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eupheme · 7 months ago

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— common ground [into the fire, part iii]

part i | part ii | masterlist

cooper howard / the ghoul x f!reader

rated e - 4k

tags: dubcon, power dynamics, vault dweller!reader, bounty hunting, pwp, sex for favors, 1 spank, sub/dom elements, light degradation, use of chems, shotgunning chems, riding, PiV, canon-typical violence and death

a/n: the scene where he complained about doing all the work had me like 👀 (reimagining), so here we go! 💖

“S’that right? Need me to fuck you? Fill up that greedy little cunt?”

His head tipping back as he hums, as if disappointed. Each word exaggerated, with his slow drawl, “Well, I’d sure like to sweetheart… but it seems to me like I’ve been doing an awful lot of work around here.”

“Findin’ this place. Cleanin’ it out. Gettin’ you clothes.” A sigh, before his voice drops, “Makin’ you come.”

“Think you oughta return the favor, don’t you?”

(Or - you take the Ghoul for a ride)

"Fuck!”

You crouch outside as another loud shotgun blast fires - the wooden door next to you peppering with bullets.

This wasn't what you had in mind.

You had thought you'd find a chem station in the next town. A pharmacy, an old hospital. Something somewhat respectable - not standing watch as the Ghoul blew his way through a long-abandoned two-story home.

The layered yelling dies off with each pull of his trigger, until everything going silent.

He finds you there a moment later, still curled in on yourself. A roll of his eyes when he sees you - still unused to the violence.

"It's clear." The Ghoul beckons, "Let's find that station."

You follow him inside, your gaze boring a hole into his back. Trying hard not to look down, nose wrinkling when you almost trip over a set of legs that sprawl across the floor.

A hand pinches at your elbow, keeping you upright.

"What?" He asks, at your expression.

"Did you have to..." You start, as he checks down the hallway.

It's empty - the doors leading to two bedrooms. The bed frames bare and rusted, the rooms already picked through.

A shrug, "They shot first."

"You goaded them."

You could hear him, even from outside. That knowing tone - some kind of warning. A rough laugh, and then the firefight had started.

"We're looking for a chem station, sweetheart." He scoffs, head cocking as he backs you up against the door he just closed, "Think they're gonna share with you like you’re on a goddamn play date?"

"They-" You blink up at him, "They might have."

He clicks his tongue, giving you a long look,"You still got a lot to learn, Vaultie."

A second, before he steps away.

"These weren't those kind of people."

You find it in the basement. A man slumped just outside the cracked-open door, the weathered lab coat stained and splattered red on the left-hand side.

Anything salvageable from above must have been brought down here. Three threadbare mattresses behind a makeshift wall. A long couch that faces a television that still runs, the picture blurry with static.

The station sits along the back wall. A beaker still bubbles over the burner, the smell acrid. Bottles litter the surface - something being made in a batch.

Your mind is already racing ahead, eyes scanning for things you'll need. Too-large gloves shoved on, disposing of the burnt mixture while you search for an empty glass.

Missing how he angles the couch to watch, feet propped up on the wooden coffee table. That ever-steady wariness waning with your focus, the tension in his shoulders easing as he sinks into the cushion.

You're too busy to notice. Sorting the different ingredients, littered across the counter.

There's an excess of toxic soot flowers, their petals papery between your fingers. Opened packages of Med-X, a spilled pile of Buffout. A jar of acid.

Psycho. Cut with something else, something stronger. You think the Ghoul was right - maybe you had been foolish to underestimate them.

You try to shake the thought away, as you gather what you need. Antiseptic, from your own bag. Three jars of glowing fungus, found beneath the sagging counter. Ground up and tipped into a dusty beaker, the heat turned down low.

"Can you get me some water?" You call from over your shoulder, a jar held in your hand.

There's no answer. Silence, until something hard presses into your back, pinning you against the table.

It feels familiar, the way his hips nudge against yours, and it sends your mind back. An urge to arch - bend low. Mimicking the days before, where you can still feel the twinge of him with the stretch of your thighs.

"You think you're callin' the shots now, sweetheart?" His voice is low, the brim of his hat brushing your head as he leans over your shoulder.

"No," You squeak - caught off-guard, "I just-, I can't leave this until it thickens."

"Mm.” His hum is low. “Too bad. Would've liked to see you try.”

Heat blooms in your cheeks at his words, that rough drawl, even after the last couple days. A thin layer of suggestion in his tone, as he shifts closer - his chest bumping into your back.

Your mind flickering through possibilities, before his voice cuts through.

“Said you need water?”

"Yes. Please," The nod you give is small - you have to start your stirring over, losing your rhythm, "I saw a few cartons in the kitchen. If you don't mind."

"Polite little thing, when you're distracted," He husks, "I'll have to remember that."

The Ghoul makes no effort to move, though. Fingers wrapping around the glass. His other hand gripping the edge of the table, boxing you in. You wonder if he can hear the way your heart thuds in your chest, eyes fixed firmly on your work.

“Where’d you learn to do this?”

It takes you a second to answer - he’d had never offered many questions. Responses that were no more than a couple of words, over the stretch of long hours on the road.

“Uh, my Vault. We were short on hands, my mother was a chemist.” Your words are slow - a still-painful topic, “Used to make all kinds of stuff. Medicine and… and chems, alike.”

People who left were always brought back. Dazed and half-sick from the world above, whatever they had seen. Left at your doorstep to be patched up, if they made it that long.

You always told yourself that wouldn’t be you.

That when you were gone, you’d stay that way.

“Hm.” His tone flattens, “Wouldn’t have guessed. Don’t seem the type.”

“Yeah?” You head turns, catching his shadowed ones. Leaning into the welcome diversion, “What type do I seem like, then?”

The Ghoul’s eyes narrow, an unconscious flick down to your mouth.

“Trouble.” He husks, with a shallow roll of his hips. You can’t help the short inhale that he’s certain to hear, the way your fingers tighten around your instruments.

“Though I’m still workin’ out what kind.”

It’s there that he leaves you. Flustered and silently revisiting evenings before, a familiar anticipation curling low inside you.

The steps creak behind you as he slips upstairs. Returning some time later with what you need - twirling a dented pot found in the kitchen, so you can purify it. Folding himself onto the couch when you tell him it will be a while.

A cut glass decanter salvaged as well, that he drinks directly from. A rough gasp as the bitter alcohol floods through him. Helping himself to the chems that litter the tabletop - before his feet kick up, the hat tipped low over his face.

You think he does rest - a rarity.

You examine him then - as you wait for the water to boil, and then cool, before you can use it to mix with the other components.

Taking the rare chance to do it freely.

In the Wasteland you’ve learned to stay cautious. That you can’t fall behind. That surely he would notice, if your gaze lingered on him for too long.

But here, time seems to slow for a moment. Nothing to do but wait, as your fingers drift to your neck. Pressing into the bruise, as if you could feel the indents of his teeth.

His presence feels the same.

A mark left on you. Something you can’t help but want to touch, even if it aches. A reminder that lingers, and there’s a part of you that wishes it would stay.

It has you wondering, as your eyes sweep across him. Over the long-faded clothes, hiding rough and reddened skin - every inch of him wrapped away.

If you got close enough-

Would you find that he bore a mark of his own?

You make enough for a little over two weeks. Carefully poured and sealed into a variety of small bottles and tubes you’ve scavenged, scraping out every last bit that you can.

In the less-than-stellar conditions, it didn’t turn out so bad. The vials you had seen him buy was a thin, piss-yellow that had made you cringe. Poor work to begin with, and that was even before it was cut with more water.

What you offer out to him is thick - a sheen clinging to the glass as it sloshes, when it passes from your hand to his.

Liquid gold, in comparison.

“Mm.” The Ghoul hums - eyes greedy, as he examines, holding it up to the bit of light.

Before they’re focusing on you. Flickering from head to toe - considering - before his legs spread a bit wider. A hand clapping down against a thigh.

The look you give him is blank. A squeak when his fingers hook around one of your belt loops and pulls - hauling you onto his lap.

“You think I’m just gonna take somethin’ you cooked up?” His brow lifts, hands pinching against your hips, “Not a chance, sweetie. I think we oughta try this together.”

The Ghoul’s fingers slip up then, rucking up the hem of your shirt. His tone turning knowing.

“And I don’t think you’ve got enough in you.”

Your cheeks burn at his insinuation. More than aware, your breath catching as the rough tips of his leather gloves drag across your skin.

“Bet I’ve been leakin’ out of you since last time.” The Ghoul rasps, “Wouldn’t want to waste this, would we?”

He’s solid beneath you. Your thighs splitting on either side of his waist, knees digging into old cushions. Close enough to kiss - if you weren’t so certain he’d bite.

Lost though, on how to proceed. You don’t know the rules to his game. Always keeping you at arms-length - wrists bound, caught in his grip.

Would he let you touch him?

He mistakes your hesitance, his brow pinching.

“Spent enough time starin’. Lookin’ like you wanted to take a ride.” Acid slips into his tone, teeth bared, “Change your mind, now you’ve got a front row seat?”

That knocks you out of your thoughts - embarrassed that you were caught staring at him. Annoyed by his assumption. A scoff, as your hips start to move, a slow roll. Hands coming up to rest against his shoulders, meeting his eyes.

They’re pretty, like the rest of him. Shades of light brown - looking like they’re caught the sun, even underground. Thick lashes, above the deep hollow of sunken eye sockets, the split cavern of his missing nose.

Something that had startled you, the first time you saw him. Now, you hardly even notice. And his mouth -

“I’m not scared of you.” You murmur, watching the way his lip curls in a sneer. A soft sound bitten back as you grind down, feeling how he’s stiff beneath you.

You wonder how long he’s been this way. Hard, from watching you work. Waiting.

Another exchange, though you wish you could tell him it doesn’t have to be that way. You had meant what you said, when you had made your offer - even if you mean it a little differently, now.

Maybe you still could.

“You should be,” The Ghoul growls - hands ghosting over your sides, up to the thin cotton, “If you had any goddamn sense. Letting me touch you like this-”

A hand is cupping your breast now. A hard swipe of his thumb against your stiff peak, your fingers biting down into his jacket.

Your hips jerk against his. A soft moan, when the seam of your pants catches against your clit - leaving you clenching around nothing.

“I want you to.” You confess - catching the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head, “Told you, whatever you want.”

The Ghoul makes a rough sound in his throat, watching as you tug the cups down to fit beneath your breasts, putting yourself on display for him.

“Haven’t learned, have you?” He warns, his voice low, “Don’t make an offer you can’t follow through on.”

The pinch of his fingers sends an ache down to settle between your thighs, the hint of pain pairing with your pleasure.

Your own hand wandering, wanting to see more. Sliding against a leather vest, the stained shirt beneath that was once as blue as your suit. Frayed, looping embroidery on the faded collar.

Feeling the warmth of his skin as you tug at the snap at his throat. An inch, and then another, before he’s catching your hand.

Dragging it up to his shoulders, fixing you with a look, “You best keep those right here.”

“You don’t want me to touch you?” You ask, eyes flicking down to the peek of skin at his throat.

“I want these off.” He tells you instead, snapping the waistband of your pants against skin.

You have to leave him to do it. Watching the way his arms stretch across the back of the sofa, as you kick the pants off, then your underwear beneath.

Bare again, as you settle. Fitting yourself against the curve of his cock. Leather and metal kissing your skin as you move against him, until his lips are parted with a ragged breath.

You can feel your muscles clench. The slick slide of your pussy against his bulge, barely nudging at that deep-seated ache to be filled.

“Makin’ a mess, sweetheart.” He husks, his hips lifting to meet yours. Gloved hands moving to curl around your waist - pulling you down to meet him, coaxing a lazy rhythm from you.

“Rubbin’ up against me like a bitch in heat. Should make you clean that up.”

It coaxes a whine from you, as you let him move you. The sound does something to you - the layered approval in his tone, the low rasp of his voice. Not so unaffected as he seems, with how hard he is beneath you.

He must see it in your expression, a hand leaving the couch to grasp at your chin. Flexing up and into you, letting you feel the hard ridge of him.

“This what you want, sweetheart?”

Making you meet his gaze, as you answer. All dark eyes and the flash of teeth, under the brim of his hat.

“Yes.” You keen, “I need you, please-”

“S’that right? Need me to fuck you? Fill up that greedy little cunt?”

The hand leaves your chin to drop down. Slowly loosening a belt buckle, letting it pool on the cushions. Your cheeks heating when you see the slick shine to the front of his pants, where you’ve rutted yourself against him.

“Findin’ this place. Cleanin’ it out,” His eyes are on yours - your breath short as he tugs the zipper down. “Gettin’ you clothes.”

A sigh, before his voice drops, “Makin’ you come.”

You moan at that, a soft sound caught behind your teeth - fingers pinching into his shoulders.

Waiting for him to draw his cock out - fist wrapped around the base. Flushed and thick in his palm, inches away from where you need him.

The Ghoul does grin then, a wicked thing that shows his teeth.

“Think you oughta return the favor, don’t you?”

He’s giving you an inch - seeing if you’ll try to take a mile. A firm handle, still wrapped around a fist, but loosening the reins.

Letting himself watch.

“Seems fair.” You manage, breathless.

“Then go on,” He husks, “Show me how you can take it.”

Your hand reaches down, but then he’s clicking his tongue - fingers fixing back on his shoulders.

Leaving you to lift your hips. His cock slipping against your slick core, your teeth biting into your lip as you line yourself up - the rough head catching at your entrance.

It’s different this time. Sinking down on him, feeling each inch as it splits you open - instead of suddenly filling you to the hilt.

“Fuck,” You sigh, with the stretch. It twinges deep inside you, where his hips fit against yours.

Lifting yourself only to sink back down, his arms flexing beneath his coat as he lets you ride him, your pace slowly picking up until you’re bouncing on his cock.

As much as you enjoyed last time, there was something about this. Fully able to watch the way his lips part, hear the rattling groan when you tighten around him.

See the way his eyes skate across the bruise on your neck, only to drop down to watch the sway of your tits as your fingers lace behind his neck.

“Goddamn, sweetheart.” His hand flattens against the small of your back. The other gripping your hip, tugging you towards him, “You sure know how to ride.”

Not giving you time to answer, before his head is dipping. The brim of his hat knocking back when it hits your chin - the tips of your fingers just catching it. Slipping it on your own head for safekeeping before he can protest.

It earns you a sharp nip against the curve of your breast, before his lips close around the tight peak of a nipple and sucks.

You cry out, chasing the pressure that builds in your belly. Growing even more wet with the slick swirl of his tongue and the scrape of teeth - his cock grinding against a spongy spot inside you as you arch into his mouth.

“Please,” You whine, fingers flexing and then curling. Needing more friction against your clit, where your heartbeat has dropped and settled.

Trying so hard to listen, a whine between your gritted teeth. Your tits glossy with spit when he leans back, giving you a knowing look.

“You wanna come?” He husks - his eyes dropping, as you nod, “Only if you lean back and show me, sweetheart.”

Relief sings in you, as you adjust. Thighs spreading, as you grip onto his shoulder. Leaning back until he can watch the way he spears into you. How he shines, all slicked up, with each roll of your hips.

Your other hand loses its grip in his coat to slip down, press where your bodies meet.

Fingertips circle, a low moan at the much-needed touch. Your rhythm grows sloppy until his hands hook beneath your thighs. Guiding you into a harsh rhythm, each pound of his cock winding you higher and higher as the couch creaks beneath you.

“Come on, cowpoke.” He rasps, his hand cracking down against your ass, “Is that the best you can do?”

It builds - your fingers pressing harder against the slick bud. Whimpered noises that are more sound than words, as his thighs spread, feet planting so he can drive up into you.

“I said come on.” He growls, “Wanna feel you come on my cock again.”

Like before, it feels like the control slips through your fingers. Your own touch brings you close to that edge, but it’s the pounding of his cock that makes you fall.

Your back arching, crying out as your core clenches. Pleasure bursting deep inside you, racing up your spine and down to the tips of your fingers and pointed toes.

The quick thrust slowa into a lazy grind. A low “atta girl” that he grits out, as he feels the way you come hard around him.

Eyes dropping from your face to watch the greedy press of your fingers as you draw it out - until his own hand is wrapping around your wrist.

Tugging your hand away as the pleasure still courses inside you, hips still chasing the last ripples as you ride his cock.

Bringing your fingers to his mouth. Fitting them against teeth and tongue as his lips close around, tasting the slick that clings to them.

It makes goosebumps raise on your skin. The briefest thrill of fear. Certain that if you pulled your fingers free right now, the flesh and muscle would peel from you - leaving only bones behind.

He groans loudly around them, teeth indenting your skin. Tongue swirling against your knuckles, his hips rocking up to meet yours.

Freeing you, only to grasp at your hips - urging you to move faster. A loud slap of skin until his jaw is clenching - and he’s bringing you down once more against him with a rough sound.

Coming inside you again, but this time you get to see the way his head tips back with his snarl. How his fingers bite into your skin as you feel him throb - throat bared as he spills deep inside you with each rough jerk of his hips.

A flare of something flicking to life in your belly, knowing you did this to him. The groan he made when he tasted you echoing in your mind, giving you something to keep.

You make to move when he goes still, but a hand grips at your hip - holding you in place. Keeping you full of him, as the afterglow still glitters in your veins.

His eyes are dark, fixed on you. Taking in your shadowed, half-lidded gaze - sweat-dewed and bare skinned against him. His hat, still perched on your head. Looking like it belongs there.

A hand digs around in his bag. Pulling out the inhaler for his serum. Snapping it together without his gaze leaving you.

Bringing it to his mouth after - sucking in a deep, held breath. Those eyes closing with a low, contented groan.

A broad hand slips from your hip to splay across the back of your neck, fingers digging into your throat. Pulling you down to him - just as his head tilts to press his lips against yours.

Just as you soften, he exhales - the RadAway flooding through your parted lips. A stinging, metallic taste of iodine that makes you shudder, before you realize he’s deepening the kiss.

You lean into it without thought. The ache in your gums fading with the brush of his tongue. His grip anchoring you in place as he takes, licking into your mouth while his cock still fills you.

Leaving you breathless. Letting him, as your own arms wrap around his shoulders to keep him close. Meeting the messy scrape of teeth and swirl of tongue. The sharp taste fading, layered with the whisky and a hint of you that still lingers.

Before he’s pulling back far too soon, eyes dark as he pants.

“Fuck.” He rasps - his tongue tasting where yours had been, flicking across a lower lip. Before he’s looking at the inhaler - shaking it for another use.

“Looks like I might just have to keep you around.”

You make what you can with the rest of the supplies afterward - waste not, want not. An extra stimpak. Swiping the rest of the mentats, keeping the grape and berry ones for yourself. Refilling your canteen with more of the purified water.

The rest of the chems you gather - packing them in a tin. Tossing them his way, a low whistle when he sees what’s inside.

It’s late enough that the Ghoul decides it’s best to stay here, and leave at dawn. Certain that he will catch up to the bounty tomorrow, already sure of two places where he might be offloading the stolen wares.

You don’t mind. The uneasy thought of sleeping in a house with corpses quickly overshadowed by the real mattresses waiting in the basement. Stained but there’s still bedding - patched up blankets.

A fire, that he coaxes to life in the fireplace upstairs. Dinner, roasting over it.

It almost feels like something. A moment you can play pretend - that these walls will keep you safe.

That maybe you could clean it up.

That maybe he didn’t despise you, and maybe he’d want to stay.

It’s a foolish thought, a sigh as you push it from you. Digging a spoon into the rusted can of Pork ‘N Beans you had scavenged - not trusting the look of the skewer he had been tending.

A thumb running across your lower lip, as you chew. Remember how his had felt. Examining the angry marks pressed into your knuckles.

His shadow crosses over you, then - you have to crane your neck up to see him. His hat back where it belongs, much like your own clothes.

The tilt of his head, as he considers you again. Before his hand is slipping into the bag that slings across his shoulder.

Gloved fingers curling around something - tossing it silently into your lap, before he’s disappearing upstairs to finish his sweep of the house.

It’s golden, in the light of the fireplace. Seems like he’s already done a little looting of his own. A rolled up bag, the tube and needle tucked inside.

And a bottle of the RadAway you made for him.

save a horse, ride a cowboy and all that 🤠💖 (thank you so much for reading! would love to know what you thought if you enjoyed!)

#please mind the tags!#cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #fallout smut #fallout tv series #fallout #cooper howard

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kitchenwitchtingss · 1 year ago

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50 KITCHEN WITCH TIPS TO MAKE YOU FEEL MORE WITCHY

(And other useful things I've learned over the years)

Hi! This is a list of dos, don'ts, tips, tricks, and other fun things that I've learned over the years. I always love finding more effective and efficient ways of doing things so if you have any cool things you'd like to add, leave them in the comments or reblog. I'd love to read it.

Anyways... On with the list ^_^

Light candles around your kitchen space (just make sure nothing flammable is near you)

Annotate your cookbooks with the correspondence of the ingredients.

Mediating is really good to calm the mind before cooking.

Cut oranges and lemons thinly, dry them, and hang them with twine around your kitchen

Need a cleansing tip? Open all your windows near your kitchen. Let some fresh air in.

Cutting sigils into apples, pie crusts, and carved potatoes.

Save lemon and orange rinds, freeze them, and then use them to clean the garbage disposal.

Make infused oils and honey: Things like garlic honey, lavender honey, herb oil, sun oil, moon oil, dandelion oil, and other different edible oils are very fun and useful to make.

Hid sigils in pages of your cookbooks and kitchen witch journals.

Add some plants! Snake plants and spider plants don't need too much light, and growing your own herbs in your kitchen is awesome too. Basil, lavender, thyme, aloe vera, rosemary, etc. are good fits. You could also add some plants that require more sunlight on the kitchen window sill. Like cacti and succulents.

Bring crystals into your kitchen space such as rose quartz, clear quartz, amethyst, or whatever you want the space's intentions to be.

I keep a small money tree on the sill, along with cacti for luck and protection.

Make a simmer Pot! Mostly because it makes the whole house smell good, easy, and fun.

Stir clockwise for best results!

Learning how to pickle things is actually pretty witchy. Plus, anyone could do it as it requires absolutely no kitchen experience. You could pickle any vegetable, even if you don't like pickles. I originally learned this after having to take shelter from a natural disaster. A person brought a bunch of stuff and taught us how to pickle things with different spices and herbs. Very fun!

Decorate your kitchen with your favorite stuff. Crystals, decor, heat mits, that cool mushroom cake stand you've been eyeing at the World Market for the past 2 weeks, cool looking curtains, sun catchers. Why stop there? Paint the walls, hang shelves full of marked-up cookbooks that are a little too well-loved and thumbed through.

Wanna be the person that has the amazing-smelling house every time people come over? Syrups take some time to simmer down, it's actually a pretty good time to leave it on the stove to simmer. Since syrups have a lot of aromatic ingredients, it acts as a really good-smelling simmer pot.

Hang up herbs to dry with twine from cabinets that are rarely used.

Invest in that new set of plates and cups.

Homemade jams, butter, sauces, and syrups are your best friend.

Crochet or knit your own dish rags, pot holders, etc.

Don't pour extremely hot things into a glass that's not Pyrex, it will break, and you will be very sad about it.

Don't cook anything while extremely upset or emotional (For safety reasons)

Make recipes you want to make, not just because you'll like the effect. Make it because you think it's tasty.

Chinese Five Spice works in place of herbs for protection and luck spells a lot of the time! It's cheaper to buy 1 spice than 4 different spices that total up to 15 dollars when you could just spend 3-4 dollars.

Take a shower before cooking (I don't know how to explain this one other than it makes you feel better)

Don't use microfiber/plastic material clothes on hot burners, it will fuse to the burner and melt. It is VERY hard to get off.

I don't know if I need to put this one but I did see someone do it so nonstick pan = wooden utensils and plastic utensils, metal pan = metal utensils. Do not use a metal spoon in a nonstick pan, please. It can make you very sick.

Keep your pets away from hot oil, open ovens, and hot pans.

You can proof bread dough in the fridge overnight if you don't have the time to bake, or want to eat fresh bread right in the morning.

Need a quick witchy meal for dinner in 12 minutes? Use premade tomato pasta sauce and doctor it up with thyme, rosemary, and garlic, for protection and distilling stagnant energies. Serve with pasta of your liking.

You can substitute Butter for Crisco/shortening, buttermilk for 1 cup of milk + 1 tbsp apple cider vinegar or lemon juice, and heavy cream for 1 cup of half and half plus 2 tbsp of butter.

Use leftover animal bones to make bone broth

Teach yourself the art of bread scoring (It's fun, and you can show it off to your loved ones!)

Collect and hoard your own and others' family recipes.

Sometimes the food doesn't have to be a spell, sometimes it just makes you feel good and you don't know why.

Listen to your favorite music in the kitchen, it makes the monotonous things like chopping veggies move faster.

Invest in a vegetable chopper if you don't like chopping vegetables.

Find a really good hot cocoa recipe and make it once a week. Master it. Just for your own happiness because hot cocoa is really good. You could also be the friend/family member that makes the best hot cocoa ever.

Focaccia Bread Lasts a very long time, and it's very easy to make!

Keep a first aid kit near where the oven is, in case of burns, cuts, or serious injuries where time is everything.

Quick Bread and no-rise loaves are simple for beginners, tasty, and take little time. They also feel very witchy to make.

Study a bit of Herbalism! It's fun and really helps better understand the herbs you're putting into your food.

While something is boiling, put your wooden spoon over the pot to minimize the chance of something boiling over.

Try a bit of coffee magick, it's simple to get into, and gives you a boost of energy to take on the day!

If you're over 21, wine-making is a very interesting way to celebrate the sabbats. Just with that, make sure you KNOW what you're doing. With anything fermented, there's always a risk if you don't store things correctly. Apple wines, strawberry wines, dandelion wines, etc. all very cool to experiment with. If you're not over 21, vinegar is a similar way to experiment.

Hang up some witchy things, sigils, photos, cool magnets, and other things that give you joy on your fridge. (Sometimes if you are lucky they have some fun magnets at five below)

If you live in the US, for some reason, there are a lot of books in the book section dedicated to witchcraft and spirituality. At least where I live. And they are all under 5 dollars!

Teas are the cheapest and easiest things you can practice being a kitchen witch.

#witches #witchy #kitchen witch #witch #magick #witches of tumblr #kitchen witch recipes #modern witch #modern witchcraft #food #witchcraft #witchblr #food blogs #witch aesthetic #witchy vibes #wicca #baby witch #beginner witch

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lunarw0rks · 1 year ago

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Too Old For You // Part Two

Summary: You've been crushing on him for a while now, even going as far as taking a stab for him. But it isn't enough for him to notice you; you're too young, too nice for someone like him.

Warning(s): explicit content (18+), strong language, age gap [reader is early twenties, ghost is mid/late thirties], mild injury/blood, sexual harassment, hurt/comfort, smut, oral sex, face sitting, p in v sex, unsafe sex, oral fixation, medic!reader, fem!reader

Word Count: 5.5k ˖⁺‧₊˚ A/N: This took FOREVER, but I think it's worth it. Not Proofread! ₊‧⁺˖

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ˗ˏˋ ASK BOX | AO3 VER | PART ONE .ˎˊ˗

To be honest, you were making your best effort to forget about yesterday. Sure, it was a loss of your dignity to be rejected — but you hadn’t done anything truly wrong. What could he do to publicly embarrass you? Tell everyone he walked out on the person who took a knife wound for him? What a prick he would be, then.

Plus, Simon was never the type to air out his dramas. Especially involving you, who deserved to move on and find someone better. If only it were that simple.

There was little time to dwell — a trauma was coming in.

The second you were focused on a patient; any other life problem was pushed to the back burner. After the other day, that was a blessing. Sure enough, seconds after you got the comm, the infirmary doors swung open. It was a typical sight; the wounded soldier fighting the aid of the medics, on the verge of being sedated to ensure his care was given without mistake. You sterilized your hands briefly, finding the nearest box of disposable gloves and slipping them on. Whatever happened to the man, it sounded agonizing.

However, the grunting and complaining sounded familiar, too familiar. It was Simon.

That sentiment about forgetting about your problems when tending to a patient? It vanished at the speed of light when you peeled back the curtain, seeing that it indeed was him bleeding out on the table. He didn’t want the help, but he needed it.

Maybe he really didn’t want to see you — to the level of finding hemorrhaging more preferable than letting you tend to him, let alone speak to him. Though, it seemed more likely he could not show weakness, even when he had a bullet in him.

You peeled back the privacy curtain, greeted with a well-acquainted scowl of distaste. He didn’t want you here, to see him like this. Unlike him, you could separate personal feelings from your work. Simon should know how to do that by now, but it’s clear he doesn’t.

“You need to relax and let me help you.” He rejected you — doesn’t mean you’re going to take pleasure in watching him writhe. It was your sworn duty to treat everyone, unfortunately.

Simon wanted to argue. It was obvious with the way the fabric of his mask moved, failing to conceal the clench of his jaw. You sat across from him, wheeling one of the trauma case carts beside you, “I need you to relax.” His heavy breaths weren’t from pain, he was cursing himself for catching a bullet and ending up here. He was more enraged at himself for forcing you into tending to him. He was the last person you wanted to see right now… right?

Oh, how he despised being vulnerable, even when there was no other way. With a sigh, he removed the hand putting pressure on his shoulder. He was extremely fortunate — it had missed his arteries, and from what you could see, had an exit wound.

By the time you had your eyes on the hole, you had inserted a local anesthetic to keep the area numb. Strangely enough, Ghost flinched more when you leaned in to inject the needle than when you touched the tender area. He recoiled but wasn’t going to decline medicated relief.

“Can you feel that?” You asked, pressing the pad of your gloved fingers to the outer edge of the wound. It seemed that even if he did, you wouldn’t have gotten an answer. With a shake of your head, you merely began the routine of disinfecting the wound to start. Though you were careful, you wanted this ordeal to be over.

Once you moved on from dabbing at it with swabs, you met his gaze again, finally reciprocating the stare that hadn’t broken. “You’ll be fine.” You said, moving with haste as you got a suture kit ready. Any other day, the stare would send chills up your spine. Not today.

“Not why I was looking,” Simon grumbled, now instead watching the needle thread through his flesh. You didn’t even try to hide your eye roll at the sudden mood change. It wasn’t endearing anymore; it was irksome. Your sutures were about halfway done on the entrance wound, and you couldn’t have been more thankful for that.

The med bay went silent again, except for the occasional hiss from his clothed lips, or the creaking on the stool you were sitting on. The area around the wound was pinkish and inflamed, but not a tear, luckily. If he took his antibiotics, you wouldn’t have to see him much after this. You eventually found yourself behind him to examine the exit wound, a rinse and repeat of disinfecting and then stitching.

Only, this time, the infirmary wasn’t silent for long.

His words came after the last stitch when you placed a bandage over the now-healing wound, “look, ‘m sorry for yesterday, alright?”

Simon watched your scowl intently. It wasn’t one of distaste, not even irritation — it was loathing for yourself. You didn’t deserve to feel that way, especially at his expense. But no apologizing would make the initial sting of rejection go away. You weren’t a child, nor were you a fool; you wouldn’t have pursued him if you weren’t sure of what you wanted.

With a small ‘hm’ in response, you finished the last of his dressings, ripping the disposable gloves off your hands and tossing them into the trash. Your feet darted across the tile floors as you disposed of the contaminated linen and instruments, merely moving around the Lieutenant like he was an object. An inconvenience, for making you want him so badly. You voicelessly went over to the counter in the infirmary, resuming the charting you were occupied with before he was rushed into your care. Still, with your back turned to him, his eyes were boring holes into you. He didn’t need to be there; he was free to go. But he didn’t, and it was aggravating.

One minute you were beaming for the exit, the next his hand clamped around your arm, preventing you from making your exit. “Just… stop. For a minute.” He says, releasing the hand when you look down at how tightly he was gripping you.

“Hold this against me all you want, alright? Hate me, I don’t care.” Simon sighed, rolling his injured shoulder slightly from the strain of getting up too quickly. His feet dragged slightly as he made his way toward the door, standing by the exit of the med bay.

“One day you’ll wise up and realize I’m not what you need, Kid. Think about it, at least.” The door to the infirmary came to a slow close behind him, a disheartening contrast to the slam he left you with yesterday.

『♡』•『♡』•『♡』•『♡』

Weeks passed and the initial sting of the Simon situation had begun to dilute itself.

You spent most evenings passing up a night out; instead, you were working on the piles of charts that needed filling out, or something as mundane as taking inventory for the infirmary. Tasks that are mind-numbing enough to keep your mind on work, and only work. If your goal was to forget your feelings, you failed. If it was to spend enough time alone to truly know what you wanted, you won that one.

For the first time in a while, you were caught up on the workload. The bliss of free time wouldn’t last long, so perhaps that’s why you decided to go out for drinks. Maybe you just wanted to wallow in self-pity; the root explanation didn’t matter.

It was the least they could do — considering how often you’d kept an artery from spurting blood or the number of times you’d had to fight their squirming while attempting delicate sutures. Sergeant MacTavish especially, if you were being honest. He was the worst of your patients, except for the obvious masked brooding one.

Now, you found yourself perched on a bar stool, where you’d remained stoic for about two hours now. So deep in focus, you didn’t even recognize the drink in your hands. One of the guys had asked if you wanted one, you nodded, and now here you were. On your third one. The third time you merely took what was slid across the bar top and sipped on it, no matter how much the bitter taste made your taste buds cringe.

“Can I top you off?” The bartender made his rounds again, using a rag to wipe off the surrounding countertops. Your eyes looked off to the side, observing different levels of intoxication from both the 141 and the other rowdy patrons.

The night was coming to a close, another drink wouldn’t be wise. You weren’t here to get hammered; you were here to be somewhere other than a sterile room. “No, thank you,” you slid your empty glass in his direction, then a healthy tip for the good service. He didn’t once ask why you weren’t interacting with the party you came with, or why your eyes barely looked up from the varnish on the bar. To explain to him why would be downright mortifying, and you were never good at coming up with believable excuses. Therefore, he’d earned the cash tip and then some.

Price and Gaz were the first to leave, after neatly stacking all the empty glasses that covered their booth, of course. Next, the very drunk Sergeant stumbled out of there, making the short walk to his flat to sleep off the intoxication. Surely, he’s going to require a banana bag at the base tomorrow. Around them, the servers had begun stacking the chairs and collecting the tickets to finalize the rest of the unpaid tabs. The perfect time to slip away — right when the mob of drunks huddled around the front door. No questions, no awkward conversations about carpooling; no chance of being in a cab with him again.

The universe must’ve been on your side because there was no sign of Simon currently. Not that you two would have interacted, but it was much easier to walk by an empty seat rather than one occupied by him. The warm lighting dimmed slightly as the lights in the pub were shut off one by one, prompting you to scoot off your stool and get going finally.

Behind you, the door to the men’s room closed with a small squeak, and there he was. His frame cast a large shadow over the dim light the dated sconces produced, as the two of you made brief eye contact. It wasn’t a returned gaze of unnerve or upset, just… nothing. That’s what prompted your final exit from the bar, pushing open the glass door and starting down the pavement. You didn’t mind the walk, either, not after nearly an hour and a half of sitting motionless on an uncomfortable stool.

The streetlights were faulty and had a constant dim flicker. Your only guide was the lights of the few businesses still open and the cool-hued moonlight casting feeble rays on the damp streets.

Your coat was wrapped around you tightly, yet it did little against the chill in the air. So bitter, it felt like it was seeping into your bones. Paired with the unsavory anticipation of walking these streets at night, no amount of warmth could reduce the unease.

From the depths of the darkness, came an unwelcome sound — the crude whistle of a passing car. Your heart skipped a beat, the pace of your steps quickening involuntarily. The eyes on you were that of a malevolent force, one that quite literally came from the shadowy roads around you. As the car crept with wheels at a crawl to remain alongside you, you dared a glance.

A trio of jeering faces with smirks plastered across their lips like badges of dominance. One in the backseat with his upper body hanging out, the man in the passenger seat the worst of them all. Every remark, every innuendo reduces your already fragile sense of security. Your arms folded across your chest as you kept your head down, watching your legs carry you in any direction to get you out of this, no matter what road you ended up on by the end of it.

The harsh glare of the car’s headlights felt like a spotlight, illuminating your vulnerability. In a matter of seconds, you had been reduced to an object. Merely an unwilling participant in their twisted game.

Click—click.

The distinct sound of someone racking the slide of a pistol immediately behind you. “Piss off.”

His familiar voice rang stern and commanding. Your head turned to face Simon, seeing his gun indeed unholstered and held at his side, paired with his puffed chest and furrowed brows. The car's windows rolled up immediately, followed by the whiz of it speeding down the street. Simon watched until the headlights were no longer visible, yet you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

One minute, the echo of words and phrases you never wanted to be repeated. And now, nothing but the woosh of the wind and his heavy labored breathing against his balaclava. For just a moment, nothing that happened between the two of you mattered.

It was just you, astounded and allayed, and him — the savior who wouldn’t have hesitated to crack skulls against the pavement.

“You alright?” He asks, though his eyes remain glued to the sketchy streets around him, searching for any sign of threats. You merely nod, following the motion of his fingers as he flicks the safety back on, placing the piece back into his jacket holster. Nothing sobers you up like the sight of a loaded gun, that was obvious.

It wasn’t exactly your first ordeal with predatory men, but this instance was particularly bleak. Perhaps it was your buzz, perhaps it was the sight of Simon with his pistol at the ready, perhaps it was your adrenaline.

That was just a series of questions better left unanswered.

Silence was the best conversation for someone like Simon, especially given the circumstances. Neither of you was going to complain, nor were you going to force the clichés of fussing over the other. His hand found the small of your back, steering you in the direction of his hotel. He didn't have a flat in town, his only homes were the base or moderately priced suites.

Tonight, it was the latter — the room he booked in anticipation of a night of heavy drinking, even a hookup if the events of this evening were less grim. Though, he hadn’t drunk much of anything, which was rare for him.

The light buzz was the only component you two seemed to have in common, at least from what you could take note of.

His shadow was a looming one; large and overtaking yours as he took meaningful strides down each street, still a guiding hand either hovering or clamping down when you crossed the street. You could protest and insist that you stick to your original plan of walking back to the base. But it was a futile argument to have with Simon, not after the sickening degradation you made it through.

Those men were nothing but large shadows emitted from small men. They would’ve driven away, most likely. However… something happening to you while you’re in his sights? That’s not a gamble the Lieutenant had to consider for long. The only reason he hadn’t stepped in sooner was because you had made it so far down the street in an attempt to avoid him. But when he heard the engine slow to a hum, observing how it matched your speed, those were his brief moments of thought.

Seconds following, the echo of their voices dripping with violent, impure implications — he had unholstered his pistol and power-walked down the street before his mind could catch up. There wasn’t a moment of it he’d do differently.

Not even now, as he’s approaching the door to his room. Not as he’s ushering you inside, espying as you shiver from both the cold and the unease of it all. There wasn’t a chance in hell you were walking that distance.

“The bed’s yours,” Simon mutters, slipping his jacket off his broad shoulders. Though, you’ve made no effort to respond. You’re too lost in focus, palming the icy zipper of your coat and slowly splitting it open, until the weight of it is off you. It’s tossed onto the floor, a defeated crumble — as if even your wardrobe is mocking your numbness.

Your head finally perks up at the sound of Simon sliding the keycard along the oak entry table, followed by the sudden realization that he had said something to you. “I’m sorry, what did you say before?” You sigh, eyes squinted in forced attention.

His head nods in the direction of the bed; plush white sheets that were still fresh and untouched. “I can take the pull-out.” It wasn’t a suggestion, either. Though his tone is as blunt as ever, his gaze is uncharacteristically amicable.

“It’s your room, Ghost. I’m not taking the bed.” You let out a scoff, pulling off your shoes next. The pity wasn’t necessary, nor was it going to be accepted with eagerness.

He let out a lengthy sigh, cringing when you used his callsign. Mainly at himself for being so sharp with you weeks prior and insisting you refrain from using his name. “Don’t argue with me. Take the bed.” He shuffled over to the nightstand, collecting the few belongings that were resting there, then placing them on the entry table.

Well, you had your orders, and you knew by now it was easier to follow them.

Your eyes scanned the suite in front of you; beige walls throughout, a small kitchenette in the corner, one bed and couch, a dated box TV posed in front of the space, and of course, a bathroom. It was clean, which was good enough for both of you. Especially you, right now. “I’m gonna wash up first,” you set down your bag and trudged to the washroom, letting out a defeated exhale when you were finally faced with the reflection in the mirror.

Eyes glossy and foggy with melancholy, hair askew from the unforgiving breeze outside, fingers still shaking as they grip the faux-marble counter.

After wetting a cloth and running some cold tap water along your skin, it was the spark your senses needed to realign. With a deep inhale and exhale, you exited the bathroom, wearing the hotel robe as your nightwear.

“How’s the shoulder?” The question came suddenly, but there were very few topics to discuss with Simon. You stood in between the bed and the pullout couch, the one he had yet to make with the spare sheets. And he, who was in the kitchenette pouring himself a glass of whatever from the fridge's pitcher.

Within the time you were washing up, he had changed into his version of nightwear — sweatpants and a charcoal athletic tee. “Healed just fine. You did well.” Simon makes a show of it, rolling and stretching the shoulder that was once tender and inflamed.

His praises fell short when masked with his scowl. No matter his bluntness, you still felt like an intruder in his evening. He was never one for company, especially in his private space, but here the two of you were. It was a toss-up; should you mention the obvious? Could things get much worse between you and him, by this point?

You leaned against the closest wall. “I’m not a child, you know that right?” Though it sounded confrontational, it was merely a nonchalant utterance. All frustrations spilled out nearly as a defeated mutter.

Simon scoffed heavily; eyes hooded as he blinked a few times to ensure he would articulate himself properly. He lifts his mask and takes a sip of his water, shaking his head as you continue to stare him down. You were persistent, that was apparent.

“You’re right,” he set down his glass, taking a few steps closer. “But you’re a good person. A good doctor.” His hands cupped your cheeks tightly to shake some sense into you. His last-ditch effort to convince you to move on from your feelings. You felt a rush of emotions pumping through you at once, watching intently as he spoke with such vigor. A potent mix of tenderness and firmness — all embodied into one man.

“You can find so much better than me, than this place.” Your lips slumped into a frown as his words persisted as if letting them bounce right off of you. There were so many parts of you that he saw in himself, so violently he couldn’t stay frustrated. “Quit getting in your own way, and you might see it.” His thumbs gave a small caress, and then his eyes glanced you up and down with softness. The irony of it was striking, considering Simon was his own worst enemy, especially right now.

His calloused fingers were like your own personal rush, palpable enough to make your hair stand up. “There’s nobody else I want, Simon.” You replied with a match of firmness, yet your expression was anything but frustrated.

The close proximity was saccharine and keenly awaited by both of you, though only one party was making an effort to show it.

Simon shuddered slightly, his hands running from your cheeks to the base of your neck, then back up once more. “That want is going to be the death of both of us, love.” He said softly as if he was finally accepting the reality of his feelings.

The wise decision to break it off wasn’t weighing on him anymore, not even a little bit.

You stared at him through your lashes, a hint of a smile on your lips, “I’m used to death, Lieutenant, aren’t you?”

This generated a small snicker from him, this time one you could actually see. There had been plenty concealed by his mask over the months. Every bit of you was screaming to lean in, but the longer this banter went on, the better for him. There was no sense in rushing an act that didn’t need to be rushed, especially if it was doomed to happen at some point.

“I wouldn’t even know how to… You— you haven’t done half the things—” His fingers tightened around the base of your neck slightly, head tilted as he made his best attempt at retorting. For someone with such conviction every other time, he was noticeably beating around the bush. It was amusing, to say the least.

He mutters something under his breath, something of an expression of defeat, then leans in until his parted lips are an inch from yours.

“Then teach me.” You breathed, finally allowing your hands to hold onto his wrists as he cupped your face. Simon’s eyes blazed as they met yours — smoky with the intense burn of lust.

Within seconds, his lips found yours with brazen desire. It was everything you pictured it to be and more; every last bit of ego-driven pettiness fizzled out at once. The scent of his last cigarette, his aftershave from that morning, the faint stench of bourbon on his breath — all surrounding you like an enslaving cloud. His fingers roamed again, this time from your shoulders down to your waist until he could fumble with the tie of the robe.

Simon’s feet gave yours a nudge in the direction of the bed behind you, a silent guide until the backs of your knees finally found the edge of it. An arm snaked downward until he could lift one of your legs around his waist, settling his weight on the bed so you were on top of him. Every action was mended with a prolonged, calculated kiss on his end.

The robe had opened entirely, revealing you in nothing but your panties underneath. With more movement, it drooped down your arms until it was eventually thrown off in haste, the same quickness when you slid your undergarments down. But Simon was in no rush, at least not while he was savoring the foreplay. “Scoot up for me,” he mutters, nodding his head upwards subtly. His request is met with a look of confusion, but you do as he says, shifting upwards until you’re straddling his upper torso.

“No. Up.” Simon clamps a hand around your hip, maintaining eye contact as he readjusts you further until your bare cunt is hovering over his face. Now, the realization of his idea strikes you like a bolt of lightning.

There was nothing to be embarrassed about, but that didn’t make the request less daunting. “No one’s ever…” You whisper it as if attempting to admit it without him actually hearing you. But he did, and it made your face head up. Especially now, seeing the mouth to match his eyes — even the tip of his nose, squished slightly from the fold of the fabric.

“Ever what, sweetheart?” He bites down on his bottom lip lightly, rubbing circles on your thighs. Though his eyes are darting from yours to your heat, back and forth as you feel a desperate shiver consume you.

You gave up on answering him, which was only met with a playful scoff. “Relax, and sit.” Once again, instead of letting you move, he’s taken matters into his own hands. There would be no debate about his airflow or whether he could handle your weight on his head. Simon pushed you down until you had successfully straddled his face, slick pooling against his tongue.

Your breathing hitches as he so suddenly thrusts you upon him, wasting no time to lap at your sex. He begins by circling your clit slowly, eyes fluttering shut in focus so he can maintain a pattern. Second by second, you’ve produced more than enough slick for an audible squelch with every plunge of his skilled mouth. It’s a new feeling to get used to — plagued by pleasure and reliant on every flick, yet you’re in the position of power. Bucking your hips against his tongue, using the headboard to brace yourself the longer this goes on.

By the time your breaths have gotten heavier and the moans have escaped you, Simon began delving his tongue inside you for a few turns, before devouring your nub once more. It was methodical, every switch of his pace, every roaming digit heightening your pleasure. He cupped your breast, thumbing your hardened nipple with every grind. The other hand maintained its tight grip on your thigh, merely to keep your trembles under control — which were only increasing as your climax approached.

Your nails scraped against the wooden headboard, until your tensed fingers finally found his ashy blond locks, gripping his scalp for dear life. When he hummed against you, there was an involuntary spasm of your hips, unleashing the minutes of swirling in your abdomen.

His tongue bullied you through your climax, and then some. His slobbers turned into minute licks, merely playing with the wetness coating his chin and reddened lips. When you recuperated enough for the grinds of your hips to slow, you ascended your weight off his mouth — ogling a string of spit and arousal still connecting the two organs, until it eventually snapped and soaked into his shirt.

Simon pants for a moment as his lungs take in the air again, and then his fingers start circling your hips. “What did we learn, love?” He asks with a hint of bluster, both in his oral skills and his callback to you saying ‘teach me’ while eye-fucking him. Just like before, he wasted little time answering his own questions, only this time your excuse for lull was bouncing back from the orgasm of a lifetime.

“Next time I tell you to sit,” he flips the position so you’re flat on your stomach, “you’re going to sit, right?” Simon whispers into your ear wantonly, all while his fingers find the waistband of his sweats and briefs at once, rolling them down to his mid-thigh.

You turn your head to the side against the mattress, letting out a slight chuckle. “I’ll never make the same mistake twice.”

He chuckles dryly, taking note of your coy attempt at humor. “So you’re sayin’... we’ll be doing this again?” He’s leaned closer now, warm breath tickling your earlobe. In your blind spot, he’s lined up with your entrance and palming himself. The prospect of getting together again wasn’t one he was going to refuse, perhaps even after he was done thinking with his dick. It was apparent even this early on that it wouldn’t be a series of dispassionate hookups, not with you.

“Maybe,” you retorted, nibbling on your lip, “think I should be the judge of that?”

“You’re right,” Simon replies, slowly inching his way inside of you with little verbal warning. But, judging by your mouth agape in rapture, he has done something right so far. He lets out a guttural moan, bending one of your legs slightly to get better access. His whole weight is practically pressing on you, containing your urge to twitch as his thrusts become mindful and calculated.

His hands haven’t left you once; whether they’re gripping your hips, your shoulders, or the nape of your neck. “Oh, fuck.” He quakes, slowly rolling his head to the side as your walls tense around him with each deep grind. By now, he’s bottomed out inside you — a sinful, tight compress of your pussy that almost restricts him.

He’s not rushing now, either, but every rock of his hips does gain some intensity. They’re well-spaced enough to keep you on your toes, yet quick enough to make your eyes roll. By now, the sensitivity of the first orgasm is spilling over onto your second like a violent riptide jostling your senses around. Every urge to savor this moment, to let your body take its time, is utterly abandoned.

Simon leans forward and begins nipping and licking along your shoulder blades, making a pattern of it. Jawline, to nape, to the blades — coated with a line of his saliva and teeth marks. It’s the only humane way he can keep himself contained.

Your walls are clenching around him rapidly now, once he’s teased that gratifying spot deep within you, “gonna cum for me again, sweetheart? Keep takin’ me so well?” His words are nearly more addicting than his cock; the British rasp that gets thicker the closer he is to finishing.

The nod you supply is pathetic, at best. It earns you a few fingers in your mouth; hollowing your cheeks and slobbering as you sob around them from your fast-approaching climax. The pace is agonizing, but enough when he uses his other hand to thrust your body onto his length, angling your cunt in a way that finally hits a bullseye on that spot.

Your throat clenches, as does the rest of your muscles when you dissolve into pleasure. What was once a tight coil of tension in your abdomen, was now waves of ecstasy coursing through you — prolonged by his now sloppy thrusts. You go limp against the mattress as he rides out the rest of his, your ears feasting on the curses Simon’s muttering.

With a halt, the fingers in your mouth are withdrawn. Both of his hands reside on your hips, holding you in place as he drains every last drop of his orgasm within you. For a few seconds, all you hear are his quivers and the shuffle of the skin-to-skin.

Then, every ounce of his restraint shatters once the climax passes. About half his weight lands on you as he slumps forward, pulling his length from you and wilting against the creased sheets. “Was that a yes?” He asks, snaking an arm around your shoulders until you roll over to face him.

“To what?” You huff a few times whilst running your fingertips along his arm scars. To say you were in shock, was an understatement. He was everything you were expecting—and more—in the sack. All the pandering, all the ‘getting in your own way’ on both sides erupted into a climax. Or multiple, for that matter.

“Doin’ this again?” Simon replies, pushing your head against his peck.

“Hm, I think I might need a few more test drives before I come to a final decision.” You say, raising your brows to match your playful tone. It was a stark contrast to the weeks prior, even if the events leading up to sharing a hotel room with him were less than pleasant.

And to him; he lost all sense of control when you took a stab for him. He just had a way of hiding it—the keyword being; had.

At the thought of it, his thumb finds the now healed scar where the knife penetrated, reflecting in his mind about all the events that led up to this. Two different bodies, two different ages, two different persons, yet both are thinking about history.

“I think that can be arranged, Doc.”

TAGLIST: @hyperfixationwhore @starlettemoony @sapientiia @igotmajordaddyissues @kyuupidwrites @ansaturn @bb-ss-ll @delilah-grimes @ajordan2020 @certified-lana-del-rey-lover (it won't let me tag some of you properly)

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simpingforheros · 2 months ago

Text

Safe

Pairing: Gotham Knights! Jason Todd X Female! Reader

Summary: Being a mercenary isn’t easy. Being a lab experiment turned mercenary isn’t easy either. Being a Bio-engineered mercenary in Gotham city with a reformed Red Hood isn’t easy at all.

Warnings: Hurt Comfort, Angst with bittersweet ending, Enemies to Friends??, Female Pronouns, Mild Violence, Horrible Fight Scenes (I’m sorry), Reader is basically Black Cat but little different, implied OOC! Amanda Waller, Mentions of Death, Torture, PTSD, and Panic Attacks.

Author’s Note: I guess I’ll give y’all a break from my Toxic! Jason agenda. But I’m not giving y’all a break from calling y’all out on being slanderous to my underrated, unproblematic princess that is GK! Jason. He may not be as pretty as the other ones, but he got a better relationship with his family than y’all have with y’all’s daddies (jk I’m sorry). Also yes, the reader is Black Cat coded because I love her and I want to see Jason with a cool feline counterpart of his own.

+++++++++++++++++++

Fuck. FUCK!

Chanted through her mind as she realizes what the hell she has just done. This whole assignment was a set up from the moment that job listing hit her burner phone. Her clawed gloves raked through her hair as she desperately took in her situation.

Months after the death of Batman, criminals became bolder with their crimes despite the lurking remains of Batman’s legacy. New villains and mercenaries came in to either assist Gotham’s veteran rogues or building their own empires among the shadows of the bigger evil’s crimes. However, Y/N didn’t fall into either category.

Originally a lab rat for Amanda Waller to find a cure for her terminal cancer, the cat like mercenary became a quick popular option among gang leaders and the low life to hire to do quick jobs without minimum risk. Of course the cat like persona wasn’t due to her stealth…

A blast rings out of the previously locked door as the girl’s head snaps back. Her body collapses as the roar of victorious laughter fills the air.

“You see how that bitch’s head just snapped back like a twig?!” Victor Sionas laughed through his leather mask as his golden firearm flashed in the fluorescent light of the value.

It was supposed to be a quick heist, minimum risk on her end. Just grab a hard drive with 6.8 Billion dollars worth of stolen and encrypted medical documents and financial records and leave before Black Mask realized she was there. An easy heist for a fair reward.

Victor’s ranting and raving filled the safe in loud echos as his assistant tries to listen to her pager for their normal disposal team. As the crimson slowly sets into the concrete, a faint green glow began to form around her body. The harsh grit releases her life force as it recedes back into her skull.

Amanda Waller wasn’t normally a desperate woman, but when it came to her life, she didn’t care what criminal she had to deal with to get her life back. Even the League of Assassins…

As the pair was about to leave to attend a meeting of some kind, Y/N didn’t know or care to know as her ears ring back into tune. Her body jolts up as she springs back to life in an instant.

As her eyes meet Sionas’ shocked stare, her lips curled into a wicked smirk. Her E/C eyes shined with a new madness as she flexes her adamantium tipped claws, ready to rip out his throat.

Victor quickly raises his gun ready to shoot again as she swipes at his wrist. The appendage falling to the floor as his screams drowned out the echos of his false victories.

“I guess it was an easy job.” She comments before her claws strike again.

Maybe she should ask for a raise to make up for her dry cleaning?

+++++++++++++++

The crime scene was a bloodbath.

Police scrambled and crawled the building as lights and tape marked the massacre. Every surface, furniture, rug, and plant were all tagged, sprayed, and searched for any bodily matter that could lead you to the person behind this horrific crime.

Black Mask’s gang. A once prominent gang in Gotham city who survived fights between Batman and The Red Hood were all dead. Eviscerated. Slaughtered.

All of the dead were clinging onto weapons as either distinct claw marks either craved them to ribbons or they were killed by their own weapons. Whoever did it clearly attacked the ones who attacked first.

The only survivors were the ones who didn’t attempt to fight the assailant. Victor’s assistant was the only one that was harmed among them with a deep set of scratches on her face with a look of horror in her eyes.

A look Nightwing and Red Hood didn’t like to see even from a criminal.

“And you said you didn’t know why this happened?” Nightwing asks skeptical of the woman’s reliability.

The woman eagerly nods as she sputters out, “We caught her in the safe and Sionas wanted to teach her a lesson…we heard her reputation was only with stealing…not this…”

Jason growls as he grew inpatient with her stuttering, but he takes a deep breath. ‘Be Patient…’ He reminds himself before something made his ears perk up.

“It was like magic or something! Sionas shot her point blank in the head and she just came back to life in an instant!! That’s when she went crazy! We just wanted to get her back for stealing from our off shore accounts. We didn’t know that she was a…monster.”

Fuck.

+++++++++++++++++++

Fire. Fire is what it felt like. It crawls from the deepest part of her mind and spreads through her veins like a fever. Her vision tunneled in as memories of all her previous deaths haunting her brain surged forward as her body acted on instinct. Out of fear…

It took three days before the madness faded this time. That was probably the longest time she was trapped in that state since she escaped Waller. Those three days were a fog as she only remembered the splitting head ache from the gun shot and her costume covered in blood.

Once the new broke on a ‘maniac’ who killed the Black Mask’s gang, Y/N knew she couldn’t leave Gotham yet until the buzz died down. She already knew the Bat’s sidekicks were looking for her, so she used whatever cash she had left to hide out in a cheap motel room.

“Fuck….” She groans as her trembling hands dropped her cell phone. Her eyes tried to dart around the aisles of the gas station she was currently hunting for food in. The remaining madness caused her senses to be on high alert and her anxiety to be high.

If she was back home, she could hideout in her apartment with her cat for a month before finding another job listing, but she was trapped in Gotham in a ratty motel.

So venturing to the crummy gas station for some junk food and beer is the next best thing. At least the disinterested cashier doesn’t pay her any mind. 4am on a weekday with a case of beer probably made her just appear to be a normal tweaker.

(Y/N) adjusts her sunglasses and makes sure her silver hair was well hidden under her zip-up’s hood before she brings her items to the counter. The zit faced teen gives her a look over, not hiding the attention he gave to her exposed cleave from the tank top she had showing.

“Ma’am, we don’t allow sunglasses inside the store.” He creaks out. Her (E/C) roll as she takes her sun glasses off. The door chimes as someone enters the store, but her attention was focused on the cashier. When he finally scanned her beer, his cracking voice asks,

“Do you have ID, Ma’am?”

Her hands go to her sweatpants pocket and only feels the cash she brought. Her mental anguish grows as she sighs in annoyance. Her fake id was in motel, and she technically doesn’t exist so she never had a real id.

Deciding to turn up the charm, she smiles sweetly at the teenager as she says, “I’m sorry, but I left my id back at my place. I’m sure you can tell I’m old enough, right?”

Her cleavage seemed to not work its charm as the teen rudely says,

“I can tell you’re old by your hair lady. But I need ID.”

Her eyes widen as a faint glow of green shows as she snaps at him. “I’m not old! I’m 24, you little p-!”

She stops herself as she takes a deep breath as she feels the madness subsided. She really didn’t wanna kill a kid over some cheap beer.

“Fine…I had a bad day so just get me the snacks.” She admits in defeat as she pulls out a hundred bucks. Just as she was going to pay, a hand drops some beef jerky and a case of beer on the counter beside her items. A deep voice cuts the air and causes a shiver to crawl up her spine.

“Add her stuff and beer to my order.” A thick, veiny hand presents the cashier with his ID and a credit card as she turns her head to see who it was that saved her evening.

Before her was a man who stood well over 6 feet tall. His shoulders were as broad as an old oak tree with muscles strong enough to take one down. His face wasn’t particularly the normal standard for attractiveness, but the strong jaw and scar gave him a handsome roughness that made her stomach tighten. It didn’t help that his nearly buzzed hair gave him a military sense, but his eyes were what made her heart stop in her chest. The beautiful green eyes that glowed an unearthly hue that she was familiar with.

She sees it in her eyes everyday. The scar of the Lazarus pit.

(Y/N) almost forgot where she was before the cashier cleared his throat. Her focus returned back to the counter as she grabs her stuff. Before she could run off, something made her stop to wait for the man. Whether it was curiosity or stupidity, she didn’t know.

Maybe she wanted to see what his deal was? Was he with Waller? The League of Assassins? Can he tell she was from the pit too? How different were they? How many times did he die and come back?

The opportunity to speak with someone who may can relate to her outweighed her wariness from her situation. But it was curiosity that killed the cat, right?

As the man starts heading for the door, she follows as she says,

“Excuse me?”

His eyes meet hers as a small smile as he says,

“Hey, I’m sorry for stepping in over there. I understand when stuff isn’t going your way.”

A warmth takes over her face as she says shyly, “No, it’s fine I just wanted to thank you. That was really sweet of you…”

As the two walk out, the stranger's friendly demeanor drops a little as he mumbles into the empty night air.

"So, you're the one who killed Victor Sionas..."

Her breath releases as she hears the pin drop. Her eyes dart around the parking lot as she sees the only vehicle is a old school motorcycle. She doesn't have any weapons and she wasn't sure if how skilled he was or if he had gained powers just like her from the pit.

With a frown, (Y/N) gruffs out, "Yeah...what are you gonna let me enjoy my last beer before you turn me in?"

She looks up to the man as their eyes meet. His eyes studying her as she keeps a tight grip on her bag. Maybe if he charges at her, she can swing the bag to his head and throw him off...

"No." He answers simply as he heads towards his bike. Her eyes widen in disbelief as she sputters out.

"No? I just admitted to murder and you're letting me go??"

"Yep." He answers over his shoulder as he loads his things into the compartment under his seat. Irritation fills her being instead of the relief she should have felt. She stomps towards him as she fusses,

"What's your deal? You buy me a beer and casually ask me if I commit murder? And you're gonna just leave? Did the pit mess you up that bad??" She snaps at him as she stands face to face, face to chest with him. Her eyes glowed eerily as he was filled, and a familiar shiver went down his spine.

His hands clap onto her shoulders as he pulls her close to him. A wave of coldness filled her body as the eerie glow covered his hands. The familiar feeling of the Lazarus pit filled her as he leaned into a whisper.

"The only reason I'm not hauling your pretty ass to Arkham right now is because I understand that it wasn't you when you killed them, Kitty..." His eyes glowed momentarily as a sad look briefly flashed into those green pools. "A petty mercenary who had no history of mass murder on file doesn't just jump to it without warning. The Lazarus Pit fucks up people to their core, so trust me when I say that I understand better than anyone how you feel..."

'Understand? How can he understand?' Her mind unravels as she looks up at him in disbelief. Has he ever woke up afraid of what he might have done the night before? Worry about when someone would come and shoot him in the head or stab him just to see if he could come back without being submerged anymore? Did Waller use him to heal her at the expense of his own pain just to throw him away to fend for himself???

Rage flashes through her as she roughly pulls away from him. Her bag falls to the asphalt as glass shatters. Her eyes are wild as old memories filled her. "Don't you dare say you understand me? You don't know shit about what I had to go through?"

His eyebrows frown together as he grimaces. A look of recognition and guilt flashes before he says to her. "You're right. I don't know what you went through before you died, but I do understand how you're feeling. The anxiety, the rage, the blood lust...I wanna help you."

She laughs bitterly as she figures out something about him. He only died once and was brought back. The skunk stripe in his hair should have given it away when she realized he was similar to her.

"Which time?" (Y/N) asked as she turned around and walked away. "I've died plenty of times to know that you will never understand..."

And she leaves the man alone in the parking lot as she storms off to her motel, not caring if he sees where she went or not. Her heart was beating out of control as she felt the wavering thoughts of going back to him and either hitting him or hugging him.

‘Maybe I need to rest some more….’

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Silence filled the museum as the dust bunnies and art laid undisturbed during their rest from the public eye. Her footsteps were a minimum as she walked through the shadowy parts of the building, trying to find what she was sent to retrieve.

After another week of hiding out, a job was directly pinged for her on the job board. Her eyes squinted at it at first because the offer was a little bogus to her.

‘Steal a painting, retrieve the hard drive inside, and bring it to the disclosed location in exchange for 2 Million dollars in unmarked bills.’

2 Million for a petty thief job that would have more suited Catwoman instead her seemed pretty unusual. But, at this point, her phyiscal cash funds were running low and she still was afraid of using her offshore accounts now that she knows that some zombie like her knew who she was.

Her masked eyes scanned the building’s plaza until she found what she was looking for. A large flowery portrait hanging just beyond the fountain. Her head tilts as she looks at it from afar.

‘Pretty… I wonder if I can find a print of it to buy to hang in my living room…’ Her steps remaining slow and cautious until she reaches the fountain. She looks under where the painting hung, trying not to get too close to it. There was no tag or podium that held the artist’s name or any indication that it was an actual art piece. It was most likely some print from a furniture store catalog or Etsy.

Her eyes rolled as she realizes that the listing was another trap. Obviously from someone who didn’t know shit about art or how to buy mercenaries on the black market.

As if on que, her ears buzzed as she heard the pure instinct take over as she whips around. Her hand immediately stops the staff about to hit her in the face as she elbows the smaller opponent in the stomach before slamming her fist in his cheek to knock him back. The guy gets thrown back a couple of feet as he gasped for the air she punches outta him.

She looks to the guy as she twirls his staff absent mindedly in her hand. His costume and smaller physique gave it away as to who he was. She remembers seeing a tv show story about him the previous night on the news. The boy wonder, Robin. At least the third version of him.

“Hey, tweety bird. You good?” She asked in a nonchalant tone. Her eyes unamused as she watches the kid cough up a lung as he looked up at her in shock that she wasn’t attacking him like he expected her to.

“You know, it’s dangerous to be on job listing boards like that.” She scolds him lightly as she walks around him and grabs his arm, gently helping him up and sitting him by the fountain. “There’s actual killers on that board who would have happily tried cutting you up for pulling a shitty fake job like this.”

The sidekick glares at her as he was already confused as he just witness the girl he was sure killed an entire gang just casually scold him. “Like how you did with Black Mask?”

Her eyes flashed with guilt before the nonchalant personality appeared again as she focused on throwing the staff up to make it spin. “It was self defense. He and his gang had it coming for all the child drug peddling and the lives he ruined.”

A heavier drop down of three other figures caught her attention as she looks around. Nightwing, Batgirl, and Red Hood were surrounding the fountain, blocking her in. Her anxiety rising as she hides it with a now playful smile.

“Damn, didn’t realize little old me warranted for the whole family to come get me.” She says playfully. “Don’t worry I promise to be out of y’all’s city soon.”

“You still have to pay for your crimes.” Batgirl says as she steps forwards slightly. The feline mercenary tilts her head as she looks at them with now false concern.

“Me? A defenseless street cat?” She asked before laughing. “You can certainly try.”

Nightwing steps closer as her shoulders square up. Her defensive stance rising as she observes him. Way too lean to be the guy she met, and she can tell his face was more pretty boy looking.

“We wanna help you… but you still have to pay for what you’ve done even if you didn’t mean to.” He says softly.

‘So they know…that just means they are gonna be more defensive instead of offensive. They can’t risk killing me when they know I could rampage again.’ Her eyes shine as she laughs coldly at him.

“Oh, you wanna help me rot in prison?” She says as she finally looks at the Red Hood.

Right build, right height, and she’s sure if she can knock that helmet off, right face. That’s the man she met a week ago that affected her so badly. She knew she couldn’t let him get a good grab on her or she maybe toast.

She turns her now glowing eyes back to Nightwing as she smirks. “I think you would be better off letting me leave or else you can see what I actually do when I mean it.” She bluffs.

Movement nearly catches her off guard as Robin tries to rush her again. The staff in her hand flies into his face as she tries to move as Batgirl flies kicks her in the face. Her ears ring as the warm feeling of blood starts to run out of her nose. The cat catches the bat’s fist before she whips her in the face with another punch. She used the disorienting blow to slide under her legs and give a good kick to her knee. The distinctive pop and her cry lets her know she did dislocate the bone.

She remains in her crouched up position, ready to pounce. She can feel their eyes observing as her broken nose begins to heal as it disgustingly pops back into place as the blood retreats back to its original place like it was on rewind. Her wild eyes looks to them and makes notes of their stances.

Nightwing was ready to pounce on her. He stared at her like she was the wild animal that he knew she was. It was a look she was used to.

The Red Hood wasn’t even in an offensive or defensive position. He stood with his back straight as he watches her. Damn his stupid helmet from seeing his eyes, she wanted to know what he was thinking about. Was he bluffing too or was he trying to get a good feel on how to catch her.

Before Nightwing can start advancing on her, Red stops him with a step forward and raises hand. Nightwing looks confused as he asked him.

“What are you doing?” He seethes to him. “We gotta take her down, she already hurt Robin and Batgirl.”

“Out of self defense.” The Red Hood clarifies before chuckling. His modulated voice making the feline theft frown. “If she was dangerous like you think, she could have sliced Robin’s throat with those claws of hers when he first attacked. You guys were attacking first and she responded with non lethal force.”

Her eyes glared at the man as she stands up, slightly agitated. “So? Maybe I just don’t wanna kill a kid?”

Red tilts his head as he turns his attention to her. “Calm down, Kitty….if you surrender, I promise I won’t let them send you off to the pound.”

Nightwing looks at Red in horror as he basically promised to protect a wanted criminal. He didn’t seem to concerned by it. He even surprises his team by removing his helmet as he looks to the one they were chasing.

“I found your file on Amanda Waller’s network. Took me three days, but I know what she did to you, (Y/N).” The man she knew from the gas station.

The images of all the torture she endured flashed through her mind all at once as she remembers all Waller put her through for the sake of her cure.

Multiple executions to test the powers of the pit. Torture and savage punishments for the slightest disobedience. The nightmares and madness that fueled so many panic attacks. The feeling of her organs stolen to be put in that evil woman so she can use her healing factor to win against cancer while she spent days slowly dying and coming back to life over and over until her new organs regenerated back into her.

“Why?!” She snaps at him as rage filled her again. Her confusion over his insistence to help her made her so angry. Why would he wanna help her? Just because they were both dunked in a pool of Ra’s bath water?

“You’re the feared Red Hood! You’ve done worst shit than I’ve ever done and you are trying to act as my savior?!” She yells at him as she stomps towards him.

Nightwing tries to step between them, but Red keeps him away as she finally stood before him. Her hand rips off her goggles, revealing her face to him as she pokes into his chest. Her own chest tightening as her body shook. Her breath was tight as angry tears rolled down her face.

“Answer me, dammit! Why do you think you can save me?!”

“I don’t think I can save you.” He answers honestly. “I wanna help you save yourself…”

A look of grief passes over his eyes as he looks at the shorter woman. A memory of someone she didn’t know making his resolve strengthen.

“I was trapped in a state of anger for so long that I pushed everyone away that was trying to help me…it wasn’t until I lost the one person that tried to save me that I realized how much it meant to have someone just hold a hand out for me…” He says as he grips her shoulders. The expected coldness didn’t meet her. She felt him. The warmth seeping through his gloves into her suit. It felt…comforting….nice.

Her vision began tunneling as she felt her chest hyperventilating as she cries. His gentle words finally breaking her as he mumbles to her. “Let me help you fight the madness so you won’t be alone anymore…”

Her knees buckling as a sob broke through her. The warmth of his arms wrapping around her and pulling her into his chest made her cries so gut wrenching. Robin, Batgirl, and Nightwing watch in shock as they watched Jason, not only be the most gentle he’s ever been with someone, but see a stray tear fall from him eye.

As the two remained tied together as an unspoken bond was formed. A bond between two lost souls forcibly brought back into this world now feeling safe in each other’s warmth.

+++++++++++++++++++

Author’s Note: I’m gonna make a part 2 to this one because I actually like it. Let me know if you like this, if you hate it, or whatever. I’m trying to clear out my drafts so expect more Jason and other characters coming out either this week or next week.

++++++++++++++++++++

@simpingforheros fanfic. I DO NOT CONDONE THE COPYING, STEALING, OR REPOSTING OF MY FANFICS ON OTHER WEBSITES WITHOUT MY CONSENT.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #arkham knight #arkham knight x reader #red hood #arkham knight jason todd #arkham knight x you #jason todd x y/n #batman arkham series #jason todd x you #gotham knights #gotham knights! Jason Todd x Reader #GK!Jason Todd #simpingforheros

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yournightmary · 6 months ago

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Loser!Ellie HCs

content warning:: fem!reader, modern!AU

AN:: first time writing, literally scared shitless🔥 english isn’t my native language🙏

⇢ ˗ˏˋ loser!Ellie who made a pasta recipe once (probably from instagram reels), and became a self-appointed master chef. Forgot about the fact that it took her 3 tries to even cook the pasta.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ loser!Ellie who can’t stop saying flavor instead of scent. She just genuinely doesn’t see the difference.

“What flavor do you want?” she asks you while holding up two colorful packs of wax melts. She bought a wax burner and used it to melt chocolate so she can have chocolate covered fruit anytime she wants. Used it 2 times total.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ loser!Ellie who vapes. I’m sorry but that’s the truth. She just loves to puff on her cute little mixed berries disposable. Also, keeps saying she can quit anytime she wants, she can’t.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ loser!Ellie who uses axe body spray. If someone asks about it she just says it works better, but she actually likes the scent. Kind of her guilty pleasure.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ loser!Ellie who hated on the sims franchise her whole life only to find out you’re a fan. She pirated the whole series (DLCs and all) off of some russian website in one night. Got like 20 different viruses but at least her girl could play the sims 2 happily.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ loser!Ellie who is terrible at foreign languages yet has a duolingo streak that over 500 days. She knows how to say ‘the apple is red’ in german and can barely pronounce her order in mexican restaurants.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ loser!Ellie who is chronically online. Constantly posting shit to her insta stories, sending you tik toks 24/7 and all that stuff. One time she got so invested in a facebook group drama that she didn’t reply to your texts for the whole day.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ loser!Ellie who wears the most unfunny-funny shirts you can imagine. Stuff like ‘women want me, fish fear me’ and ‘eat, sleep, game, repeat’. And they’re always either way too big or way too small.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ loser!Ellie who always said she doesn’t want any pets, that it’s too much of a commitment for her… Then she found the ugliest kitten she’s ever seen on the street and took it home without thinking. Let you choose the name but calls him ‘stinky’ no matter what. Like mother, like daughter.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ loser!Ellie who couldn’t tie her shoes until she was 15. That’s it.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ loser!Ellie who is so lovestruck for you that I can’t even explain it. She’ll always do the cheesiest things possible, like standing before your house with roses, a bluetooth speaker and a promposal poster or bringing you every little thing she found on her walk that ‘reminded her of you’.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ loser!Ellie who doesn’t like to go out on dates. She’d rather stay at home with you, watch a movie, make dinner together (you’ll be the only one actually cooking), maybe paint something or just spend time together doing nothing… Would really enjoy a date at the planetarium though.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ loser!Ellie who is a total yapper. Can and will talk about anything and everything for hours on end. And if you mention an interest of hers? Oh god, get ready to see a powerpoint presentation about it. Literally the definition of ‘☝️🤓’ but in a good way.

I’m so scared to post this it’s not even funny☠️ Hope you liked it <3

#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams headcannons #wlw #lesbian #the last of us #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams imagine

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alternative-ffa · 7 months ago

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Being with the same person for decades creates a sense of security. At this point, you're both partners in life and all effort goes into helping the other.

Jacob liked to message his wife Bethany when she was outside having a smoke or on the phone with friends. He would tease her with with his requests, hoping they would be inciting and arousing enough for her to come back in the house and play with him and his fat body. It was 8am and Bethany had sneaked out of bed, not to wake him. He took up over half of the king sized bed, using body pillows as dams for his obese body. He loved being fat.

This particular morning, he was messaging her to create a grocery order, daring her to get the most fattening items she could find - knowing that she would be insistent that he finished everything before it went bad. Her strategy was to get all perishable items, like cakes from the bakery instead of brand name cookies. It forced him to consume everything quicker.

Life over the last decade had thrown them curveballs. Having met on a fat fetish website, everyone looked forward to their updates, as they were quite active in the community. They were sure that Jacob was going to be impossibly huge, given his discovery of a female feeder at his disposal so early in life, and his sincere sexual desire to become too fat to move.

But life with the fetish isn't always the perfect fantasy. Jacob had to deal with the usual stress of life and would put his gaining on the back burner. His girlfriend (at the time) and feeder, Bethany, would always defer to what he wanted. If life became too stressful, and becoming fatter was the last thing on his mind, she never pushed it.

Life went back and forth. It was either, "feed me until I scream for help" or "I don't want to think about it".

She adapted to his mood throughout the years.

At this point life had taken a turn again. He worked from home and his gluttony began to take over. Bethany loved this. He found joy in getting groceries delivered. But he enjoyed it way more when she made the shopping list. She would order pastries and cakes and heavy cream on top of the usual order. He always had the last say, but would almost order her to create a grocery list of all the items she wanted him to consume.

He was obvious with his hints. An Amazon package arrived one day with a huge funnel and tube. She opened the box and raised her eyebrow as she asked, "planning on having a beer chugging party?"

He put his hands on his belly and chuckled as he said, "... not beer..."

As mentioned previously, he was obvious with his hints. Given the funnel and tube he ordered, she knew to add heavy cream... and given the holiday season, eggnog, to the list.

She secretly loved him working from home. He ate constantly. She wanted to see him get as big as possible, so she knew the tricks. He'd ask what food there was in the house. She'd give him a basic answer and deny his request for take out. He would grunt annoyingly as he created some kind of gigantic meal from the leftovers in the house. Then, once he finished his meal, she would order food. He didn't pick up on the strategy, but since he enjoyed it, he didn't care to. Time passing was a thing he didn't seem to notice, especially when it came to his appetite. She'd order food right after he finished a feast. He would stuff himself thoroughly with the order, then be confused why he was so full. She'd have to remind him, "well, you did finish a big meal before take out arrived."

He always looked surprised... "you mean, that wasn't hours ago? I... I'm still hungry."

She would smile and say, "you want something sweet now, don't you?"

He'd lick his fat lips and burp loudly, then say, "yes, ice cream. Sprinkle cinnamon on top, it's healthy."

Bethany would laugh with that statement. A full bowl of vanilla and chocolate ice cream, spilling over the edges, and yet... adding cinnamon would make it healthy? She didn't care. If he wanted to believe that, he could. She just wanted him to get fatter.

She placed a grocery order... enough for a family of five - knowing it was going into a belly of one. Since he fluctuated in his gaining desire over the last decade, she knew this was the open window to make him huge. But she had to do it quickly... given his speedy change in mindset over the years.

At over 350lbs, Jacob was big in the scheme of things. But it wasn't nearly big enough. His whole life he had the desire to become too fat to move. Even as a child, he played games where he was too big to leave the plastic play house during recess. It was just a hint of his adult desire to become immobilized with fat.

She played with him mentally; making sure he ate so much that he was surprised it even happened. He'd eat a full meal and forget so easily that she could trick him into eating a second or third lunch. Daylight savings time helped. It got dark so much earlier that even though he had eaten a full, multiple plate, dinner... darkness fell and she could convince him that it was hours ago, as she presented him with another couple plates of food.

She didn't feed him, because she didn't need to. He would eat himself into a coma without her help. Feeding him was a treat... and he had to be laid on his back, belching loudly to make room, before she even considered it. She wanted him to beg. Him, laying on his recliner, stuffed like a hog, burping every few minutes, rubbing his belly... lifting it with his fat hands to drop it, just watching it jiggle down, teasing his fatpad which surrounded his dick.

She'd watch from the couch. If he ate this well without needing to be fed, then she'd wait until he couldn't eat any longer before she stepped in.

This was one of those nights. The funnel he had ordered sat on a chair in the living room, not being used. Bethany was waiting for the perfect moment. On this particular night, Jacob had consumed so much food that he was lapsing in and out of consciousness in his recliner. She looked over at him and smiled. She knew this was her chance to sneak into the kitchen and make a quick weight gain shake to surprise him. She wanted him to wake up with the tube in his mouth, helpless to stop the fattening fluid as it filled his already stuffed belly. While she combined the heavy cream, weight gain powder, ice cream, and milk in the blender; she realized a surprise was impossible with the inevitable noise. She shrugged her shoulders and thought, "well, I'm sure hearing the blender and noticing the funnel is no longer on the chair will be surprise enough for him."

When she turned it on to mix up his 5000 calorie shake, she heard him snort in the living room - obviously waking up suddenly. But he stayed silent.

She poured the shake into the funnel, being sure to block the tube with her thumb once it was filled. A little bit spilled in the sink, but given that this was her first time filling up a feeding funnel, she wasn't too bothered by it. Balancing the shake in the funnel, she tip toed back into the living room. His eyes met hers immediately. He looked greedy, and ready to go above and beyond to chug it down. When they made eye contact, neither had to say anything.

Bethany had already taken her arms out of her bathrobe so she could hold the tube and funnel, so it was easy as she dropped her bathrobe to reveal a dark navy blue, baby-doll style lingerie set. His hungry eyes sparked with a sexual hunger on top of his permanent gluttonous hunger, and they darted back and forth from her to the funnel she held.

She approached him and placed her hand on his belly. It was still hard and bloated from what he had eaten throughout the day. She was about to place the tube into his excited mouth, but instead asked, "You're still very full. Are you sure you can fit this?"

There was a hint of teasing in her voice, almost daring him.

His fat hand reached up and grabbed the tube from her. He wasn't quick enough to get it into his mouth and a little bit of the shake fell onto his breasts, but he didn't care. He closed his eyes and drank as fast as he could as she held the funnel up above him. It only took a few minutes until the funnel was half empty. He reached for the tube, placing his thumb on the end of it to save what was left. A loud wet belch escaped his lips. He groaned. His free hand reached down to his swollen belly and he pressed it, forcing more air out with every burp. Bethany could only watch as she held the funnel up above him. She wanted to stand between his legs, hovering over his huge body - leaning over him, kissing and rubbing his fat as she teased the sensitive flesh deep between his rolls. She almost decided to put the funnel back in the kitchen, balancing it on something to keep the other half of the shake in it. But Jacob grabbed it again before she could make the decision. He swallowed as quickly as he could. Luckily the funnel itself was transparent - he would look up at it every few seconds to see how much was left. As the fattening fluid disappeared down the funnel, he seemed to get more greedy, gulping it down faster and faster.

Finally he couldn't take it anymore. There was still a little bit of the shake in the tube, but he could feel the fullness in his belly and the pain of being so gluttonous that he could barely breathe. He had to stop. The small amount left fell down his chins and he dropped the tube. Luckily Bethany still held the funnel, and she caught it before the droplets fell on the floor.

Holding it in one hand, she leaned down towards Jacob. He continued to belch and she quickly rubbed what she could of his belly as she said teasingly, "You out-did yourself. I'll be right back fat boy."

He moaned. He loved when she called him fat. The more derogatory, the better. He wanted to be called a pig, a glutton, a fat fuck - and every time she indulged his enjoyment of humiliation, he found himself pulsing with pleasure.

She came back into the room with a wet paper towel and gently began to clean off the cream that fell from the tube. It dribbled down his lips, flowing down his chins. Bits of it were in-between his fat hairy breasts. She was erotic with her cleaning - teasing his nipples as she seductively told him what a messy fat hog he was. She had cleaned him thoroughly, but he was, yet again, floating in and out of a food coma. He sensed her walking away and jolted awake. She held up the dirty paper towel and assured him, "I'm just throwing this out, I'll be right back."

She heard the slight squeek of the recliner as he laid his head back down again.

She threw out the paper towel in the kitchen, then momentarily reflected on the last hour. She was lucky. The desire to be with such a gigantic man was rare - nevermind finding a man who would do anything to become as fat as he could. She had fattened men up before, when she had first discovered her unusual desire. But they didn't enjoy it. They did it for her attention, and not because they wanted it as well. As a result, they didn't gain nearly the amount she was attracted to, and the relationships never lasted. She smiled, knowing she chose the right man over a decade and a half ago. He was right there, laying in their living room, burping and moaning. She knew he was rubbing his belly without even needing to look into the room.

Another thought crossed her mind in this short reverie... his dreams. She was a light sleeper, and many times over the years she'd hear him groan in his sleep and whisper, "I'm so fat. More... more..."

She would always awake suddenly, but smiled. How lucky to have a man who really dreamed of being obese; who had no limit to how fat he wanted to get.

It had only been a few seconds, but in her brain, she thought she was standing in the kitchen dreaming for at least a couple minutes. Him moaning in the other room brought her out of her daydream and reminded her that he deserved a belly rub. She withheld it when he didn't eat enough. A slight dominance within her made sure that his reward of physical and sexual pleasure had to be earned.

She walked back into the living room and stood at his feet. He was reclined as much as he could be. His thick fat hands were already engaged in vigorously massaging his impossibly full stomach. His eyes were closed and she watched. He was so full that he wasn't exactly conscious. It reminded her of his dreams... and she wanted to say, "Yes, you are fat. And you're getting so much fatter."

She couldn't resist. Tip toeing over to his side she whispered this into his ear. He smirked and opened his eyes. She was leaning over him and he looked at her pert breasts almost spilling out of the lingerie. He reached with his fat hand and grabbed one. Moaning he said, "come closer."

She stepped away from his side and moved between his legs. Being reclined blocked her, so he grabbed the remote and lowered the foot rest. She moved closer, her hands on his thighs. He reached down and lifted his belly. The fat of his groin hid most of him, but she saw the head of his dick, hard and pulsing, almost trying to escape the fat that encased it. She got on her knees... and his eyes were wide with excitement.

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dadvans · 2 months ago

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Short Term Solutions for the wip game! 💕💕💕

for the WIP title meme!

tbh can't remember what i've posted from this one before--

Tommy feels like he’s walking onto another scene when he shows up at Evan’s apartment. There’s smoke, albeit thinning through every open window, and Evan is standing on the table waving a sheet pan at the detector high overhead on the ceiling. “Hey.” Evan doesn’t look down at him. Tommy sees a smothered pot on the stove’s back burner, hallmark of a grease fire. “How do you feel about pizza?” “I love pizza,” he offers, like there’s a monster out there that somehow doesn’t. He tries to hide the worry in his voice and makes his way around the kitchen island to the stove so he can help dispose of the smoldering remains of dinner. “I’ll call Dominoes as soon as I’m not afraid of this alarm going off again,” Evan says. “Don’t worry about it.” Fuck Dominoes. Evan’s clearly had a long day, and Tommy is hungry but he’s not that hungry. They’re doing the overpriced hole-in-the-wall down the street where Ryan Gosling was apparently caught by paparazzi last week. He’s fine paying. “I can call.” Evan gives in without a fight, so he must really be at his limit. “Thanks.” It’s tough to see him like this. His usual spark has been dimming more and more the past month since Gerrard resumed control of the 118, and even on the really bad days, he seems reluctant to talk about it. The first time they did, Tommy tried to pass along wisdom from what he remembered of Gerrard: keep your head down, don’t go out of your way to do anything you weren’t asked to do (especially on a call), stay in your lane, and document every goddamn thing as best as you can the second it happens. But these days Tommy can see it in the dismissive way that Evan will crack open a beer on the countertop and say, “Nothing, nothing, you know, asked me if i moved out here ‘cause California is the land of fruits and nuts again,” that there is something worse and more complicated going on under the surface, something Evan refuses to let him help carry the weight on for a variety of reasons. It sucks. Tommy wants to help, and watching Evan struggle and buckle under whatever is going down at the 118 without him is starting to scare him. Something’s gotta give, and Tommy knows it inevitably will. The best thing he knows he can do until further notice is focus on short term solutions. He can take care of a smoking pan while Evan stands helplessly on his kitchen table. He can order a large Hellraiser, extra meat. He can get Evan so far outside of his head he’s boneless and thoughtless and can temporarily forget. “Delivery ETA is sixty minutes,” Tommy announces as he gets off the phone. “Shit, I’m sorry,” Evan says, gingerly getting off the table and setting the pan down. “I told you I’d have dinner ready, you’re probably starving. I can probably throw a salad together—“ “Don’t worry about it,” Tommy says, and that’s when he notices one of Evan’s hands is loosely wrapped. “Are you okay?” Evan seems to have forgotten about it, and looks down at his own palm when he sees Tommy staring. “What? Oh, yeah, got distracted, burned it. Then totally forgot I left the heat on high when I went to take care of it, and“—he waves his good hand vaguely around at the thinning smoke, a half-laugh catching in his throat clearly directed at himself—“yeah. Just can’t seem to stay out of my own way today.” There’s something unsaid there, some kind of weakness Evan doesn’t seem willing to part with, and it breaks Tommy’s heart. He maneuvers his way over to Evan’s side, taking him by the wrist to gently kiss over the burn. “Well, we have an hour.” He sighs. “Tell you what. Let me take care of you, get you out of your head for a bit. Then, after dinner, can we talk about it?” Evan stares up at him, eyes so big. Some invisible weight seems to slough off his shoulders at the suggestion alone, and he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

#wip title game #bucktommy #911 abc #dadvans replies

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nenelonomh · 7 months ago

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oral hygiene

perhaps since i am a bit younger than most of the people on this app, or since my nana had owned a kindergarten, i am so aware of the importance of hygiene and health practices. i feel that everyone has put simple things like this on the back burner, since covid, since the internet's takeover.

i remember, when i was younger (2015/16ish) (note: i clearly wasn't in kindergarden at the time, but this is when the memories are from), the halls of my nanas kindergarten were lined with posters that encouraged parents to look after their child's health. current kindergartens, and parents--perhaps due to technology and widespread knowledge-- prioritize other things. it's about time we took responsibility of our own health again.

oral hygiene is the practice of keeping your mouth clean and disease-free. it involves brushing and flossing your teeth as well as visiting your dentist regularly for dental x-rays, exams and cleanings.

brushing your teeth: ✩ use fluoride toothpaste to protect your teeth from decay (cavities). fluoride strengthens the tooth's hard outer surface (enamel). ✩ angle the bristles toward the gumline to clean between the gums and teeth. ✩ brush gently using small, circular motions. avoid scrubbing back and forth too hard. ✩ brush all sides of each tooth, including your tongue. ✩ replace your toothbrush when the bristles become worn.

HOT TIP: if you get bored with, or struggle to remember brushing your teeth, consider swapping to a minter (or other pleasantly flavoured) toothpaste. this will encourage you to continue the habit, since it is more enjoyable.

flossing your teeth: ✩ plaque can build up between teeth, leading to gum irritation and gingivitis. ✩ floss daily to remove plaque from these areas. ✩ if plaque hardens into tartar, only a dentist or dental hygienist can remove it.

replacing your toothbrush: ✩ as you use your toothbrush, the bristles gradually wear down. bent or frayed bristles lose their stiffness and effectiveness in cleaning your teeth. ✩ over time, your toothbrush accumulates bacteria from your mouth. bacterial growth on an old toothbrush can contribute to oral infections and bad breath. ✩ you should replace your toothbrush when you notice that the bristles have become worn, or every 3-4 months to prevent the buildup of harmful bacteria.

storing your toothbrush: ✩ before and after brushing, thoroughly rinse the bristles of your toothbrush under hot tap water. this helps remove toothpaste residue, debris, and any airborne bacteria or dust particles. ✩ after rinsing, tap the handle of your toothbrush against the edge of the sink to shake off excess water. this promotes faster air drying and prevents bacterial growth. ✩ store your toothbrush in a cup or holder. keep the bristles up and the handle down. this allows excess water to drain away from the bristles, preventing bacteria buildup. ✩ place the cup or holder in a well-ventilated area, such as a counter or shelf. avoid storing it in a dark, enclosed space like a drawer or cabinet. allowing your toothbrush to air dry completely helps prevent bacterial growth. ✩ avoid cross-contamination by keeping your toothbrush separate from your housemates, or family members.

electric toothbrushes: ✩ some may choose to use electric toothbrushes, where you only replace the head of the toothbrush. electric toothbrushes use oscillating, rotating, or sonic movements to clean teeth and gums more thoroughly. many models have built-in timers to ensure you brush for the recommended 2 minutes. most electric toothbrushes are rechargeable, reducing waste from disposable batteries. ✩ personally, i prefer to use a regular toothbrush, since i feel it does a better job cleaning my mouth. often electric toothbrushes require you to take longer to brush your teeth.

eating choices: eating choices play a significant role in maintaining good oral health. first and foremost, consuming sugary foods and drinks can lead to increased acid production in the mouth. this acid can erode tooth enamel, making your teeth more susceptible to decay. it's essential to limit your intake of sugary snacks and beverages to protect your oral health.

frequent snacking, especially on sugary and acidic drinks throughout the day can harm your teeth. aim for regular meals rather than constant snacking to give your teeth time to recover between eating episodes.

staying hydration is crucial for overall health, including oral health. dry mouth (which is called xerostomia) can increase the risk of cavities and gum disease. salvia helps neutralize acids and wash away food particles, so drink plenty of water to keep your mouth moist.

remember to maintain a balanced diet, rich in vitamins and minerals. it is essential for healthy teeth and gums. nutrients like calcium, vitamin D, vitamin C, and phosphorus contribute to strong teeth and support gum health. include dairy products, leafy greens, fruits, and lean proteins in your diet.

to conclude: remember that good oral health allows you to enjoy life by speaking clearly, tasting, chewing, and showing your feelings through facial expressions like smiling!

further reading: ✩ What’s the Most Sanitary Way to Store Your Toothbrush? • Brilliant Oral Care✩The Best Way to Store Your Toothbrush & the Mistakes You May be Making | Gentle Dental (interdent.com)✩Whatever You Do, Don't Store Your Toothbrush Here - CNET✩Why Should You Replace Your Toothbrush? And When? – Mouth Watchers✩How Often Should You Change Your Toothbrush? Healthy Etiquette (healthline.com)✩When To Change Your Toothbrush | Colgate®✩Oral Hygiene | National Institute of Dental and Craniofacial Research (nih.gov)✩Oral Hygiene: Best Practices & Instructions for Good Routine (clevelandclinic.org)

i hope this post was helpful!

❤️ nene

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butterfly-indulgence · 1 year ago

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[REDACTED] with an Idol!Angel

aka [REDACTED] being nasty on main.

CW: Parasocial behavior, obsessive behavior, stalking, mentions of online bullying/harassment ([REDACTED]'s an expert in canceling someone)

As a (crazy) fan:

SFW

[REDACTED] is your biggest fan. And no, that is not an exaggeration. From his perfect attendance to all your lives and events to making several shrines dedicated to you, no one has them beat.

When I say shrine, I don't mean just a small corner in their apartment. We're talking about rooms filled with your merch, such as your post cards, autographs, posters, plushies, pins… he has it all.

They're very well-known throughout the online community. Other fans always see him on your posts and if you take a look at their profile, all you would see are posts relating to you and his "delulu moments" (screaming, keysmashing, reaction images and just general lovemailing). You're his star, his precious angel, and you always will be. You shine the brightest in their eyes.

[REDACTED] has bought all of your albums too. His music player is filled with your songs, and he's the type of person to blast it at 3 am while he's hacking. He's the only one living on one of the floors of his apartment building, so he's not disturbing anyone, is he? Either way, what's anyone gonna do? Arrest him? Good luck. He gets away with worse crimes than disturbing the peace.

Your love songs are his favorite. They make him feel giddy inside (and a bit sad. He wishes you were there to sing those sweet words to him face-to-face.)

Branching off from that, you bet he's buying voice packs. They get to hear your lovely voice? All the time if theywanted to? Just take their money.

He's been your fan ever since you debuted and he's very proud of his perfect attendance to all your lives and events. He always has front row seats, and he goes to the events ridiculously early. He's always the first one in line. Other hardcore fans know him and even asked him to join their fan club once. Which he declined. He doesn't want to watch other people gush and fantasize about his angel. The thought of thousands of people vying for your love already makes his blood boil.

You will inevitably recognize [REDACTED] due to their constant presence in events. Seeing someone with so much love and dedication is enough to warm your heart, so you make sure to thank him and give him some extra fanservice. If [REDACTED] didn't have any self control, he might have collapsed then and there. (God they want to hug you and kiss you and spoil you and treat you well and marry you and-)

Many people in the fan community jokingly label them as "that insane angel simp", but they have no idea just how far [REDACTED] is willing to go for you. He can easily obtain any type of information he wants so naturally, he knows where you live. He already set up hidden cameras in your home too. He loves watching you through the cameras; it's one of his favorite past times because he sees the real you. The real angel behind the flawless idol persona. He knows your likes, your dislikes (and he often finds out that the information you give out during interviews are mostly lies; you tend to choose quirky or unique answers instead of your real preferences - oh, you don't like this particular food? But Angel, you look so happy eating it at home after your concert <3), your hobbies, and little habits that even you don't seem to notice. What he doesn't like is when you collapse on your bed after a long day and just… cry. He hates seeing you in pain and wants to comfort you during your saddest moments, but he can't, so he directs his attention elsewhere to give you some privacy. Expect a gift and a fanmail filled with love and support in the next few days. It's his way of cheering you up.

[REDACTED] is one of those brutal fans that would attack anyone who sends you any hate or attempts to destroy your reputation. He has tons of burner accounts at his disposal, and he's not afraid of using them to bully, harass and threaten your haters. He won't stop until their online presence disappears completely. It's why your fan community is so peaceful. Because [REDACTED] shuts the haters up quickly.

[REDACTED] is perhaps your most dangerous stalker… but they're a great repellant for other potentially dangerous people. (A blessing or a curse. View it however you want.) As mentioned above, haters will not touch you, and your information will be under [REDACTED]'s lock and key. Personal information like your address? No one will be able to dig it up no matter how hard they try. Do you have a past controversy you desperately want buried? Consider the evidence deleted. Due to him pulling the strings behind the scenes, in the eyes of the public, you really are just a pure and wholesome person with nothing to stain your name.

NSFW

[REDACTED] indulges himself a lot with fantasies of you. Just the thought of you is enough to get him going, really. Because of the cameras they put all over your home, they have a full view of your most private moments, especially when you're pleasuring yourself on your bed. It's thrilling how he gets to watch you do something so 'unpure', unbefitting of the idol image you carefully crafted. He would definitely stroke himself while watching you, moaning your name as their pleasure builds up. (Though if he hears you moan someone's name, expect [REDACTED] to do some research… and maybe pay the person a visit later.)

If [REDACTED] ever got to fuck you in your idol costume, he thinks his soul might just ascend to heaven (or descend to hell. Whatever.) It gets their possessive streak going. Your pretty lips, spouting words of love on stage while behind closed doors, your attention is all on him? You're giving him genuine words of love through your hazy mind with a blissed out expression on your face? He's done for.

He also masturbates using your pictures, and by the end, they would be crumpled up and stained. Honestly though? His room is heavily decorated with your merch so he can just grab something random off his shelves and he would still get off on it.

[REDACTED] can get pretty creative when he's going into the woohoo zone and he has several toys he uses often. You're not there (and maybe you never will be), so he has to make something work.

#14dwy #14 days with you #14dwy redacted #14 days with you redacted #alternate universe #redacted #might make a part 2 #my writing

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comiverse · 7 months ago

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And now a disturbing amount of one-liners from Dust:

______________________________________________________________

Dust: God has let me live another day and I'm going to make it everyone's problem.

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Dust: When I see initials carved into a tree with a heart, I think it’s so romantic. Two lovers on a date... one of them carrying a knife for some reason.

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Dust: It's not like I try to blow things up, exactly. It just sort of happens. You've got to admit though, fire is fascinating.

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Dust: I am not an early bird or a night owl. I am some form of permanently exhausted pigeon.

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Dust: I only have two emotions: exhaustion and stress. And I’m somehow always feeling both simultaneously.

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Dust: I like wearing oversized sweaters. Not just because they're extremely comfy and cuddly, but because whenever the sleeves are really big, I get to flop them around and smack people.

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Dust: Hey guys, today Killer pushed me, so I'm starting a kickstarter to put him down. The benefits of killing him are that I would get pushed way less.

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Dust: My favorite outdoor activity is going back inside.

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Dust, explaining why they are not allowed to cook: I put the noodles in the pot and put the pot on the stove and turned the burner on high. Turns out you don't put noodles in marijuana and I almost burnt the whole house down.

______________________________________________________________

Dust, talking to Killer: With all due respect, which is none…

______________________________________________________________

Dust: You know the sound a fork makes in the garbage disposal? That's the sound that my brain makes all the time.

#he's one of my favorites can you tell?#dust sans #dusttale #undertale #undertale aus #undertale au #utmv #sans au #incorrect quotes #sans au incorrect quotes #undertale incorrect quotes #birdbrainedstuff

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canarydarity · 27 days ago

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(Happy Team Rancher week!! :D this is for today, the last day, AU fest. this is an au that I've had on the back burner for a while, but its for a ya book series I read in middle school and absolutely adore, and so I'm really glad I was able to finish this scene up and get it out here for the event!! The very basic premise is that Tango, Impulse, Skizz, and Etho are students at a teenage spy school. On their first ever field training mission, Tango meets Jimmy. Exceedingly, exceptionally normal Jimmy. Enjoy :) <3)

Hermitville looked as if every store-front was painted neatly on wooden slats and propped up from behind by a 2-by-4, its display perfectly weathered and distressed to look as if you could turn the cardboard handle and walk through the door of a family-run business, 75 years strong. But the fact was that you actually could do that—these were real stores in a real town, no matter how striking their resemblance to the set of every small-town-America movie in the world, ready to be broken down and disposed of to make room for the next.

The phenomenon was always made worse by how little Tango actually entered the town despite living 12 miles down the road from it. Its existence was just close enough to feel, parsable from the air like the scent of rain off asphalt, and simultaneously far enough to be alien to him, made all that much weirder by its small town charm, suffocatingly mundane and unconditionally normal. No strings, no contingencies, no Christmas dinners interrupted by last minute covert missions to foreign embassies.

There were string-lights hanging between the lamp-posts, it was cute. Tango felt unbelievably itchy.

The comm in his ear crackled. “How ya doing up there, Legacy?”

Skizz sounded like he was enjoying himself entirely too much. It made Tango grumble a little under his breath, not caring if it was loud enough for the comm to pick up or not. Maybe if he was lucky, the others would attribute it to static.

Or maybe they’d attribute it to Etho, giving he whined back, “I hate that code name.”

“Okay, Prodigy.” Tango cut in, knowing Etho would hate that one equally as much if not more. What could he say, he gets bitchier when he’s grumpy, and wandering around in the cold stuck in the state of perpetually failing his first CoveOps mission was certainly doing it for him.

“Tang—”

Maybe he went a little too hard, though, if he got Etho to break protocol and use his real name over what technically counted as a confidential communications outlet. Oops.

“Tango,” Impulse interrupted—not overly-peeved enough at his friend to use his real name, just equally as hopeless when it came to CoveOps to the point he likely forgot they were supposed to be using code names in the first place. “Where are you, I lost you again.”

Tango didn’t have to turn around and face the direction he’d last seen Impulse to be able to picture the frown that he absolutely wore. Besides, that would give up his cover, and staying hidden—unmemorable, ignorable, unnoticeable, any of those were fine—was just about the only field trait Tango had.

“Over by the bank, Impy.”

“Well, wave your arms or something.”

Tango nodded at an old lady who was walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of him, glaring like they were in a store and Tango was sweating carrying too large and heavy a bag as he suspiciously made his way toward the door. She glared harder at his attempt of being polite and turned her head away as they passed one another by. Tango just really couldn’t get enough of that small town charm.

When she was behind him he dropped the grin and responded, “That kind of defeats the purpose, now doesn’t it?”

What could’ve been a break of static but was probably Impulse groaning cut through the comm and Tango winced. At least he was good at getting passed by, he imagined Impulse was failing to do even that at the moment. “Well, how am I supposed to follow you following Doc if—”

“He’s flipping,” Etho cut in, and Tango didn’t glance to the left at the park where Doc—their certifiably batshit insane countries of the world professor—was currently using every trick he’d ever been taught on how to lose a tail; not that he knew he was being tailed, he was just that vigilant. Constantly. Cause that was how every normal and well-adjusted person lived their life.

Instead, Tango kept walking the way he’d been going, stopped to look both directions before crossing the street, approached the closest vendor and bought himself the first thing on the menu without stopping to look at what it was.

Why on Earth Professor Beef thought the best way to ease them into the field of Covert Operations was to assign them to tail their most paranoid and least sane staff member was beyond him. He could imagine what Beef would say if Tango dared question this decision of his out loud: well you don’t have to get it, you just have to do it. Yipee, he was so glad to be taking this course.

He couldn’t look for Doc, so he looked for Etho instead. He scanned the street, the sidewalk—hell, even the rooftops—but there was no sign of him. He was that good.

Show-off, Tango thought as the vendor whistled to get his attention and he turned back with a smile and a thanks accepting a corndog. Nice.

Tango headed off again, this time towards the park, the direction Doc had been going in, presumably, before he’d flipped. He saw Skizz amidst a sea of letterman jackets, smiling and laughing and miming throwing something with his hands; the crowd he’d accrued laughed with him, boys of all shapes and sizes slapping each other on the arm and guffawing over a guy they would all swear later that they’d had to have had a class with at some point.

Their methods were different, but it was undeniable—mission one, and Skizz and Etho were good at this. They’d all known they would be.

Tango wandered around for a while longer, ate his corndog and listened to the chatter of his fellow operatives over the comms, always keeping their updates on Doc’s position in mind and staying busy as he steered clear enough as to not get noticed but close enough he could keep his options open should an opportunity arise.

In theory, the mission was simple: what soft drink did Professor Doc like to drink with his funnel cake at the Hermitville fall carnival? In practice, it was a lot harder than it looked. They’d all been students of Doc’s for almost 5 years, and while this meant they might know him well enough to predict his patterns in what was maybe a reasonable way, it also meant he knew them well enough to call out their first and last name if he spotted them—and to skip the questioning portion of the interrogation in favor of going directly into doling out detentions.

This was their professor who used a trusted—and highly confidential—surgeon to give him a new face before the start of every school year for the sake of avoiding some long list of threats still interested in apprehending him that he constantly alludes to but never explains. And Beef wanted them to tail him. It’s not like they had any chance to succeed. And Tango was missing Below Deck for this.

The carnival was beginning to thin out, slowly, by the time anything interesting had begun to happen—at least to Tango. The square had one of those large metal things that looked like a lamp-post but actually had a giant clock in the center, and based on the last time he’d seen it and his impeccable internal clock, it could only be nine-fifteen p.m. It was like this place couldn’t get any more boring if it tried. Tango couldn’t stand it. Tango was jealous.

He was cutting through the alley behind the town’s lonely diner, heading towards Skizz’s last known location, and was about to throw a line out over the almost eerily empty silence of his comm when Skizz spoke first. Something about the sound of his voice nagged at Tango, and it occurred to him before he opened his mouth to respond that he’d heard Skizz speak out loud, not directly in his ear.

A second later, and it wasn’t just Skizz. At the first raise of Doc’s voice, Tango stopped walking and leaned as hard as he could into the brick. “I don’t even want to know how you got out and—actually, how did you get out?”

Tango only spent a moment questioning whether or not he was about to make a mistake before he leaned towards the edge of the alley until he could get enough of a picture of what was going on. Doc’s back was to him—thank god—but Skizz and Impulse were done for, the two of them sitting on a bench before their increasingly irate professor. Skizz was at his most diplomatic, sitting still and face severe with the kind of look that said I am listening to you and I understand. Impulse was cringing so hard at the having-been-caught that his left eye looked swollen shut.

Skizz raised one of his hands to halt Doc’s tirade—a risky move, but if anyone could pull it off it was Skizz. “Professor, if you’d just let me explain—”

“Explain what!” Tango winced with his friends in solidarity, even though he wasn’t the one getting reamed. “You’ve been following me for thirty minutes, which means you have to be—wait,” Doc said, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. “Wait a minute—where’s Beef?”

Tango watched as Skizz and Impulse—spies in training, yes, but still teenage boys at heart—shared a look with each other that gave away exactly what Doc needed to know. Skizz said: “Why I don’t know what you could mean, Professor, we were just—”

“Oh you—” From behind, Tango watched Doc shake his head to cut Skizz off, and then he did something kind of miraculous: he turned and tossed something—something shining and made of brown glass, something suspiciously bottle shaped—into the closest trash can. “Go on, now. Back, back to where you came from.”

Tango stared at the garbage that couldn’t be more than twenty feet from him, even as Doc herded two of his best friends off of the bench and on into the night, the vague direction of the mansion; in his peripheral Skizz turned to glance at Doc and open his mouth, one more attempt at reason, before Doc departed one more and I’ll be giving you an extra credit assignment to really complain about.

Tango honestly wasn’t even sure they were out of sight by the time he left the wall and the relative safety of the alleyway, not even considering the risk as somewhere inside he reeled at the thought it couldn't possibly be this easy. As he crossed the street, half of him expected to get scruffed by the back of his shirt and dragged all the way to his dorm, the other half expected to look inside and find the bottle to already be gone, even though his eyes hadn’t left the can, and for Etho to wander out of some shadow with it already in his hand. But the street was blessedly, amazingly quiet the whole time Tango made his way over.

The garbage can was mostly empty even though the town had just had a carnival—because of course it was, towns like this probably didn’t produce any trash at all, Tango should’ve goddamn known—meaning Tango had to brace one of his arms on the lip of the metal can and hop slightly with his other arm outstretched to grab the bottle and pull it safely out of the trash.

The condensation had made the paper labeling start to peel away in places, but the brand was still, for the most part, entirely legible—their mission was complete, and by Tango no less. He couldn’t wait to get back and rub it in Etho’s face.

Tango tossed the bottle in the air and caught it, mood turning around for the first time all night—not even the 12 mile walk home in the dark could daunt him now.

He turned around to begin his trek and found himself instead frozen immediately to the spot.

There was a boy.

Across the street, paused in the middle of the sidewalk and staring right at him, was a boy. And he’d seen Tango.

Tango, whose only natural talent in CoveOps was going unnoticed. Tango, whose codename was cipher, after a joke Impulse made about his tendency for hiding in plain sight. Tango, who’d just rooted around in the garbage for someone else’s trash.

The boy stopped to look both ways before crossing the street, even though it was now almost 9:30 pm and seemingly passed town curfew by how empty it’d gotten. There were no cars by sight nor by sound on this road or any of the surrounding blocks, but the boy looked to his right, then his left, then his right again before stepping off the concrete and onto the asphalt. There was even a moment of pause when his foot touched down on the road, and a slight furrow to his brow that had Tango imagining him thinking but there’s no crosswalk here!

A better spy might’ve done something else—found the closest out, used the perfect excuse or expertly timed joke—but Tango just stood there, and watched the boy approach.

“Hi there,” he said, a slight Virginia twang to his words that really drove home the all-American look about him, the swoopy blonde hair and lithe but athletic build—perfect for winning throws at football games or moral-gathering posters of government propaganda.

“Do you….dig through trash cans often?” The prom king illusion shattered immediately as the boy cringed and shook his head, descriptive adjectives like polished becoming more awkward, perfect turning into endearing. “No—that sounded rude, I’m so sorry, I meant it as more of a joke, really…an unfunny one, I guess.” The rounder part of his cheeks pooled, filled deeply with blush.

Tango opened his mouth, unsure what he planned to say, but then the boy went, “Oh my gosh, not that I judge that—or, well, maybe a little. But I—I’m sorry, and I shouldn’t, that’s wrong and, and—“ he paused abruptly, his head clearly moving faster than his mouth, the level of disaster that was this conversation running away from him and seeming far worse than it was when it’d started.

“There are nicer trash cans, even,” He said when he opened his mouth again, and Tango nearly lost his mind, turned his laugh into a cough and wondered if all exceedingly normal people were so…cute. “Closer to the center of town. I can…show you where those are instead, if you prefer?”

Tango couldn’t help his smirk. “You offering to take me on a tour of the nicer trash cans in town?”

“I—“ Tango watched the boy's face buffer as all the things he just said caught up to him, and he looked down, bashful. After a moment, he smoothed out the embarrassment like wrinkles on fresh sheets and looked back up at Tango confidence renewed. “That or a milkshake, maybe?”

The boat had stopped rocking, they’d made it to solid land, and the conversation righted itself and worked its way towards something normal—or at least, what Tango thought normal was supposed to look like. He’d never been asked something so simple as would he like to get a milkshake with a cute and utterly mundane boy.

Things that Tango most definitely was not. His cover, on the other hand…

Right, his cover. In a logical and completely sane move, Tango blurted out, “I have a cat.”

The boy blinked a blink that pushed his whole head back an inch from its force. “Ex…cuse me?”

“I have a cat,” Tango repeated, begging his brain to fill him in on the rest of the reasoning behind why he said this particular thing at this particular moment. Were cats deathly allergic to milkshakes, or something? Well, screw his imaginary cat, Tango wasn’t!

He said: “She…likes to play with bottles. I kinda grab them whenever I can.”

“Etho!” He added, and then mentally slapped himself upside the head. This was precisely why he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near field work. “That’s my cat’s name, yup! Mhm, so, I’d take you up on that, but—“

“But you have to get back to your cat?” The boy said, his cheek bunched under one of his eyes like he wanted to believe that but had heard one-too-many a ridiculous excuse before and wasn’t quite sure.

“Exactly.” Tango let out a breath. Jesus Christmas this was hard—where the hell was Skizz when Tango needed him? Oh, right. This was not at all how the night was supposed to go.

Conversation lapsed, but Tango failed to notice his opportunity for an out. The spy in him knew deep down that this was his chance to leave, to apologize for the lack of a milkshake and laugh off the fumble that was their interaction and begin his long walk back to school, knowing by the time the boy god home he’d forget all about having met Tango at all; the teenager in him stared at the freckle at the inner corner of the boys left eye.

“Sorry, you’re new around here, aren’t you?”

Tango continued staring. This was the third time the boy had apologized.

“What makes you say that?”

“I’ve lived here…all my life?” His voice lilted higher at the end, almost like he was posing a question rather than making his case. “Everyone here has lived here all their life and I’ve…never seen you before.”

Tango has too, in a way. Home was a complicated concept for a spy; he may not be one yet, but his parents were—he knew enough to understand. It wasn’t like his childhood went untouched from the transient nature of spy work, a suitcase and go-bag always ready by the door. Even if he was the one being left and not the one doing the leaving, Tango knew flexible, he knew inconsistent.

For years his most stable constant had been school, his mom in the headmasters office, Skizz Impulse and Etho. Where was home but here?

He couldn’t say that, that wasn’t the cover. After years of being told I’ll be back soon with no indication of when soon was and little clarification of back from where and absolutely zero certainty that was something that could be promised, Tango resented lying. He wasn’t meant to be forming covers—he was meant to be locked in a lab somewhere, but one term of CoveOps at the start of sophomore year was a requirement. A requirement Tango would have to get through.

Tango had never seen the boy before either. He didn’t know how to respond.

“But, hey, I guess I’ll be seeing you around? At school?”

“No!”

The word was short and sweet, one syllable, something if the rampant apologizing was any indication the boy had not insignificant experience hearing. But his head tilted on the axis of his chin, lilting higher into the air and away from the middle of his chest—the dog that thought it’d heard a word it knew and was trying to determine if it was of the good or bad variety. “…No?”

Tango cringed. Probably visibly. “I’m…homeschooled,” was the lie, this time.

“Oh, alright,” Tango hoped the drop in his tone was disappointment and not disbelief. He hoped the boy blessedly naive of the ways Tango was being false and not incorrectly assuming him indifferent to their chance encounter.

Unwilling to bet on the chance and deeply reluctant to do what he knew a good spy should—remembering too many holidays gone remiss, and birthdays of the ill-get-you-next-year variety—Tango said, “I’ll be around, though.”

The boy brightened, one of those artificial lamps that mimics sunlight where sunlight doesn’t reach, from darkness to light in mere seconds—like it was simple, easy. Ill so readily forgotten.

“Good,” the word was delivered with an amicable nod. “Better get home to Etho, then.”

There was a moment of pause as Tango prepared to exclaim Etho?!? Suddenly in fear that he’d somehow found the one normal boy who wasn’t normal at all and was actually some sort of enemy spy, Tango accidentally blubbering his way through giving up national secrets he didn’t even know he knew—and then he remembered what he named his fake cat.

“Right! Etho, yes…right, gotta get back to,” —had he given his fake cat pronouns?!— “yup! Okay, bye then.”

Tango turned with great effort, his eyes shut and the rational part of his brain begging him to get a grip, his hands clasped tightly around the slightly icky with condensation bottle of soda that he’d come here to claim and by some miracle had. He hadn’t gotten more than a step or two away before the boy called, “Hey, what’s your name?”

And Tango made possibly the stupidest decision of the night—despite all the competition, that’s pretty impressive, he knows—and called back, “Tango.”

“It was nice to meet you Tango!”

Tango smiled over his shoulder at the boy, walking backwards down the road he’d been so cautious to cross before, wanton joy on his face and something Tango didn’t dare to name, hands in his pockets. “You too,” Tango laughed.

“My name’s Jimmy, by the way!”

The comm in his ear crackled to life after too long staying suspiciously silent before Tango could do anything about that, and he heard what he knew to be Etho saying, “Cipher, meet me at the corner of Pine and Cherry.”

The sobering bucket of ice water dumped on your head after a particularly rough all-nighter, Tango felt his nerves wake up one by one; his spine was suddenly straighter and everything a little more on edge than it’d been a few minutes ago. He resisted the urge to scan the roofs and the streets and the shadows. He ignored the shame that said he just got caught doing something he shouldn’t have been; he kind of already knew that, but something in him also wished this had just been for him. Bye Jimmy, Tango thought in reply before saying, “Yeah man, on my way.”

Forget milkshakes and normal boys, Tango had some bragging to do. Other than to resent lying, if there was anything being the child of spies taught him, it was how to mask disappointment.

He turned the corner toward Etho without looking back.

#teamranchersweek #spy school au #worm writes #I didn’t edit this too hard so if there are any mistakes no there aren’t <33 #team rancher #team rancher fic #jimmy solidarity #tango tek #solidaritek #trafficshipping

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