyes are like the ocean between islands in Greece. “Eyes are distracting. You see too much. You don’t see enough. And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking those whites are really white, or they must have hepatitis, or is that a burst vein?”

            I can’t help but smile, returning his gaze steadily. 

            “So… yeah. I try to avoid eyes whenever possible. It’s even easier in the dark.” Agent Graham steps behind me and switches off the lights. The windowless cell is lit now only by the projected image – a young woman, lifeless on the ground. Ah. I had wondered when we’d discuss murder. While Will Graham is apparently very aware of my career and accomplishments, he doesn’t know of my finest work as the Chesapeake Ripper. Perhaps, someday, he will. 

            Will leans his hips against his desk, crossing his arms over his midsection. It catches the loose fabric of his shirt, drawing it against the bow of his back. Distracted again. I refocus on the image he’s elected to show me. “Maybe you can give your medical opinion, though,” he says. “Oregon female. Age twenty-one. No explainable cause of death. Nothing in the autopsy.” He switches slides, showing me a close-up shot of the young woman’s lower back, marred by two livid red welts. According to the ruler nearby for scale, they are roughly the size of an American dime. “Two distinct marks, however, are found on her lower back. Can you ID these marks… Dr. Lecter?”

            I move closer to the projected image. Despite not liking eye contact, I can feel him watching me. Perhaps he has some voyeuristic tendencies as well. “Needle punctures, perhaps. An animal bite. Electrocution is a possibility.” 

            When he switches slides again, I hide my surprise. It is not the body from another angle, but a diagram showing a chemical compound. 

            “How’s your chemistry? This is the substance found in the surrounding tissue.”

            I study the image, my brain humming steadily. I do love a challenge, and I find them so rarely. “It’s inorganic. Perhaps a synthetic protein.”

            “Hell if I know,” Agent Graham says. 

            “That’s surprising. You must have had your fair share of chemistry studying entomology. Your monograph on determining time of death based on insect activity required a high level of understanding to compose, I’m sure.” 

            “By all means, be sure,” he snarks, but the subtle pink staining his cheekbones tells me he’s pleased I’m familiar with his work as well. “I’ve never seen it, either. But here it’s found again, in Sturgis, South Dakota.” He switches slides, this one depicting a large man in a motorcycle club vest with the same two raised welts on his back. He switches again, showing me another male body with the same marks in the same place, spanning the thoracolumbar fascia and the internal oblique muscles. “And again, in Shamrock, Texas.”

            A true mystery. This is delightful. I haven’t had an afternoon so pleasant since I murdered the man sent to evaluate me by my life insurance agency and stretched his corpse across two rows of bus seats. “Do you have a theory?” 

            “I have, ah… plenty of theories,” he dismisses, joining me in front of the projected image, the dead man’s outline juxtaposed over him, throwing the kind of light that both obscures and reveals. His forehead bears a gentle shimmer of perspiration, and I can smell more of him now, the scent beneath the cheap aftershave – dogs, fresh splits of pine, machine oil, and something sweet I’d need more time and a closer proximity to identify. He doesn’t look at me, turning his head to the side a few degrees to let the slide’s light catch on the lenses of his glasses instead. “What has me stumped is why Bureau policy is to label these cases as unexplained phenomena and ignore them.” 

            I can sense the rumble of anger beneath his sardonic tone, taut with frustration. 

            “So, Dr. Lecter, do you believe in the existence of… extraterrestrials?” He says it with a wry twist that might be a kind of bitter smile. I tilt my head. “As a scientist,” he prompts, leaving me to lean against the edge of his desk again. 

            “Logically, I’d have to say no.” I do strive to tell the truth in my own way. Logically, I shouldn’t. But I am here because I need his help with the illogical – to determine, once and for all, if something happened to me, or I happened. “Given the distances needed to travel from the far reaches of space, the energy requirements would exceed–”

            He interrupts, shaking his head. “Conventional wisdom. That girl in Oregon – she’s the fourth member of her graduating class to die under mysterious circumstances. When convention and-and science offer no answers, might we not consider the, ah, the fantastic as a plausibility?” 

            He tested me at first, showing me the chemical compound and the crime scene photos. Now, he wants to make the boundaries clear. Impudent. Wants to get a rise out of me, surely, to define the methods of interaction. 

            My answer is mild, clinical, the kind of voice I’d use if I’d chosen to become a psychiatrist. “The girl is dead. Death occurs for a reason.” Sometimes, I am that reason. “If it was natural causes, then it’s plausible something was missed in the postmortem. If she was murdered, it’s plausible there was a sloppy investigation. What I find fantastic is your willingness to sidestep human error and search for answers beyond the realm of science. The answers are there, I’m sure. You just have to know where to look.” I raise an eyebrow to add in the sentence I won’t let my mouth say. Apparently, you don’t know where to look. Or you want me to think you don’t know where to look. 

            Agent Graham looks at me now, a brief glance up through his side-lit lenses. His left eye is illuminated as well, making it unearthly blue and leaving the other subdued, its subtle green and brown tones shimmering through the dominant color. He smiles, the most genuine expression I’ve seen yet, and I’m momentarily distracted by his beauty. It’s like visiting the Louvre, making one’s way quickly to see a great work before a crowd forms, and catching sight of an exquisite but uncelebrated painting in a forgotten side gallery that makes one lose all sense of purpose, the internal compass spinning and spinning. 

            “And that’s why they put the I in FBI.” He breaks away and sinks back into his desk chair, rolling over to the glowing blue screen of his computer monitor. “See you bright and early then, Dr. Lecter. We leave for the, ah, the very plausible state of Oregon at 8 am.” 

            I can’t help but smile back, a beam of pleasure, as he turns away from me and begins clacking at the keys. “Until then, Will.”

            I’ve taken a risk, demanding a first name basis. He makes no comment, waves a hand over his shoulder.

            I take my leave and hurry home to pack.