#correct unit is in minutes

[e-adlirez]

Chinese/Lunar New Year

So uh for the past few days I’d been contemplating a Chinese New Year piece for this year in particular because uh it’s the Year of the Dragon and that plus dragon dance so perfect a combination it makes, but uh… admittedly I bit more than I could chew so uh :’D

I wasn’t able to make a full artwork in time, but I do have my cleaned up sketch to show for the holiday, so without further ado, happy Chinese/Lunar New Year Stilton fandom <3

It’s very not complete and the dragon’s details aren’t even drawn in but I hope ya’ll like it anyway

I am planning on finishing this tho so stay tuned for that :3

[fiona-fififi]

...

[grantairezee]

the people trying to parallel park across from my building: 🤬😡😫🚗💥🚫🙅‍♀️

me, watching them suffer through the picture window in the gym while i do my stupid doctor-mandated cardio for my stupid health or whatever: 🪟😈🍿😂👏👏👏🎉🎉👍👍

[dawnwriterimagines]

Innocents among you

Part Two to TRAITORS AMONG US

SIMON RILEY X FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 X FEM!READER

Summary: Your torture is over, but is it really? There is only the torment in your mind now. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the flowers at your hospital bed and the tormentors awaiting the relief of your forgiveness.

Part 3!!

Part 4

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

You flatlined twice, almost as soon as you were handed off to the medics.

Committing themselves to doing CPR before bringing in the defibrillator for an electric charge to your sudden cardiac arrest. "Clear!" They restarted your heart just outside the hallway of your cell, Simon held back by Price as your heart stopped again within the same minute and panic ensued. Johnny and Kyle hearing the news, rushing up towards the hall, their footsteps probably the echo that you held onto as your heart rate picked back up.

Clearly, you lived.

You didn't have the luxury of going comatose immediately after. As you would've preferred.

You'd awoken hours after the medical team carried you off to the infirmary. Still on edge, still plagued by discomfort and cold, despite the lights of the recovery facility and the nurses that paraded around you.

Morphine wears off in about 6 hours, so you were up wailing in agony within the same time. Clearly no one expected you up so soon, but you hadn't slept in days, at least not more than an hour. Jerking up involuntarily, hands all over you to keep you down and steady, you could hear a familiar doctor's attempt to calm you down. But, the blistering pain that radiated from every pore in your body was ringing so loud, a present noise that blocked everything out.

So, at first, you'd been terrified, attempting to clutch onto the first thing you'd woken up to. But, you couldn't move, at least not voluntarily.

With the damage to your spine for countless hours, days, and what you had discovered to be two fucking weeks of endless torture, you'd undergone three difference corrective surgeries that would 'possibly' fix the nerve and circulatory damage done to you. It had left you nearly completely immobile since your admission into the infirmary. The doctors were quite astonished that you were even alive...

The nurses were patient enough with your panicked state to slowly ease you out of your stupor. But, at times it wasn't easy, especially when you didn't even know where you were at first. Since you couldn't see...

You were blind for about four days. Everything a tinted red for a few more after you'd regained your sight.

Fevers plagued you for the week, skin that was raw and inflamed from the severe cold and constant dousing from the pipes, you couldn't move if you wanted to.

The first thing you'd been graced to see were the multiple arrangements of flowers, lilies, white tulips, hydrangeas, roses...typical assortments of regret and remorse.

"Can someone throw these away?" had been your first words.

The nurse who had been checking over your vitals looks over at the flowers, the were all over the desk, even on the floor lining the windows, once they ran out of space to put them. It was beautiful. But, she knew why. Everyone knew why. You were quite famous here in the infirmary, as you were in special unit. "Of course."

They were out within the day. The room bare once more.

And then you saw them outside your infirmary window. Just a glimpse. Around the time you were still getting your sight back.

Seeing them for the first time since everything made bile build up in your throat, a screaming fear that created a pulsing headache.

Kyle, Johnny, Price and...you didn't see Simon.

Price was...a statue. Not moving an inch. His hand against his mouth, covering up the aching distress anyone could see on his face.

Kyle was pacing, back and forth and back and forth. Making an offhanded comment at one of them every few seconds.

But, Johnny was talking, pointing spitefully at someone out of your view.

He was there too then. Simon.

Turning away from the window, you couldn't look at them anymore.

"Don't let them in," you breathe out to your doctor as she sets down a trayed mug on your sliding table as she sits you up to drink a hot cup of tea, which you had requested. "Any of them. Please." You were still so cold, you couldn't imagine dealing with any type of cold weather for a while after dealing with this.

She's confused a moment, before turning to the doorway, where she recalled seeing the four men waiting outside in the hallway. She's seen them just sitting there for days now, they wouldn't beg or argue to come in, they'd just wait. It's not like you were cleared for visitors yet anyway.

Every morning she clocked in for the job, there they were. Sitting there like abandoned children, awaiting the moment the door would open to be welcomed inside.

It was like they never left.

Of course she knew who they were to you. Word spreads fast on the base. Especially for a Task Force as 'famous' as they were around here.

Squeezing your shoulder, comfortingly. Feeling protective, your doctor spoke, "Of course," she slides the mug forward a bit, taking the teaspoon to stir once and lift it to toward your lips to sip. "Blow," she guided.

You did. And sipped.

And it was warmer than any blanket they'd wrapped you in.

---

Prior to being able to trudge around on your own, with the help of a crutch you'd been given to go to the bathroom by yourself finally, the nurses had sponged you down in bed. Your spinal surgeries led to you being at risk if they made efforts to remove you from your bed for anything more than a medical emergency.

Mostly, because you're terrified of the showerhead....and it's pathetic, but no one judges you for it as you opt for a sponge bath every time instead. Even if you're shaking as the water slides down your skin even now. The last thing you needed on top of all this was to develop aquaphobia.

Today was the first day you could do it on you own, limping your way to the bathroom with your crutch. The smell of bleach is much stronger in here, it stings your nose.

You stared at the metal stool left tucked at the side, walking around it as if it would pounce up and attack you, you try not to look at it. You'd been doing well without panic attacks for a few days now, just hold it together.

Taking a breath, you reach out to the handle for the spout, glancing up at the showerhead, before back down. Swallowing thickly when you begin to turn it before pausing, hearing the water rush up the pipe to spill out. Turning it back up just as quickly, shutting off the pipe, you inhale deeply, trembling now, hand up to the chilled tile to steady yourself.

You'll try again, you had to.

Drip...

Drip...

Unable to help yourself, the sudden rush of paranoia that runs through you is terrible, a hoarse cry leaves you. You shove yourself away from the shower stall, back ramming into the doorframe, catching yourself, and away from the showerhead as the water drips, slowly from the faucet.

Drip...

Drip...

As panic tightened its grip around your chest, your breaths quickly turned to short, sharp gasps. The room spinning, colors blurring into a dizzying whirlwind. You turn swiftly, nearly knocking yourself off your feet as the thudding of your own heart startles you, you can hear it in your ears, in your hands, in your feet.

You press a trembling hand to your chest, clawing over the area, trying to slow the frantic pace of your breathing, but it only seemed to escalate. The small room narrowing to a black hole of fear and suffocation, every gasp began to disorient you, turning lightheaded.

As tears welled in your eyes, you collapse against the side wall, sliding down to the tiled floor. Slamming your palm against your chest, once, twice, as hot tears leave streaks down your bruised face, you beg your lungs to expand and wait for your breathing to regulate.

Beginning to sob uncontrollably as you hit yourself in the chest again and again and again, waiting for the moment you found yourself able to breathe.

Why did this have to happen?

You remember the violent swing of the baton against your face, the sting it leaves afterwards, the immediate spotting of bruises forming. The memory startles you, receding back into yourself, back to that day.

"It wasn't me..." you cried loudly, in the empty room. It echoes against the tiles.

Simon wrapping his hands around your neck, staring you down as he squeezed, maliciously. You couldn't breathe as your lover shook with the strength he uses to hold himself back from taking your life.

"I'm sorry," you hiccupped. "I'm--I'm sorry," you're not sure when you crawled yourself into the corner, the lights of the bathroom flickering off dimly from your lack of movement. As you're drowned in darkness, the water dripping from the spout, the cold tile against your skin, it's too much. You scramble upwards, running out of the bathroom.

The automatic lights flicker back on inside, but you're too in your head to notice.

Stumbling down to your knees as you feel the rip of a ruined stitching tearing along your side. "Ah!" comes your startled cry. Making it to the side of your hospital bed, you fist your hand through your sheets, unable to stand yourself up.

Taking pained breaths against the sterile sheets, you bury your head in them, cursing whatever luck you thought you had in this life.

They were your family...

All you had for so many years...

As your breathing slows to distraught, agonized huffs of air, sniffling to yourself as you catch sight of your face in the metal frame of your hospital bed. The dark purple bruises beneath your eyes as the swelling gradually went down, the still bloodshot left eye of yours, the twelve stitches on the left side of your face. So gruesome you knew it would scar you for life, a permanent reminder on your fucking face.

Anger bubbled up inside you at the sight of it. At the memory that would always follow when you'd look at it.

Anger that you hadn't been able to properly feel until now.

Anger that you feared to have until today.

"Are you alright?" the sound of his voice makes you visible tense.

Simon.

He's here.

You don't turn to face him, if you did, you'd revert back to the person you were cowering into moments ago. "The door was open...I just--" he pauses, swallowing thickly. "Lemme help you up."

Hearing his footsteps suddenly moving closer, you speak fast. "STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!" you scream over your shoulder, tucking yourself further away from him. "Do NOT move."

He stops in his tracks. You catch the sight of him in the metal framing of the bed, he's a blur in the metal, but you notice his mask is gone, he's Simon Riley now, not Ghost as he appeared to you in the interrogation cell.

"Don't you dare get any closer," you spat.

"I heard you," he spoke, carefully. Mouth opening and closing, before speaking again. "But, you don't have to be stubborn. If you stay there any longer you could tear your stitches."

"Whose fault is that?"

Simon shifts his stance on his feet, waits a second. "I know. And I can never begin to tell you how sorry I am for what I did. What we all did to you," he says, quietly. "The intel we discovered...or that was forged, it came from a source we've used a dozen times, (Y/n), we thought it was true. It had to be. We've never been misled before."

"So..." your nails bite into your skin, you make an amused sound, biting down on your lip for a moment, till it hurt. " That's what you came here to say, huh? What you waited days to--. Is this you justifying--"

"No, (y/n), that's not--"

"--why you tortured me, strangled me, stripped me, in that fucking cell, Simon?"

"We had to believe it, at the time..."

"Was I not a trusted source?" you argued. "Had I not proven more than a thousand times that you could trust me? I've fought next to you, laid in your bed, given you my love, my trust, I--" you shook with rage at the time and energy wasted on time family, this relationship, if the end goal was always meant to just be this.. "I thought that was at least half the reason you decided to marry me..." at the mention of your relationship, you could see the way Simon nearly lost his balance, hands coming up to run along his face. "You told me you would kill me in that room..."

"I was just talking, I wouldn't have--" his voice cracks as he whispers, trying to convince.

"When you left, I thought you'd come back to kill me any minute, or Price, to spare you. I waited to die for two days, terrified out of my mind. I wondered about heaven, not if I'd make it... but what it'd be like, what I'd be missing out on," you thought back to your time in that cell, a haunted expression Simon couldn't see. "While you all got a good nights rest, woke up for some bacon and eggs, and listened to the warden tell you that your prisoner was framed...for a crime you'd already punished her for..." you stuttered on your breathing, tears flowing silently.

Simon inhales deeply. "I could never expect you to forgive me. I-I had taken my hurt out on you, I thought you did it, I was so sure. I couldn't hear what you were saying, I just could see the evidence, and I--I'm sorry. I'm sorry, love. I'm truly--" he gets to his knees behind you.

"Get up."

"I can never tell you how sorry I am---"

"Simon."

"I never should've done this to you. If I could ever--" his voice rising with distressed breaths, you didn't have to look at him to see his face a mess of sorrow, tears that would mix into the stubble on his face.

"Simon!"

"--make it up to you. If you could ever find it in your to forgive me, (y/n). I'll spend the rest of my life--" he gets closer, reaching out.

Whipping around, stiffening completely as you feel the graze of his fingers across your skin, "DON'T TOUCH ME!" you shove your back against your bedding, your hand swinging and flying across his face. His head snapping to the side as he pauses, freezing up where he kneels, having completely forgotten your request to stay put. "What's the matter with you! Even now? Even now, you can't just listen to this one thing?!"

"I-I'm sorry..." He looks at you, finally seeing your face clearly and up close since it all happened. Finally he can see the bruises along your face, the blood that fills your eye, the dark bruise still around your neck.

Seeing him. He looks rough. Honestly, he looks terrible. His hair shaggy and falling over his eye. Dark circles with bags under them. Pale, and thinner than he should be.

His jaw clenches with guilt and he averts his eyes, you continue. "How could I forgive you for this?" you stare at him, "I could forgive you, if you hadn't let them chain me up like an animal. If you hadn't watched them drown me for hours, beat me black and blue and left me screaming for days. I could forgive you if you had just believed me even for a moment." you feign thoughtfulness. "How about you look at my face. My wrists. My legs! MY FUCKING SPINE, SIMON!"

"Nothing I can say or do, will ever make any of it ok, I know that. And I can't ask for you to ever forgive--"

"What could I possible owe you in this life, that makes you think I'd even think about forgiving any of you for the things you did to me?" you gritted out, angrily.

Simon's head drops, a slow, shuttering sigh leaves him. "I'll never stop trying to make this right. Never."

"...Get out, Simon."

"I'm sorry."

"Simon."

"I'm so sorry..." he reaches out again.

"Ghost."

He's silent this time, fingers tensing, out in mid air.

"I never wanna see you again."

"I love you, (Y/n)," he confessed, eyes feral and wide. Pulling at the ends of your slip.

"I don't want to hear that, Ghost," kicking away from him. "Stop it."

"I couldn't stop even as it happened--"

"Shut up. And get out," shaking as you sneered at his desperate attempts. "It's over, Ghost."

"And I took it on you. It hurt so much, I couldn't think," Simon's face twisted with agony and remorse. "I'm sorry!"

He was making you lose your goddamn mind, you broke. "GET THE FUCK OUT!" screaming at one another as overwhelming tears escaped your eyes.

---

It's quiet in your hospital room, it's empty now, the door closed this time.

The door knob turns and opens again a moment later. "Oh no, Ms. (L/n)!" luckily it was your assigned nurse, who takes your arm and fixes it around her shoulder before helping haul yourself up to your feet. "What're you doing on the floor? There's a call button for a reason," she scolds as you sit on the edge of your bed.

You're quiet.

Alarmingly so for your nurse, who notices the pulled stitching that creates a line of blood down your side. "If this is about what happened to you..." the nurse started, speaking carefully, pulling a lining of gauze from the side to press to your skin. You don't even wince at the pressure, even when she begins to clean and replace the broken stitch. "Don't let it break you. Not even further than this experience already has..." she says, while through the last stitch and prepping a bandage.

"I've been broken long before this," you whispered, looking towards the afternoon sun shining through your window. "This. This didn't break me, no," you admitted, before glancing up with glossy eyes, rage hidden beneath a profound look of sadness. "It destroyed me."

Her hand pauses at your side, your words startling, turning to see the tear that slips down your cheek. Knowing now how deep your scars were from this, before gently sliding the last of the bandage across your skin. "Do not think you are irreparable. That time can't heal your wounds."

"But, there's always reminders," touching the stitches on your cheek, "some things can't be forgiven."

"I never said to forgive..." the nurse interjected. "If you could, after all this, you're stronger than any woman that could be named."

You snicker at that, humming soundly. "That's an interesting thought. I guess I'm one of the weaker ones then."

"And yet, still the strongest I've ever met," she finishes. Pats your cheek, "click the button next time. Save us both the heart attack."

"Noted," you assured.

As she's prepping to leave for her rounds, you open your mouth, once, twice, before clearing it. "Is it possible, someone could help me out--the water..."

"Of course," the nurse says, quickly. "Don't worry, I understand. I'll get everything set for you."

As she walks away, you breathing out your appreciation, you take a long inhale, swallowing down the heaviness in your chest.

part 3 OUT NOW!!

Tag List:

@m3ntally-unstable @dreamsarenicer @ttsbaby01 @theweirdgeninistuff @shelbycillian @azxulaa @kthehoeforfictionalmen @amusling @v1x3n @nobodycanknoww @thesinsoflust @asexualbuthorny @poisonedsultana @blackhawkfanatic @character---obsessed @yunggoblin @teenagellamaangel @hanniebanggi @nym-phos @gastonlover9000 @lyssa-211 @doodle-cat16 @haven-1307 @kneelforloki @delphiakira @just-going-through-the-motions

[beemovieerotica]

it is genuinely wild that someone can make a correct statement (the United States is absurdly culturally homogenous for a country of its size, thanks to settler colonialism) and a bunch of americans go into denial....

english is spoken everywhere. we have mutually intelligible dialects/ accents. the only major differences in religion throughout the country are varying flavors of christianity. we believe in the same mythologies. you can talk to somebody from new york the same as you'd talk to somebody from texas. our architecture does not change. take a picture of suburbia in california, and it looks the same as suburbia in georgia, and both neighborhoods will complain about how hard it is to maintain a lawn. everybody celebrates halloween. christmas. easter. you can drive for 3 days and arrive somewhere that feels exactly the same.

the point is that any pockets of cultural diversity that we have were/are vigorously discouraged via isolation, redlining, or outright genocide. it is so telling to say "whoa whoa hold on a new yorker and a texan are so different!" where the difference is not meaningfully tangible in any way. the minute cultural differences people pride themselves in are completely inconsequential against the backdrop of a country where over 300 languages used to be spoken!!!

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

so in an attempt to actually use positive thinking, anytime i fuck up and my brain reacts as if ive cause a minor apocalyptic event, i compare my fuck up to the 4 minute fuck up committed by the crew of the uss william d porter.

and only today, as i was having to explain what happened to my mom when i was explaining the whole comparison thing, did i realise that most people dont know about it and ive decided that needs to change because its objectively hilarious.

...which is a weird thing to say about an event that occured on a warship in 1943, specifically november 14th.

see the uss william d porter was a fletcher-class destroyer but you dont need to know what that means, just that she had guns that went bang bang and that she was escorting another ship, the uss iowa, to cairo.

while they were on their way there, they performed some gun trials like testing the anti-aircraft guns or the torpedos. and while they were running a torpedo drill, the crew of the porter managed to fire a live torpedo straight at the iowa which you know, in terms of a list of things to do while escorting a ship, shooting a torpedo at them is not on that list.

especially if the president of the united states is on board.

yeah so fdr was on board and the gun trials were actually his idea, and part of the trials was that they were conducted under radio silence.

and that means the crew of the porter couldnt just call the iowa to be like "move out the way, we accidentally shot a torpedo at you."

but they did have signal lamps and you know, the signalman on board was trained to signal this exact kind of message.

...and uh never mind, the signalman did manage to successfully tell the iowa that a torpedo was coming toward them but wasnt as successful when it came to the direction the torpedo was coming from.

not all hope is lost though because the signalman could still use the signal lamp to correct his previous mistake and-, never mind, he announced that the porter was reversing, which she wasnt.

yeah so at catastrophic mistake number 3, they broke radio silence to warn the iowa and she managed to turn out of the way just in time which meant no one got hurt. and even though the inquiry into the incident led to chief torpedoman (fantastic job title btw) lawton dawson being sentences to hard labour, fdr intervened and waved away his sentence, saying it was all an accident.

but yeah, so thats my new measure for "how much did i really fuck up?" and when i compared accidentally picking up a pencil case without a tag on it in wilko, turns out it was a very minor fuck-up. yes, the cashier had to ask another worker to grab a duplicate so they could scan the barcode, but i didnt nearly kill the president during wartime via accidental friendly fire

[charliemwrites]

Part 1

Finally finished this! I think I put way too much pressure on myself to get this just right and it gave me some major writer's block. Anyway, please enjoy!

Content: Wet dreams, Somnophilia (sort of), Identity Porn, Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy (through dreams), Uncomfortable Situation, Pushy/Predatory behavior (brief)

“Bad dreams again?”

Drowsy and sluggish, you blink at your aunt. She’s as sleek and coiffed as always, pressed business attire and shiny hair. Shoulders back, spine straight. A woman people respect and heed without question.

Your mother’s voice whispers in your ear, that lovingly patronizing tone. See how professional she looks, dear? Isn’t that nice?

It’s not Aunt Katie’s fault though. She does look professional, and it is nice. It suits her.

You unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “They’re not bad, really. Just… intense.”

She hums, elegant fingers tracing the edge of your borrowed desk. “They can’t be very good if they’re keeping you up.”

You’re tired enough that you almost correct her a second time. The problem is that the dreams are too good. You wake up panting, sweating, halfway to – well. You’re not about to discuss the finer points of a kinky wet dream with your CIA aunt. Besides, it’s silly to get so defensive of something that affects you seemingly negatively.

“Maybe,” you reply, rubbing at your heavy eyes. It feels like you’re trying to look through clear jelly.

“Why don’t you take a break?” Aunt Kate suggests.

You frown, a pang of guilt striking your empty tummy. “No… no, I’m okay. It’s not even lunch yet.”

She smiles at you. The same fond smile she’s always graced you with, on holidays and birthdays, whenever she could escape the secretive walls and red tape to be with family.

“You’re already ahead on paperwork. You’re not a bad employee for getting a little sun.”

Your eyes flick longingly to the door.

Apparently, the government doesn’t believe in things like windows or sunlight. Your little desk is at the very end of a long, half-empty hallway in the middle of a concrete cube and drowning in awful blue fluorescence. You can’t even bring yourself to drag a plant to this crappy little island because you’d feel too guilty putting it through this.

“Okay… maybe just for a few minutes,” you allow.

Her smile widens as she nods for you to follow. “C’mon, I’ll walk you out. I think the dogs will be free for some enrichment.”

Well, that certainly gets you out of your squeaky office chair.

Honey sunlight drizzles over your neck and shoulders, dripping syrupy-slow down your spine. It diffuses through your chest, chasing away the artificial chill of the office. The sleepy haze retreats like frost melting from glass.

You sigh into the fresh air, ignoring the tang of gunpowder lingering on the breeze, and turn your face to the sun. Summer is coming to an end, the heat broken into mellower warmth. There won’t be many days like this left before autumn bites down and shakes the leaves from the trees. A shame you’ll likely waste most of them in your administrative prison. 

The dogs stretch out in the grass around you, tongues lolling and eyes bright, keeping you company. A furry bouquet of black and tan in the manicured grass, their ears and tails like stalks to strange plants.

You bury your fingers in Zeus’s coat and get a fuzzy white tummy for your efforts. He’s a young and handsome thing, the newest addition to the K-9 unit, still a bit fluffy around the ears. You try not to think of how that will fade and harden, just like the older dogs in the unit, just like his human counterparts. Just scratch at that itchy spot by his ribs and smile when his hindleg kicks.

Friga stands and stretches on your right side, leaning her shoulder into yours. Then picks her way around the others to sniff at Zeus. Offended by her interruption, he flails onto his stomach and nips at her, one big forepaw thumping the ground.

She goads him into playtime, and you watch with the older pack members as they begin to romp. They tumble and grumble around you, heedless of bumping into any of the others. You laugh, bright and loud—

The back of your neck tingles.

You glance around, not even sure why. Until you see a figure across the field. He’s standing by the track where about two dozen men are jogging. Recruits, you guess. But he’s not observing them or barking orders. No, he’s clearly turned to face you. It’s too far to make out any features, apart from what seems to be an unusual haircut.

You quickly glance away, surreptitiously trying to determine if the man’s attention was on something else that happened to be in your direction. But there’s little else but you and the dogs in this field, the kennels noticeably off to the left.

Then again, someone sitting in the grass with half the K-9 unit is a bit unusual. He’s probably trying to decide if it’s something that needs investigation. You hope it’s not.

Still, you can’t shake the discomfiting sense that he’s looking at you.

You ignore him until it’s time for the dogs to go back - but that prickly feeling of being watched never subsides.

That night, in the guest room of your aunts’ house, the dreams take on new life.

It starts as it always does. A dark room. A lush bed. Silky sheets. Moonlight seeping through blinds like smoke. And him.

He’s behind you. A broad body so solid you’d think he was a wall if not for the heat. It’s so intense this time, like a wildfire raging out of control, crawling from his skin beneath yours. You sense more than feel the big hand around your jaw. Rough fingers clutch at the plush of your thigh. Hot breath fans across the back of your neck, rippling shivers down your spine.

There’s a voice in your ear. No words you can discern, just a thunder-deep rumble with smoky edges. Stubble scrapes the delicate skin of your neck and catches in your hair.

A thick, heavy cock is buried deep inside you, kissing the entrance to your womb. Your pussy twinges a sweet-sharp ache with each deliberate grind of his hips. He’s spreading you open to get as deep as he can, throbbing balls pressed up tight to your sopping entrance.

Your own hands are all but useless. One twists desperately in the sheets, the other clutches at the meaty swell of his ass. Pleasure upends anything like sense or thought, even hazy dream logic. There is just this man fucking you like he owns you, two of his fingers in your drooling mouth, petting your tongue. A ring clicks against your teeth.

“Found you,” he whispers.

You jolt, eyes flying open. The powder blue ceiling of your borrowed room greets you. You’ve kicked the cotton sheets into a tangled mess around your ankles, tiny shirt ridden up your chest. Your panties are soaked.

The taste of metal lingers behind your incisors.

It’s a busy day. For once, you’re free from the confines of your sad little nook. Aunt Kate must have taken pity on your sorry state the day before and has procured busy work. Files that need hand delivery, or physical reports for you to gather. You don’t care if it’s just something to get you out of the office, you relish the stolen moments outside between buildings.

If there’s a downside, it’s the glances you attract. Everything about you projects civilian, despite the access card prominently pinned to the lapel of your blazer. It draws curious once-overs at best and suspicious scans at worst – or speculative appreciation at the very worst. Every time a fresh-faced recruit or overly decorated middle-aged man lingers as you pass, you hear your mother’s voice again.

Don’t you know what those military men are like? Practically animals. I couldn’t possibly let you be exposed to them.

It’s long ingrained to keep your eyes forward, head level, and try to keep your hips from swaying as much as possible. You’re grateful for whatever bit of paperwork you can clutch to your chest, just to hide your figure and have something to do with your hands.

You’re picking up some personnel files from the infirmary, smile brightly at the receptionist as she passes them over. Mallory is only a couple years older than you, and she’s been working here a year already.

“Lunch in the mess today?” she asks, spinning a pen between her fingers.

“As if you even need to ask,” you tease. “Noon?”

“I’ll meet you there.”

She blows you a kiss as you leave, counting the number of files to be sure you have them all. Your eyes skim over one of the names, a white label on the folder fin. “MacTavish, J.” in blocky typewriter font. You shuffle them back into a neat stack and pivot for Aunt Kate’s office.

You’re not in the moonlit bedroom this time. A half-moon grins down from a starry sky, wearing smoky nebulas for lipstick. Beneath you lays cool grass and soft earth, rich and loamy in your heaving lungs. Petals blooming in the dark kiss your overheated skin, little relief for the burn in your veins.

The change in scenery is almost as dizzying as the man between your thighs. Almost.

But it’s not the dew-saturated breeze that muddles your bewildered thoughts. It’s the hot, wet, clever tongue lavishing your drenched pussy. He licks in broad stripes from your aching hole to your throbbing clit, only ever pausing to indulge a slow suck to the bundle of nerves, before resuming that hypnotic circuit.

One thigh is hooked over a wide shoulder, your heel dug into the flexing muscles of a broad back. The other is spread by a big, calloused hand, giving him unfettered access to the softest, neediest parts of you.

You mewl desperately, hand darting down to his bobbing head. Your nails scrape shorn stubble, eliciting a gravelly groan that sends electricity up your tingling spine. It’s nothing compared to the growl you earn when your fingers twist into the longer, soft strands at the top.

For the first time, you’re able to voice more than helpless moans and wanton whimpers.

“Please,” you sob softly, “please.”

You feel him smirking, a wicked curl against your fluttering cunt. Then he focuses the tip of that awful, dexterous tongue on your clit, flicking in purposeful little strokes.

M-A-

“S-so close,” you whine, hips twitching. He pins you flat, pace never faltering.

V-I-

You shudder as your pussy clenches and spasms, finally, finally—

You wake with a sharp sound, head spinning. Your orgasm washes away like the tide, leaving disappointment and exhaustion behind. You nearly scream into your pillow as you press your thighs together. Still half asleep, it even feels like you have beard-burn.

You’re in line at the mess with Mallory, listening to her complain about some rude colonel that just had to share his opinion about her acrylics. She does the best impressions, and you’re grinning and laughing as the two of you shuffle through the options. You’re reaching for a scoop of rice when the conversation behind you catches your attention.

“—came in a couple days ago.”

“The whole squad?”

“With Braveheart himself.”

A snort. “You better not let MacTavish hear you say that. He’ll—”

“Helloooo?” You blink at Mallory, who arches her brows and waves a bagel at you. “Want one?”

“Oh, uh… sure, why not,” you answer.

“Atta girl!” she cheers, tossing it in the toaster. “Carbs for days.”

You giggle but can’t help glancing behind you. The two men have already moved on though. Not that it was any of your business – or anything interesting. You’re not sure why that caught your attention. Men are just loud, you suppose, snatching a couple to-go packets of cream cheese.

As you’re leaving the mess, you happen to glance over your shoulder. A pair of sharp blue eyes catch yours from one of the tables. A group of men, just about to sit. Mallory tugs your shirt to keep you from clipping the doorjamb and you hurry after her.

There’s heat at your back. Not from a body this time, but a fire burning low and hot in a hearth. No, the body is in front of you this time, filling up your watery field of vision. Peachy skin and coarse dark hair, an old scar slashing across a sharp hip, miles of lean muscle.

Not that you have much opportunity to ogle with tears blurring your sight. The fat cock bullying the back of your throat makes it hard to do anything but choke. You dig your nails into a thick thigh and pull back, writhing your tongue along a puffy vein as you go. The leaking head rests on your drenched tongue as you catch your breath. Smoke and leather and musk saturate your lungs, cloud your empty head.

He smells so good; you don’t even like cigars.

A rough thumb caresses your cheek, a silent request for you to continue. You can practically feel the lust-drunk moans vibrating in his chest – so deep, they’re barely audible over the crackling fire.

You hiccup as deep a breath as you can manage and swallow him down again. He’s silky on your tongue, you sigh softly through your nose as the blunt head flirts with your gag reflex. You slacken your jaw despite the ache already crawling into the joint. Even then, your teeth scrape the base a bit, but that only makes him twitch against your soft palate.

“Look here, love.”

Your lashes flutter as you try to focus your gaze, scrolling your eyes up his body. Most of the details are lost either in the haze of desire or the vagary of dreams, but the blue eyes that greet you are sharper than real life.

You jolt back to consciousness with a dry cough, the scent of him still haunting your senses. You stumble to the restroom for water. Don’t even realize that you’re glancing in the mirror over your shoulder, expecting someone to be there, until you realize you’re alone.

Oddly bereft, you trudge back to bed and try to focus on the clean soap smell of your aunts’ detergent.

In moments like this, it’s hard not to blame yourself.

Not because you’ve done anything wrong, or even feel like you have. It’s because the situation is so frustratingly out of your control that it’s almost easier to tell yourself that one decision or another would have avoided this outcome. A sharper response, a frown instead of a smile, a different walking route.

(There’s also your mother’s voice, always. Saying to be smart, to pay attention, to not “put yourself” in a vulnerable position. You silence that voice viciously this time.)

Still, the fact of the matter is, there’s no personal choice you could have made to keep Corporal Callahan from cornering you in this supply closet. You just wanted a box of tissues.

“Look, I know you’re Agent Laswell’s niece, but I don’t see why we can’t go out because of it,” he reasons. As if that’s the reason you’ve been trying to gently dissuade his attempts.

“It’s not that—” you begin, shifting. He’s standing too close, but you refuse to back yourself any deeper into this tiny space. The doorway is right there, he’s just taking up all of it.

“Then just say yes,” he chuckles. His tone is all smooth and easy, meant to be charming maybe? “Just one date, that’s all I’m asking.”

Except you’re not asking, you think with helpless frustration. The sharp words get trapped behind your teeth, cutting up the roof of your mouth. Your heart is beating so hard and loud you can barely hear his “romantic” overtures.

“I’m not really…” You’re not even sure what to say this time; you’ve already told him you’re not looking to date. He’d said some vaguely predatory line about changing your mind.

In the absence of a finished statement, Callahan takes the opportunity to continue cajoling.

“C’mon,” he sing-songs, “I’m not letting you out of there until you say yes.”

You pry your jaw open, about to agree to it just for the sake of getting free. Deal with the fallout later.

There’s a rush of air and suddenly the doorway is empty. You briefly see Callahan against the opposite wall, face blank in unpleasant surprise. Then a big body blocks your view of him. Broad, bunched shoulders and thick thighs. A shock of brunet hair shaved close at the sides and long at the top. Your entire body locks up.

“You come near her again, they won’ stop findin’ pieces of ya, aye?” A growl, low and rough, Scottish accent thick. You shiver.

Callahan stutters something, a few garbled syllables through a strained and winded voice. You think you might hear “captain” in there somewhere. The bigger man shifts, you hear a muffled thump – Callahan hitting the wall again, you think. Then, with seemingly no effort, your savior tosses Callahan to the side like trash. He stumbles, catches himself.

“Away ‘n bile yer heid.”

Callahan flicks one last frightened glance your way then hurries off, proverbial tail tucked between his scrawny legs. You don’t even watch him go, eyes glued to the stranger’s muscular back. He rolls his wide shoulders, cracks his neck, and finally turns.

Familiar blue eyes pin you in place as he steps closer. The scent of cigar smoke and leather teases your nose.

A voice you’ve known for months rumbles in his chest. “Found you.”

Previous | TBC...

Masterlist

[3amfanfiction]

Neighbor Johnny

A new neighbor moved into the house behind yours. He is insistent on being friendly. 2k cw: none

You had a new neighbor, Johnny, who was . . . something else.

He cornered you outside the first time you met him— scaring you half out of your mind.

“Ach lass, dinnae mean ta frighten ye.”

He's handsome, was your first thought, the second—how much you enjoyed the Scottish burr that rolled off his tongue.

As your heart tried to settle back into your chest you turned to face him properly. With a sheepish grin on his face, he had his shoulders hunched forward as if trying to make himself smaller, hands tucked into his blue jeans which clung to his tree-trunk like thighs.

"You're okay, I'm kind of jumpy in general," you laughed shakily, attempting to brush off the fear still lingering in your veins. "Sorry, what was it you asked?"

"I was sayin' I jus' moved into the unit behind ye," he pointed to an apartment that was the mirror image of yours, "and I dinnae ken where's good ta eat. Ye wouldn't happen ta have any suggestions, would ye?" A boyish smile curled up his lips, blue eyes squinting in the sun.

As you asked him what he was in the mood for you never noticed the laser focus he kept on you, taking in your every word, every shift, every breath. Every moment memorized.

///

The next time he bumped into you he was on his way back in from a run and you were taking out the trash.

Of course you would see him again when you were in ratty, baggy shorts and a 2 sizes too big t-shirt with a sauce stain from dinner last night on the collar, the socks in the sandals were the finishing touch on your ensemble.

And then here he came, shirtless in a pair of running shorts, thickly muscled legs leading down to worn-in tennis shoes. You wanted to bite those thighs.

Sweat was dripping down his face when he saw you, eyes lighting up in the early morning air. He course corrected your way, slowing his jog incrementally.

Why was life this unfair?

"Mornin' birdie, aren't ye a vision," smiling ear to ear, he came to a stop right in front of you, lifting a hand up to drag across his face, clearing the beads of sweat. You resolutely ignored looking at his chest, covered in a thick mat of dark, curling hair. It was damp with exertion and you yanked your eyes back up to his when you noticed you were following a droplet as it trailed from behind his ear, running down his neck, past his collar bone—

Hurriedly laughing off his joke you finished tossing the trash into the bin, "Good morning Johnny, I hope everything's been going good?"

Johnny took this as license to begin telling you all about his week, from the grocery store being out of his favorite pastry, I was plumb heartbroken hen, the lady behind the counter gave me tissues when she saw me tearin' up, to his footie team losing the match, and then because of the bet, ye remember, I had ta do the whole course naked as the day I was born. The splinters, ye see—

It was a good 20 minutes before you were able to get away.

"Well," you said, dusting off your hands like you hadn't tossed the garbage bag ages ago, "I don't want to keep you. Have a good one Johnny and I'll talk to you later," you smile as you edged towards your front door, ready to be back in the comfort of your home and away from this ridiculously handsome man who didn't seem to realize how good looking he was.

Or how much he invaded others' space.

“Aye lass, I’ll hold ye ta that,” he allowed, coming in for a damp hug which you returned quickly out of shock. As he stepped back he kept his eyes on yours until he finally turned around.

Creepy.

Almost as creepy as you licking your lips, tasting salt from where they had been pressed up against his shoulder during the hug.

///

It was a few days later when he caught you again, “Running ta the grocery, 's there anythin' ye need?” He was standing at your front door, where he'd knocked great booming thuds against the wood just moments prior.

“Oh no, I’m good, thank you though Johnny," was this weird? Or were you making it weird by thinking it was weird? He was only being neighborly, why are you so against him being friendly? He hasn't done anything wrong.

“Surely there’s somethin' yer runnin' low on," he tries. "Lotion? Batteries? Soap?”

You laughed at the random combination, charmed despite yourself at the sight of his roguish grin and bright eyes.

"As a matter of fact, I did just use the last of my butter this morning," you threw him a bone—allowing him this. You missed the way his face got sharp for a moment before evening back out.

"Aye, I can handle that," orders received, commencing operations.

"I'll be back 'fore ye know it, hen," was tossed out over his shoulder as he headed out, no more flirting, no lingering, no sidelong glances. If you would've known it was this easy to get rid of him you would've sent him on assignments long before now.

You brushed it off and headed inside, door closing with a soft click before you locked it.

///

In no time at all you heard a knock knock coming from the front. Opening the door you're surprised when Johnny breezed right in, as if it was his right.

"Hi hen, I'm back."

You're not sure how he talked his way around seeing your home. He must have a golden tongue of some sort because it's like he started talking and you find yourself pulled under his sway, helpless but to follow along. Weren't you trying to keep your distance?

“How long have ye lived here, then? ’S lookin' a little bare” he said, gaze running over the empty walls.

You gave an embarrassed shrug, “A few months but I’m not exactly the most . . . handy of people,” here you gestured to the television that was mounted on the wall a touch too high.

When Johnny followed your lackluster waving to look at the screen, he couldn't help but bark out a laugh.

The TV was — well. It was on the wall and that’s about all that could be said for it. “I didn’t mean to mount it that high. It just kind of happened,” you said haltingly, embarrassed at the look he was giving you. Your cheeks must have been 200 degrees, “—and it was such a pain to get the screws in the first time that I just," you shrugged, "left it.”

“Ye have ta practically lay flat on yer back ta watch it!” Johnny exclaimed in astonishment. You buried your face in your hands, unable to keep his gaze any longer.“It’s fine! I’ll fix it. Eventually," you allow. "I just haven’t needed to yet.”

“Nah, I’m nae gonna have ye puttin' up with this. I’m busy today but I’ll be by early tomorrow mornin', ya hear?”

You tried to argue, insisted that he didn't need to fix it. He didn’t listen and steamrolled right over you.

\\\

The next day he was back at your house, making good on his promises. He didn't bring any tools over, using what you had to correct your mistake. That would have been perfectly fine if he would just. Stop. Talking.

"Ach, look at how prepared you are, dove. You've got the whole kit then, don't you?" He looked over your, honestly not-that-impressive tool kit with a discerning eye. Reaching in for what he needed he nodded his head at you with a condescending wink, "haven't you done so well."

After that you found yourself fluttering around him; offering him help, a drink, anything he needed.

Johnny put his hands on your shoulders. physically stopping you, "Sit down, beautiful, you donnae need to be faffin' about like this. Get comfy on the couch and just sit there lookin' pretty for me, yeah?”

Oh—you're not—that's not something—

You didn't say anything, you couldn't say anything. Instead you did what he told you, taking a seat on the couch and talking to him while he worked.

He adjusted the TV to a more acceptable height embarrassingly easy. What had taken you an hour to do incorrectly he had fixed in fifteen minutes. You stood to thank him, assuming you would be leading him out of the house shortly.

So how did you end up sitting back on the couch, watching a movie with your neighbor pressed all up against one side?

He was characteristically persuasive when he convinced you watching a movie was necessary to make sure all the connections worked right, seeing as how he'd had to unplug everything when he pulled it from the wall to fix your mishap. He had tugged you back into your seat and sat close beside you, pulling up a streaming service and selecting a movie you hadn't heard of before.

As he settled in to get comfortable with an arm thrown around the back of the couch you decided there wasn't really a whole lot for it and settled in yourself to watch the movie.

That was an hour ago and you were regretting your decision fiercely.

The movie Johnny had chosen was a dramatic romance with plenty of R rated scenes. There was one playing out across the screen currently and you were trying to be subtle as you squirmed, rubbing your sticky thighs together as the female lead moaned enthusiastically for the male lead eating her out on the kitchen table.

You probably could have restrained yourself if not for Johnny unabashedly rubbing his chubbing cock through his jeans. He had shifted and pulled his arm off the backrest but he was still pressed to you from shoulder to knee. You didn't realize what was happening at first until you glanced away from the screen after the lead's second orgasm and realized where his hand had crept.

He didn't look at you as he palmed himself—he kept his eyes firmly locked to the screen. It was almost as if he didn't realize he was doing it. Should you say something or just leave it? If no one drew attention to anything does that mean no one gets embarrassed?

Thankfully the scene ended soon and Johnny stood up with an excuse of using the bathroom, leaving you to get a grip on yourself. As he stepped inside the room he must have been a little too wound up because he failed to close the door properly, leaving it cracked just enough for the sound of skin rasping on skin as he touched himself to echo out into the living room.

After what felt like ages you heard the water running as he washed his hands. Shortly afterwards he was back on the couch, arm slung behind you once more.

There were no more heated scenes before the movie ended which was a relief. This time Johnny didn't argue as you led him to the door, simply told you he would be back the day after tomorrow to help with other handy-man items he had seen while he was there.

With an exasperated eye roll you agreed and told him you'd see him then, unable to help smiling back sweetly when he beamed at you before he headed home.

A short while later you went to the bathroom when you noticed your conditioner sitting on the back of the toilet, cap ajar, when you were sure you had left it on the lip of the tub. You frowned as you picked it up and looked at it curiously before you fixed the cap and placed it where it belonged. When you went to wash your hands you noticed your toothbrush sat on the counter. That was strange, it had been hours since you brushed your teeth, why was it still wet?

Next

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[haeryna]

in my dreams you love me back (i still love you) ↪ gojo satoru x reader x geto suguru ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

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summary: soft moments with shoko keep your heart soft as well, but suguru finds something that he wasn't supposed to.

tw: sfw but vague mentions of losing your virginity. your mother MEDDLES but let's be real, we'd do the same. allusions to the bible for the aesthetic but also because i like the imagery of the themes. not proofread.

notes: title taken from red velvet's "in my dreams." the second half of "i would give up heaven if i had to." another short chapter because i split it in two originally! banner from @/cafekitsune

"You look like shit."

You can't stop the huff that escapes your mouth as Shoko peers at you from your phone, propped up against your rice cooker. She's somewhere in the United States right now, attending a medical conference. She isn't wrong; your ten minute break in the bathroom had turned into a full-blown half hour breakdown. Thankfully, none of your coworkers pointed out the redness of your eyes and the sallow tint to your skin. Your manager had practically forced you to go home early. They all assumed that you had broken down about how the Gojo Satoru had demanded you be the one to make his drink. At this point, you were too tired to correct them.

"I just got back from the cafe, leave me alone." Yawning, you reach for a bowl. "I'm starving and exhausted, and now you're going to yell at me, Sho?"

You can hear the heavy exhale, and the camera blurs as she lets out a cloud of cigarette smoke. "I never said that. Did you see them today?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Nobody else can make you cry that hard, and I know it wasn't me."

You hesitate for a moment. "Mom thinks I should hear them out."

"Personally, I would tell them I'll speak to them after a down payment of 5k."

"Shoko!"

But your laughter fills the air, and you can catch Shoko's self-satisfied smirk from the other end. "There she is." A soft haze fills your screen as her voice softens. "Do I need to fly back and tell the two of them to fuck off?"

"I can tell them to leave myself," you protest, but Shoko gives you a deadpan stare. "Okay, well, maybe it'll be hard."

As the silence falls, warm and comfortable, you bustle around the kitchen, spooning rice into your bowl of leftovers. The air is warm, and despite your exhaustion, you can't help but appreciate the dreaminess of the evening. Shoko watches you, dark eyes unreadable. "What?" you finally ask, curiosity lacing your voice.

"Just be careful," she sighs. "Satoru and Suguru will probably do some crazy shit to get you to notice them. I just don't want those idiots to scare you."

"They don't care enough to do that," is your sardonic reply, and this time, it's her turn to laugh.

"If you really think that, then you're blinder than I thought."

He is breaking me down on every side, and now it's too late for me; he has uprooted my hopes like a tree.

When the number of your old landline rings on Suguru's cellphone, he almost blocks it out of habit before he registers the last four digits. Panicking, he immediately accepts the call.

"Hey, is everything okay? I-"

Your mother's voice chirps back at him, a bit staticky from the old phone that he knows she'd insisted on keeping installed in the kitchen. "Suguru, dear, could you do me a favor?"

Ingrained instinct forces a "yes ma'am," from his mouth before he can even process the request. He can practically hear the smile in your mother's voice. "It won't take too long, don't worry. My back has been aching an awful amount after my last surgery, but I've been meaning to wear some of my old church clothes to Bingo Night. Would you mind grabbing it for me?"

The attic is cluttered and old, and the dust stings his eyes, but Suguru can't bring himself to complain as he begins to rummage through boxes. It feels like seeing you again, like being your Suguru again, as he unearths old photo albums, and stuffed toys. There was the rabbit you used to carry around all the time. A picture frame, of you, Shoko, Satoru, and Suguru one summer afternoon. Carefully, he wipes away the dust, smiling at the memory. You'd lost your front tooth that summer; now, it was forever memorialized.

Finally, he reaches a small collection of boxes in the back. The dress lays draped over a small stack of boxes, but as he grabs it, one topples over, spilling its contents all over the floor.

Suddenly, selfishly, Suguru is grateful that Satoru stayed behind back in their hotel room, because inside the cardboard box is envelopes. At least thousands of them, crammed into each possible corner, dates written on the front in the same handwriting you've had since high school. He tears open another box, only to find the same. Three whole boxes of letters. Selfish hope and heavier dread sinks into his skin like the dust that is slowly falling to the floor; Suguru has unearthed something that he knows he's not supposed to see.

Was this how Adam felt, holding the forbidden fruit in his hand? Which was stronger; the will of God, or the love of man?

"You will not certainly die,” the serpent said to the woman. “For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.

He's almost frantic as he searches for the first letter, scattering them around himself until he finds it; labelled a week after Suguru had taken Satoru with him to pursue what they had believed to be an impossible dream. Suguru hesitates only for a moment, until with one decisive swipe, he rips the flap from the waxy paper beneath. This one is addressed to him.

Suguru,

My parents put me in therapy. Remember how we always used to joke that if anyone needed it, it would be you? Why did you leave me? What did I do wrong? It hurts, Sugu, why, why, why My therapist thinks that keeping letters will help, and my parents want me to at least give it a try. Mom won't say anything, but I know she's concerned. Dad's already torn into Toru's parents, so the whole town is fully aware of what they've done. Shoko says that they're practically livid with shame, skulking around the town as that'll fix their reputation. You missed it; there was one night when the fireflies came back, and I swear they filled the entire sky. It was beautiful. It reminded me of the first time we met, do you remember that?

I wish you'd been here to see it. I'm sorry, Suguru. I'm sorry that I wasn't good enough to take along. I'm sorry that I didn't tell you I love you. I hope you're safe. I hope you're taking care of Toru for me.

I love you so much that it's hard to be mad.

Water drips down onto the ink of where you'd signed your name, and with a start, Suguru realizes he's crying. Gently folding the letter, he sets it aside, and reaches for the next one.

Mom and Dad have what Grandma had. I'm scared, Toru. I wish you were here. You'd always say something silly that would make me forget for even a moment.

Another.

I saw you on the television today, Toru. You're so beautiful it hurts.

Another.

I've given up on properly going to college. They're so sick that I'm terrified to leave them alone.

More. More. More.

I try my best not to listen, but the radio in the coffee shop plays the songs you make, Sugu. I hate it, but it's selfish of me. The girl you sing about, does Toru get along with her? Does she make you happy?

He can't stop himself from reading any more than he can stop the tears pouring down his face. They'd missed so much of your life, and yet you'd dutifully written letter after letter, as if you'd planned on them seeing it. Like you hoped they would come back some day. The next letter was only written two years ago, but it turns Suguru's blood to ice.

I saw the scandal on one of the gossip magazines while I was out shopping for groceries, Toru. The Chanel model? Really? I was kind of hoping for the Gucci one, she seems so nice to her assistant.

I say this like you're a celebrity. A celebrity that I can just laugh at, and say "must be nice, having supermodels fall into your lap!" You were mine, once, long before you were hers. I love loved you.

I did something stupid, last night. Remember Kenji, from high school? The one you always hated? I can't even explain it, how furious I was, when I saw you with that model. You looked so happy, like it didn't matter that all your joy and abundance didn't come at my expense.

I ended up sleeping with him for the first time, with anyone for the first time really. I'm not going to write more; it's embarrassing, and it wasn't even good, but I think I'm more upset with myself. It doesn't matter.

It's not like you'll ever find out. Even if you do, it's not like you'll care.

It's not like my love mattered to you to begin with.

Suguru's chest feels as though someone has washed his heart in acid. On paper, the person you were after they left was more jaded. Less optimistic. You no longer spoke of things you wished they were able to experience with you, but rather all the things they'd left behind. You thought they didn't care, and as he forces his useless lungs to take another breath, he knows that he can't leave this town until he convinces you to come with him. As he stumbles down from the attic, dress in hand, your mother gives him a knowing stare.

"Did you find the dress I asked you to grab?"

"Yes ma'am," Suguru says numbly. It's all he says. It's all he can say. Your mother sighs, patting the chair next to her. "Why don't you call Satoru over, hm? Try some of the tea I bought. I remember your mother saying you only drink black. You really should call her more."

Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in?

"I'm home!" you call out, slipping your shoes off with one hand as you balance the full bag of groceries in the other. "Did you take your medi-"

The carrots drop to the floor as you take in the sight of Gojo and Geto sitting at your kitchen table with your mother of all people. "What the fuck?"

Geto's eyes are rimmed red, like he'd been crying, while Satoru stares at you with a hint of anguish. "What the fuck," you repeat again, dumbfounded. "Why are you in my house right now?"

Geto opens his mouth to speak, but your mother waves it away. "You know how bad my back's been lately, I really wanted to wear that old emerald dress your father got me, do you remember?"

Stunned, you can only nod.

"And, I didn't want to have you come all the way back from the city just to grab a dress for me, so I called over Suguru and Satoru to help me out," your mother finishes. You can't stop the panic from leaking into your voice.

"Where was the dress?"

From the look on their faces, you know that Geto and Gojo have found it. All the letters you were too weak to send, too weak to throw away. How much did they read?

"The attic, dear," is your mother's quiet response, and when you turn her attention to her, you can see the quiet love and encouragement in her eyes.

What's more important? The love for all the things they did do, or all the things they didn't?

White noises rushes into your head, and you can barely process your mother's departure. Something about Bingo Night? The door clicks shut and you're left with silence so profound that your body almost instinctively crumples in on itself. Suguru can't look you in the eyes, absentmindedly tracing the rim of the delicate porcelain teacup that looks comically small next to his calloused hands. Satoru merely watches, but you can see the tension in his neck, in the way his fingers flex around empty air.

So, you do the only thing you can do. You run.

Turning, you all but sprint up the stairs. You lied. You couldn't do this, couldn't face them, see them, hear them-

Toned arms reach around from behind, pulling you decisively to a well-defined chest. The air is forced out of your lungs as you yelp, squirming out of the hold, only to freeze as Satoru places his cheek on your head, nuzzling into your hair.

"I missed you."

Tears spring to your eyes but Satoru keeps going. "You were the only thing that kept us going. Our apartment was so shitty, we had to put cardboard on the floor just to keep warm. I thought of you all the time. I thought of which stage outfit you'd like better, how you would get along so well with the other members of the group. We didn't forget you. We love you too much for that."

"Stop," you choke out, as your legs crumple under you. Satoru catches you, tugging you further into him, as tears trickle down your face. A blurred shape; Suguru, kneeling in front of you, gently taking your hands in his.

"One chance, princess," he breathes. "Give us one chance to explain ourselves. After that, we'll do whatever you want, give you whatever you want. We've only ever been yours."

[luveline]

Hi !!! Can I request something romantic between shy reader and spence? maybe he’s like trying to teacher her something and they’re alone? IDK WRITE WHATEVER U WANNA RIGHT ILL EAT IT UP REGARDLESS <3

Your stomach hurts and you need to pee, but you’re stuck. You’ve been trying to submit your virtual paperwork for the last two hours. Why have they made it this difficult? You’re beginning to wonder if you’re being hazed. 

Spencer told you it was easy. Well, he’d put a cup of tea on your desk (for which you hadn’t asked but gratefully accepted), seen you were starting your paperwork, and said, “I’ll see you for lunch in half an hour?” with a knowing smile. 

You’d smiled back. You want to be in the know with him, even if you’d needed a ten minute recovery period after he left to learn to breathe through your nose again. 

But it became clear after half an hour you wouldn’t be taking lunch, let alone joining him. Nervous sweat dampens your hands and the back of your shirt, and your face burns with heat —why is the office scorching? You’re in hell. 

You click another button, sure you’ve found the right process, but a yellow triangle appears with an exclamation mark inside. Function suppressed, it says.   

“Oh, good,” Spencer says, approaching from behind, a coffee. “I thought you stood me up. You’re struggling with the system?” 

“I wouldn’t say struggling.” 

“You don’t need any help, then?” 

“Please,” you say softly, worried someone else will hear you. You don’t want anyone in the team nor the unit to realise how inept you are. It’s bad enough that Spencer’s cottoned on. “I can’t get it to work.”

“I was kidding,” he says, smiling tentatively at you. “Let me get my chair.” 

Spencer tortures you sitting beside you, knee to knee and arm over your arm as he guides your mouse to the right page, then the correct paperclip. His watch falls down his wrist and brushes your skin with each direction, spurring chills all over. “You’re pretty much done,” he says. 

“I don’t know why I was so confused,” you say bashfully. 

“Because it’s a confusing system.” He smells like warm vanilla. You wish you could ask him about it, but you’ve a job to talk this close to him. 

“Thank you for helping.” 

He clicks through the last part of your file to check for any missing paperclips before he sends it off. “You’re welcome.” Then, because he secretly hates you, he takes your arm into his hand with achingly careful fingers. “Are you cold?” He rubs at your goosebumps. He has really nice hands, with strong veins. He moves purposefully. 

Another rush of goosebumps down your arm. “Are you okay?” he asks, his eyebrows tugged together worriedly. 

“I’m just,” —mortified— “embarrassed about the paperwork. I didn’t know there would be this many online responsibilities involved, I would’ve looked them up.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise as your sentence ends. You’d mangled ‘looked them up’, said it breathless as his hand curled around your fingers. 

“Don’t worry about all of that. You can always ask me for help. Right? I sit right there.” He points to his desk. “Did you forget?”

Something about his tone suggests that he already knows you didn’t forget, but he takes your thank you gracefully, and continues pretending you’re cold rather than physically affected by his touch. He’s nice like that. 

“Here, in case you’re still cold,” he says, too casual, draping his suit jacket over your shoulders.

Not that nice. 

[alwaysbewoke]

On March 5th, 1959, 69 African American boys, ages 13 to 17, were padlocked in their dormitory for the night at the Negro Boys Industrial School in Wrightsville. Around 4 a.m., a fire mysteriously ignited, forcing the boys to fight and claw their way out of the burning building. The old, run-down, & low-funded facility, just 15 minutes south of Little Rock, housed 69 teens from ages 13-17. Most were either homeless or incarcerated for petty crimes such as doing pranks. 48 boys managed to escape the fire. The doors were locked from the outside and fire mysteriously ignited on a cold, wet morning, following earlier thunderstorms in the same area of rural Pulaski County. The horrific event brought attention to the deplorable conditions in which the boys lived. The boys all slept in a space barely big enough for them to move around & theyre one foot apart from one another & their bathroom was a bucket at the corner where they had to defecate in. In an ironic twist, the land in which the school stood is now the Arkansas Department of Correction Facility Wrightsville Unit. In 2019 a plaque was finally placed after 60 years.

PURE EVIL!!! MY GOD!!

[angel-of-the-moons]

Hear me out.

A Ghost In The Gym

(Ghost x Fem!Reader)

It was another day at the gym for you, only, today... There was a man in a rather scary skull mask glaring holes into the mirror across from him as he used the dumbbells...

You paid him no mind, some people wear masks in the gym. Could be allergies or... Something

Your eyes can't seem to focus on anything else around you, because whenever you look in the mirror, you see he's staring at you

It immediately concerns you, and you try to shove your discomfort aside.

You put in your headphones and try to tune the world out and focus on your routine.

You were ten minutes into your slow climb to a trot on the treadmill when you looked up and he was suddenly right there

You almost trip as you hit the stop button on the mill, and look up at him because he's leaning very close all of a sudden. Your voice is very sheepish and concerned.

"Can I.... Can I help you?"

"I didn't mean to startle you. There's two men staring at you, they followed you in here. They're talking about trying to convince you to come home." His rich voice grumbles softly.

You swallow and casually glance around the gym, spotting the men in question, who suddenly acted like they were busy. You were so concerned with the big scary man in the mask you didn't notice the two guys dressed in street clothes. They looked familiar...

"I told them to fuck off." He says, standing up straight. "Hope you don't mind, but I told them that you were my girlfriend, that you were meeting me here."

"Oh... Um.... Thank you."

He tilts his head, his chocolate eyes softening as he notices you're still on-edge; and honestly? Who could blame you in the situation?

He takes a step back. "My name's Simon. If you like, I can spot for you while you work out and keep them off of you."

Your body relaxes a little bit, comforted by the man's respect of your personal space.

"Y... Yeah. Thanks." You babble, awkwardly fiddling with your water bottle as you take a sip. "You're uh... A big guy, ain'tcha?"

"I'm military. Pays to be big." He replies, tilting his head.

"Oh! Oh... Yeah, I can see why." You laugh awkwardly.

Simon's eyes crinkle at the corners; a smile beneath his mask. You're not sure why, but that twinkle in his eyes makes your cheeks heat up.

"So, what's next on your workout routine?"

"Uh... Well, I use the medicine ball and do some curls... some squats."

"Alright then, luv. Let's get to that. Let me know if I get too close or make you uncomfortable."

He was... Surprisingly respectful. Most guys at the gym who got so close to you were creeps who couldn't keep their distances from you.

Ugh, and don't even get started on the mouth-breathing many of them did... Or the shameless staring at your tits.

But this Simon, your... uh, Gymbro Avenger as it were, was rather kind. He kept track of your sets even when your frazzled mind lost track; even while he did his own. But then again, the man probably worked out so often that it was muscle memory for him to do it without needing to count.

You two got to talking while you exercised; he was some sort of high-class soldier, couldn't tell you more because of how "classified" it all was.

He told you about his unit; his friends. His family, basically. The "Old Man" Price, his annoying "battle buddy" (a US military term that someone named Alex told him) "Soap", Gaz, who apparently always had a "kicked puppy" face...

It made you laugh, some of the stuff he told you.

Talking with you... it made him feel... human. Almost normal.

When was the last time he felt like that?

Too long, it felt.

You had gotten comfortable to the point that you hardly noticed when he'd put a hand on you to correct your form.

You ignored your heartrate spikes when he did, of course. You also had to remind yourself to stop ogling his thick arms or how his veins bulged or how intricate his tattoo was...

The two of you explored the gym and did things you didn't normally do. He helped you use the Olympic bench, the rowing machine...

He stood outside the showers (a respectful distance away, mind you) to make sure those guys didn't creep on you on the way out.

You didn't notice when your stalkers gave up and left, seemingly irritated that Simon "was" your "boyfriend" and wasn't going to leave you alone.

You bought him a smoothie as a thank you.

He'd gotten a phone call halfway through and seemed saddened that he couldn't stay with you, but said his Captain called and he had to go.

You almost protest when he hands you some money to pay for the smoothie, but as you look up he was already leaving, his bag over his shoulder as he mounted his motorcycle.

You open the small wad of bills and realized that he left a scribbled note in it. A phone number.

"Call me when you need to go to the gym or don't feel safe, birdie. I'll be your scary dog privileges."

[magewritesstories]

[ SPENCER REID ] THAT'S A YOU PROBLEM

cw. headcanons for (unit chief) spencer dealing with a gen z reader (there will be a complete fic on this once i find the time!!) tw. mentions of rape, sa, murder, etc

he's so confused all the time

this man knows practically nothing about pop-culture so he's very confused a lot of the time

on a regular basis he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose because of the unhinged things you say to UnSubs during interogation - "Sorry, man, the fact that your father was a deadbeat sounds kinda like a you problem." - "So, what? You did it for the plot?"

(he lowkey kinda loves it tho, bc it reminds him of gideon iykyk)

but aside from that he's also just perpetually confused when talking to you like what did you mean he has 'rizz'? (no one tell him)

one time you called something your 'roman empire' and he went on a 10 minute rant about the roman empire before you told him what you actually meant - he thought it was embarrising - you thought it was cute and would've let him talk abt it for a lot longer if rossi hadn't interupted

whenever the motive for a murder is religious you refuse to call god anything but she (he's giving up on trying to correct you)

the first few times you answered a statement with slay he was mildly concerned

you constantly quote movies and the team finds it very entertaining, bc what do you mean SPENCER REID doesn't know the origin of a quote - when an unsub blamed his killing spree on his absent father your response was "cool motive, still murder" and another time with "that's rough buddy" (spencer asked garcia why everyone thought that was so funny once they were back in quantico)

yes, he did listen to you rant about the kendrick v drake beef for a full 20 minutes without complaining - when penelope teased him abt it he said he was just returning the favour cause you always listen to him

he's sat beside you and watched you watch mike's mic appropriately unhinged recaps on plane rides (he was INVESTED)

the things you say "same" to concern him

that's it for now, i hope you liked it

[sturn-saturn]

just this once

pairing; fem!reader x bf!matt

warnings: cooch eating <3

a/n: im LITERALLY writing this as im in class LMAOO sorry if it sucks. writing a fanfic in class is crazy.

one thing you and the triplets knew was school fucking sucked. it sucked absolute balls. your dream since you were younger was to be in the medical field and here you are. you're currently in med school majoring in nursing but thankfully this biology course is offered online.

you woke up this morning absolutely exhausted but this class was only 90 minutes so you weren't complaining too much. you were just hoping this would be the quickest 90 minutes of your life.

matt wakes up pretty early as well but his brothers on the other hand love sleeping in. matt usually stayed in the living room while you're in your virtual class. matt lets you use his desk, which gives you the space to focus and just get through the class.

you're currently on the call and you were just exhausted, dozing off, staring off, picking at your cuticles, twirling your hair, you name it. your elbow was on the desk and your head was leaning on your hand until you hear a creak.

you turn to your right and you see your boyfriend peeking through the door. you give him a deadpan look because he knows how easily distracted you are especially when he's around.

luckily your professor doesn't mind if your camera is off as long as you're participating in class. "matt, what are you doing?"

"i'm bored, hungry, and theres nothing on netflix." he explains walking further into his room.

"babe, you know i have a class."

"i know, i know." he whispers walking to you and kissing your head. "are you almost done? i'm hungry."

"god we really need to get you and your brothers into a cooking class."

"honey, i know how to cook. i just choose not to cause i love when you cook, you put so much love into it."

"oh you know how to cook, huh? that salmon you tried to cook the other day says otherwise." you laugh. "i'll be done soon don't worry."

"but i'm hungry now." he whines. "you know what, fuck it."

matt pulls the desk chair away from his desk and sneaks under so hes on his knees facing you.

"m-matt. what are you doing i'm in class!" you yell.

"cameras off, i'm hungry, i'm taking advantage of this." he smirks looking up at you. “you need to keep quiet, sweetheart. can you do that for me?”

“yes.” you breathe out. matt begins to pull your panties down and kisses your inner thigh softly while holding eye contact.

your professor was talking at this point and the only thing you heard come out of his mouth was living organisms. “ms. y/l/n could you explain further?”

“fuck” you mouth looking at matt.

he pulls away from between you and gives you a smirk. “well ms. y/l/n? explain further.”

you unmute the zoom call and do everything you can to refrain from moaning. “a living organism is anything that has life and consists of cells as its basic unit of organization like t-trees, animals, algae, b-bacteria, as well as humans of course.”

“correct, thank you ms.y/l/n.” your professor announces.

you go back on mute and you look down at matt and spread your legs wider to give him access. he taps your legs so you can put your feet on the arms of his chair.

“you’re such a good girl.” matt whispers.

“mmmm” you hum

“and…you…taste…so…good.” he says in between kisses to your clit.

“matt, quit teasing.”

“say please.” with a deadpan look.

“matt, please quit teasing.”

with that, be inserts a finger and your head falls back into the chair. he trusts in and out until you’re a mess. “what you didn’t realize was you and your professor were the only ones left in the call.

“y/n, are there any questions you had for today?” you professor asks.

you almost jump out of your seat when you heard your name from the screen in front of you.

you quickly unmute yourself, “no, professor, great lecture today, looking forward to next week!” you ramble on before you end the call.

“fuck i’m looking forward to getting inside you. get on the bed, sweetheart.” you boyfriend says with a husky voice.

tag list:

@sturniolos4life16 @hoeforchrizz @luckyscharms @emely9274 @chrispotatos @weirdratperson @simpson12 @ilovemenwithlonghairr @angeldvstee @pussypie456 @valentinasturniolo @khalei-20 @cravingchrissturniolo @wonnieeluvvr @flouvela @zay-sturns

[cleolinda]

A narrative in links

I want you to hear "In the Hall of the Mountain King" in your head while you read this:

Backlash after comedian at Trump rally calls Puerto Rico 'island of garbage'

Racist jokes about Puerto Rico at rally bring anger and disgust: ‘Truly how the Trump party sees us’

Why Trump can’t pretend his rally’s anti-Puerto Rican racism was just a joke

If That Puerto Rico Joke Doesn’t Cost Trump, [running mate] JD Vance’s Reaction Will ("I think that we have to stop getting offended at every little thing in the United States of America, I’m just so over it")

Tony Hinchcliffe doubles down on racist Trump rally jokes despite backlash: ‘Change your tampon’

Trump’s Shock Comic Was Set to Call Harris a ‘C*nt’

‘F*** These Racists’: Geraldo Rivera Tears Into MAGA After Trump’s MSG Rally

Jennifer Lopez, Bad Bunny, Ricky Martin & More Amplify Kamala Harris After Trump Rally Comedian Trashes Puerto Rico

[GOP Speaker of the House Mike Johnson] fields questions from Latino voters about ‘stupid’ Puerto Rico joke

Trump’s Puerto Rico fallout is ‘spreading like wildfire’ in [swing state] Pennsylvania

Fallout from Florida Latinos fierce following racist jokes during former president’s NYC rally

Florida's Rick Scott [who is running for re-election] touts support for Puerto Rico after racist joke at Trump rally

Trump Rages at Fox News as His Allies Panic Over NYC Rally

Trump campaign struggles to contain Puerto Rico October surprise

It is absolutely sending me that this is what finally did it. To get everyone on the same page here, an "October surprise" in American politics is something unexpected that derails a political campaign at the last minute, right before Election Day in the U.S. (first Tuesday in November). Back in 2016, we thought it was the Access Hollywood "grab them by the pussy" tape, and then way too many people just shrugged and Trump won anyway, because the actual October surprise turned out to be FBI Director James Comey rocking up and announcing an investigation into Hillary Clinton's private email server. But Her Emails, etc.

So this year, of course, I and the rest of r/politics have been sitting here waiting for shit to go down, most likely re: Trump rather than Harris (I say as I knock on my wooden kitchen table), but what could he do that's any worse than what he's already done this year? Than what we already know of his past?

Apparently, everyone has decided it's this. It's a dude who is not even Trump getting up at the Madison Square Garden Nazis-In-America nostalgia rally Sunday night and telling shitty racist jokes. Not the one about "Latinos coming," not the one about Black people and watermelons, not even other things Hinchcliffe said in the same speech. It's not any number of heinous things various other speakers said (scroll down). No, it's

"There’s a lot going on. I don’t know if you know this but there’s literally a floating island of garbage in the middle of the ocean right now. I think it’s called Puerto Rico."

It's not thumbs up at Arlington Cemetery, it's not THEY'RE EATING THE DOGS, it's not "I wish I had generals like Hitler's" and all the other times Trump admired Nazis. It's this.

I mean, everyone is correct to be outraged about this, I'm glad that it's gained traction and more people than usual are actually shocked and politicians are panicking, and Puerto Ricans both on the island and the mainland have my deep I'm-sorry-sympathy that they have been insulted this way. But--maybe it's just the last-minute timing, but it is blowing my mind that THIS, finally, from a guy who isn't even Trump, is the October Surprise.

[fatehbaz]

This April [2021], the Iowa Department of Corrections issued a ban on charities, family members, and other outside parties donating books to prisoners. Under the state’s new guidelines, incarcerated people can get books only from a handful of “approved vendors.” Used books are prohibited altogether [...].

In 2018, the Michigan prison system introduced an almost identical set of rules, and Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Washington have all made attempts to block book donations, which were only rolled back after public outcry. Across the United States, the agencies responsible for mass imprisonment are trying to severely limit incarcerated people’s access to the written word [...].

---

The official narrative is that donated books could contain “contraband [...]" -- the language used in Michigan [...]. This is a flimsy justification that begins to fall apart under even the lightest scrutiny. [...] [Contraband] [...] [is] not originating from nonprofit groups like the Appalachian Prison Book Project or Philadelphia’s Books Through Bars. [....] The old cartoon scenario of a hollow book with a saw or a gun inside just isn’t realistic, and its invocation is a sign that something else is going on.

That “something else,” predictably enough, is profit. With free books banned, prisoners are forced to rely on the small list of “approved vendors” chosen for them by the prison administration. These retailers directly benefit when states introduce restrictions. In Iowa, the approved sources include [B&N] and [B-a-M], some of America’s largest retail chains -- and, notably, ones which charge the full MSRP value for each book, quickly draining prisoners’ accounts. An incarcerated person with, say, $20 to spend can now only get one book, as opposed to three or four used ones; in states where prisoners make as little as 25 cents an hour for their labor, many can’t afford even that.

---

With e-books, the situation is even worse, as companies like [GTL] supply supposedly “free” tablets which actually charge their users by the minute to read.

Even public-domain classics, available on Project Gutenberg, are only available at a price under these systems -- and prisons, in turn, receive a 5% commission on every charge. All of this amounts to rampant price-gouging and profiteering on an industrial scale.

---

The rise of these private vendors has also been mirrored by the systematic dismantling of the prison library system. In the last ten years, budgets for literacy and educational resources have seen dramatic cuts, reducing funding to almost nothing [...]. In Illinois, for instance, the Department of Corrections spent just $276 on books across the entire state in 2017, down from an already meager $605 the previous year. (This means, incidentally, that each of the state’s roughly 39,000 prisoners was allotted seven-tenths of a cent.)

Oklahoma, meanwhile, has no dedicated budget for books at all, requiring prison librarians to purchase them out-of-pocket. [...]

---

These practices become all the more abhorrent when you consider the impact books can have behind bars. By now, the social science on their benefits is well-established [...]. [O]ther inmates have reported that reading meant “the difference between just giving up mentally and emotionally and making it through another day, week, or year,” countering the dehumanizing effects of their imprisonment. A book can offer a brief, irreplaceable moment of calm in hellish circumstances. [...]

[There is] a shameful pattern in American society, where many people simply don’t think about the incarcerated on a day-to-day basis, let alone sympathize with their worsening conditions. [...] One of the most common arguments for the American carceral system, and its continued existence, is that of rehabilitation. According to its defenders, a prison is not simply a place of suffering, where unwanted populations are sent to disappear. Nor is it a callous money-making machine, intended to squeeze free labor from them in a regime of functional slavery. Instead, prison rehabilitates -- so the story goes. [...] In these terms, the basic legitimacy of mass imprisonment, and its allegedly positive social role, is taken for granted. [...] But the practice of book banning exposes the lie. Not only do American prisons have little interest in education, healing, and growth, but they will actively prevent them the moment there is a dollar to be made or an ounce of power to be secured.

---

Text by: Alex Skopic. "The American Prison System's War on Reading". Protean (Protean magazine online). 29 November 2021. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]