#don’t know if this has been done before

[fireinmoonshot]

maybe one day | robert reynolds x reader

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader Summary: Every time you wake up from a nightmare, Bob is there to help you get back to sleep. This time, however, is a little different. Warnings: Mentions of nightmares and traumatic pasts (nothing specific). It's also fairly angsty. Word Count: 1k A/N: It's been a while! I have been in the depths of a writing slump for the past three weeks or so but Thunderbolts has seemingly brought me out of it. I assumed it would be Bucky that did that but it ended up being Bob... I love him. He's been living rent free in my head ever since I saw the movie last night. I just had to write about him. This fic is just a small one, as obviously it's the first thing I've written since falling into a slump, but I'm pretty proud of it. Bob is very different to write for (especially different to Joaquín who is all I've been writing for lately) so I hope I've done him justice. I look forward to continuing to write for him!

The bedroom is still dark when you wake up. The only sign that you’re not alone in the room is the faint silhouette of someone sitting in the armchair at the end of your bed and the steady sound of fingers tapping against the material of the chair. Strangely, the presence isn’t scary but comforting. There’s only one person it could be. 

“Was I having another nightmare?” You ask. 

You’d woken up to the feeling of your bed shaking gently. It isn’t an unfamiliar feeling – you’ve woken up this way several times in the past few months. It’s Bob’s way of waking you up without shaking you awake himself.  Using the most minimal of his powers to help you.

While he’s not in control of his powers, he can’t risk hurting you. Even just holding your hand could send you into one of your worst memories. And like all of the other members of your team, back in New York you’d been forced to live through them all because of the Void. 

Since then, you and Bob had become closer. You’d all moved into the old Avengers tower now that you were the new Avengers. Bob’s room had been across the hall from yours. He’d heard your screams from the first nightmare and had been there to wake you up from them  almost every night since. Most nights, he sits by your bed to keep you company until you fall back asleep. It’s not the most efficient way to help, he knows. But the last thing he’d ever want to do is to accidentally send you back into the memories that had given you so much trauma.

“You were.���

You sit up properly in your bed and reach out a hand to turn on the lamp that sits on your bedside table. The bulb is dull, only bright enough to bring a dark yellow glow to the room but it’s enough for you to be able to see Bob. He looks exhausted.

“Have you gotten any sleep tonight? What time is it?” 

“I slept a little,” he nods. “I don’t know what time it is. Three a.m? Four, maybe.”

You stifle a yawn and run a hand through your hair. It’s thick with sweat, courtesy of the nightmare you’d been having – though you’re thankful that you don’t remember exactly what it was about tonight. “You should go back to sleep, Bob.”

“I will when you do.”

For a moment, you simply look at him. The way he looks at you despite his exhaustion doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You can see the worry in his eyes, the way his eyebrows are drawn and his lips are a little pursed. You want nothing more than to crawl to the end of your bed, reach out a hand and tug him up so he can crawl into bed with you and hold you while you fall asleep. But you know that he’d never allow himself to do something like that.

“Will you stay with me?” You ask anyway.

Bob hesitates, opening his mouth and then closing it again before he shakes his head. “You know that I can’t. I can’t until I know I can control it. I won’t put you through that again.”

“I’ll put a pillow barrier up,” you offer. Bob lets out a small laugh at your words. “I mean it, Bob. I want you to stay with me. Not on the chair at the end of my bed, not on the floor. In the bed, beside me. If you can’t hold me, that’s the next best thing.”

Bob sighs and stands up from the chair before heading around to the opposite side of the bed and pulling back the covers. You smile to yourself as you grab an extra pillow and place it in the middle of the bed. Once your head hits your own pillow again, you can look right beside you and into Bob’s eyes. It’s the closest you think he’s ever let himself get to you. 

“Can I try something?” You ask, voice soft.

He nods once, though you can see he’s a little concerned that you might be about to rip down the pillow barrier and latch yourself onto him, as if you’d ever do something like that without his consent first.

You raise a hand, palm towards him, and smile as you see him raise his own hand. He moves it towards yours, just hovering it next to your hand. You can almost feel the warmth radiating off of his skin. His hand is so close to yours that you could move the smallest bit and brush your fingers against his, though you restrain yourself. 

“I wish I could hold your hand,” Bob mutters quietly, voice a little muffled by the pillow.

“Me, too,” you hum, watching as your hands dance close together. “I want to know what it feels like to touch you. To have your fingers entwine with mine. To feel your skin against my skin. Is that weird to say?”

Bob shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I want that too.”

“Maybe one day?”

He looks away from your hands and meets your eyes. “One day.” It’s not a maybe. It’s a certainty. Once he can control his powers. He removes his hand from the air and tucks it underneath the blankets. “You should sleep now.” 

“I will when you do,” you murmur, forcing yourself to keep your eyes open as your hand falls onto the pillow in-between the two of you, a sudden wave of sleepiness overtaking you.

Bob smiles to himself as he watches your eyes flutter closed and sleep takes hold of you. He’s glad he stayed. Even if all he wants is to push the pillow away and pull you into his arms. Even though he’s probably not going to get a wink of sleep while he lays beside you, too content with just watching you sleep, seeing how peaceful you look.

But as long as that pillow stays in place, you’re safe. Until he can control his powers, this is the way things have to be. To keep you safe from the nightmares. From the Void. From him. 

[moyazaika]

have your cake (and eat it too)

yandere! L Lawliet (death note) x gn! reader

cw; L is his own tw, imposter syndrome, explicit nsfw, mdni 18+

genie's notes; yayyy commissioned piece for @ozzgin !!! thank you ozzy my beloved for giving me the opportunity to write about my man ♡ if this feels long that's bc it is LOL i was having sm fun writing it got to 4k words,, can you tell i'm bonkers for this guy,, nevertheless, i hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing :D

“Take a picture,” you murmur. “It’ll last longer.”

“I know.”

You spare the man sitting besides you a quick glance. Despite the numerous dossiers emptied out onto the oak table before you, the detective’s attention is transfixed solely on you. Has been, for the past few hours. 

“Ryuzaki?” You try again, hoping he’ll get the hint this time.

Stop fucking staring at me.

No such luck. He only tilts his head to the side expectantly and you wonder, not for the first time, whether he enjoys playing the fool, or if he’s just truly ignorant of your discomfort. 

You don’t know which answer would be worse.

What you do know is that you can count on both hands the number of times you’ve been alone in a room with L. After all, it’s the exact same number of times that you’ve silently prayed for Kira to do you a favour and take you next.

The memory of the rest of the task force’s departure is still vivid. Yagami’s sympathetic smile. Matsuda’s shameless commiserations. 

You can barely think. The sensation is strangely claustrophobic. Even now, you can feel the weight of his gaze settling over you like a burden. 

With a weary sigh, you turn back to the pictures you’re thumbing through. All images of Kira’s most recent victims; their pale faces and milky eyes stare back at you with accusation. Months have passed without any sufficient leads and sure, you pull at loose threads when you can—but the mystery never quite unravels itself the way you hope for it to. There are no frayed edges. No loose seams. 

Whoever this guy is, you can tell the smug son of a bitch takes pride in his work. Has you working overtime, too. 

The wall clock across the room reads twenty minutes until five, but you didn’t really need to check the time to know that. With how high up you are, you can already glimpse the makeshift beginnings of dawn through the narrow gaps between Tokyo’s neon-lit buildings. 

Screw this.

You’re going to cut your losses; already know you’re not getting any work done in these conditions. Better to mull over the details in the privacy of your own space—far from prying eyes. 

You take the opportunity to flick through the pictures of civilian corpses once more, committing the details of the dead men’s faces to memory before finally tossing the alarmingly heavy file down onto the desk in front of you, where it lands with a resounding, strangely satisfying thud.

L doesn’t even flinch. 

“I’m going home,” you announce, actively making an effort to avoid meeting the man’s eyes. Your chair scrapes against the floor as you stand, and the noise is unbearably loud within the otherwise silent room. 

“So soon?”

You laugh at that. “It’s four in the morning, Ryuzaki.”

“Hm. So it is.”

“Time flies,” you shrug on your coat. “When are you going to leave?”

You ask out of politeness rather than any genuine curiosity. The question mumbled absently as you rummage around in your pockets for your hotel keycard. 

You’re not from Tokyo. Just staying here for as long as the task force needs you to. Called in months ago from a nearby prefecture because of your stellar track record. You like to think you’re intelligent, and that Japan’s top minds recognised that about you. You suppose it doesn’t really hurt that you’ve got some connections to the national police force. 

Though you’re glad to be trusted with the case, and happy to be here—you’ve never really cared much for the city of Tokyo itself. You miss the humdrum of the countryside; the constant chirping of cicadas hidden amidst tall blades of grass. A clear, blue sky unblemished by the fine points of soulless skyscrapers. Weaving through crowds without wondering whether one of them might be the mass murderer you’re hunting down.

L’s monotonous drawl snaps you out of your thoughts. Brings you back to exactly where you are right now and not necessarily where you’d prefer to find yourself, instead.

“I won’t.”

“You won’t?”

“Yes,” he repeats. Enunciates the syllables as if speaking to a child. No further clarification.

“I’m sorry.” You’re really not. “Are you seriously going to sleep here again?” You honestly don’t mean to sound disrespectful but the incredulity in your tone is difficult to mask. Much less in the presence of the world’s greatest detective. 

The stories are true. You found them difficult to believe at first, but since then, you’ve confirmed the extent of L’s genius with your own observations. The man before you can function perfectly without any sleep for days on end. You remember the first time you’d left the office; come back the next morning to find L hadn’t moved an inch from where you’d left him last night. 

Even still, it’s hard not to notice the prominent bags under his black eyes. The state of his clothes, all crumpled. The greasy, unkempt hair that frames his face. Despite his intellect, he’s still only human.

Even if it can be alarmingly easy to forget that.

“Why?” L asks blankly. “Are you offering me an alternative?”

Briefly, you think of the deputy director learning, come morning, that you’d left L to his own devices; The hard lines of disappointment marring his features. The disapproval in his otherwise polite gaze. He can’t be left alone. Something about being far too valuable, if you recall correctly. Or did he say vulnerable?

Regardless, you already feel like some charity case, even though you know that you’ve clawed your way to be here; called in favours and kissed the feet of men far beneath you. You deserve to be on the Kira task force as much as everybody else. Yet, you know what your answer will be long before you’ve even said anything. 

Something tells you L knows, too. He’s never been the sort of man to ask questions that serve him no greater purpose. 

Sometimes, you detest people like Matsuda for the ease with which they inhabit such unwelcoming spaces so boldly. The ability to exist so openly, without inhibition. But you detest yourself most of all, especially in moments like this where you’re burdened by the need to prove your belonging.

Well– 

Are you offerring me an alternative?

–Shit.

“Yes.” you concede, not even bothering to look back at him as you reach to call for the elevator. Press the button with considerably more force than you should. “I suppose I am.” 

You’re not nice. You’re certainly not charitable. But you are easy.

You spare him an exasperated glance over your shoulder when the doors finally slide open with a yielding sigh. From behind you, L makes no indication to move. You begin to doubt if he’s even heard you. Or, more specifically, whether he was ever really listening to begin with. His black eyes can feel so fucking vacant, sometimes.

“You coming?” you impatiently tap your foot against the carpeted floor as you hold the elevator open with narrowed eyes. “Or do I need to send you an invitation, Ryuzaki?”

“No need.” At that, L finally stands. He offers you one of his rare, private smiles; “I believe you already have.”

-

There are a couple of things you come to notice about L that day, when the ongoing investigation isn’t at the forefront of your buzzing mind.

It’s there, of course, because it’s difficult for any person to forget all of those dead faces; the list of unanswered questions growing by the hour—but the moment you slide your key into the lock and it turns with a satisfying click to open right into your little hotel room, it feels like a weight’s been lifted off your shoulders.

Take, for example, L’s penchant to be barefoot. He immediately steps out of his shoes the moment you kick the door shut behind you. Sinks his toes into the carpet (stained, and scratchy) with a blissful sigh. 

You're choosing to ignore that.

Better not to drive yourself up the wall by paying attention to every little thing he does.

“Hungry?” you shrug off your coat and toss it onto the sofa.

“Sure.” And it’s not exactly a response, but you think this is the best you’re going to get from the man. Go rummaging through the fridge straight away, as you wave for him to take a sit in the tiny living room across from you. 

“I know you have a sweet tooth,” The leather sofa crackles beneath his weight as he perches right on the edge, legs tucked up against his chest and his head resting over his knees sideways; so that he’s watching you in the kitchen. “So I’m cutting you a slice of some cake I made last weekend. Couldn’t finish it by myself if I tried.”

You eye him wearily as you set down the plates on the coffee table before the sofa, making sure to leave as much distance as is possible between the two of you when you sit down.

He sort of reminds you like a cat when he's like this, all curled up and comfortable. When he tries his first spoonful of sponge cake, he might as well start purring with delight. “This is good,” he mumbles between bites. “I didn’t know you could bake.”

“Yeah?” You impatiently drum your fingers against the armrest. “Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

The moment stretches for longer than it should. 

You meet the detective’s eyes head on, find they’re as wide as saucers, staring back at you; and peering right inside. It feels downright voyeuristic and so fucking violating, the way you can feel him peeling back everything that you are to assess something nestled much, much deeper within. 

You look away first, and the moment you do, you hear L hum approvingly—he sounds pleased, almost.

And though you know he would never seriously consider you competition, you still can’t shake the strange feeling that you’ve lost at something.

“No." L concludes. "No, I don’t think so.”

He sets his plate down on the table with a clink and you’re not surprised to find he’s already finished eating. All that remains is a single cherry; so violently red against the pale porcelain it sits on. 

“Tell me,” He pinches the stem between his forefinger and thumb, and it’s the first reprieve you’re gifted from the weight of his calculating gaze; as his attention shifts to the sweet fruit he holds. “Why do you hate me?”

Shit, you realise your fingers are digging into the cracks in the leather armrest; flex your hand a few times before making an attempt to calmly fold them in your lap. Maybe because you make me feel like a fucking failure?

“I think you’re too smart for your own good.”

He gives that some thought. “As are you.”

It’s laughable, really. L is leagues above you in terms of intelligence. Prestige. Power. Who are you standing next to one of the greatest minds in the world? Who are you to deign that he recognises you?

You refuse to even recognise yourself. 

“You don’t believe that,” you scoff. 

“I do. I knew it from the moment you were first introduced to me.” 

You pick up on something strange about the way he phrases it; the necessity of awareness required from both parties in a first introduction.

I'm losing it.

You shake your head, abandoning the tendrils of something akin to unease that had just begun to creep up on you. When else would he have first known you? It's a stupid thought. You’re not exactly the sort of person preceded by some magnificent reputation. 

“Sure,” you decide to entertain him nevertheless, if only to see how far he’ll go. You wonder whether this is as close to gratitude as L can express, but is it for the hospitality or for the cake or for something in between? “And why was that, Ryuzaki?”

“L,” he corrects you. “Because even then, you wanted nothing to do with me.”

“And that’s what supposedly makes me a genius?” you scrunch your nose, “because I don’t like you?”

“So you insist on maintaining,” he drawls. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did you know, detective,” L ventures thoughtfully, “your heart rate always spikes quite dramatically whenever you’re alone with me.” His black eyes flicker to meet yours as he breaks off the stem—pops the cherry between his grinning lips. 

You dig your nails into the skin of your palm. Focus on the sharp sensations of precise pain; imagine the little indents of crescent moons that will litter your skin later on. 

“Ah,” your voice is unfamiliar even to your own ears. “Is that so?”

He eats the stem next, and you notice, not for the first time, that the man's skin is so pale, it’s like a thin sheet has been stretched tight over brittle bones. You can easily trace the jagged lines of blue and purple veins that curl around and underneath his face.

L’s lithe fingers reach into his mouth where the dark stem sits between his teeth. You catch a glimpse of his tongue as he pulls out the stem, now damp, and examines it between his fingers; holds it up to the light.

It takes you a few moments to realise he must be admiring his efforts. Or, rather just observing them. You’re not really sure if L is capable of awe. Whether he cares for it, given how easily he earns it; must not mean much to him.

(You’ll find out later that he is capable of awe, though there are more important things he hopes to garner.)

The cherry stem’s all folded up on itself; he’s tied it into a knot with his tongue. 

Instinctively, your eyes dart to his mouth. “I didn’t know you could do that,” you confess lowly. “Neat party trick, huh?”

And the moment you voice the thought, you wish you’d stayed silent. The curl of his lips is infuriatingly self-satisfied, as if he’s in on some grand secret you’re not quite privy to; it feels the closest L will ever get to outright mockery, yet even then, there is something you must have mistaken for sincerity in his gaze. 

You’re not sure whether that makes you feel better, or worse.

“There’s a lot,” L confesses slowly, “that you don’t know about me.”

It doesn’t escape you that even something as simple as this sounds truer when L says it.

-

Later, the dishes have been cleared away and though you can barely keep your eyes open, you’re rummaging through your suitcase to pass him a new toothbrush because, you insist, you always carry spares. L admits he's never had to brush his own teeth before.

One hand on his jaw, and another curled around the brand new toothbrush you'd managed to dig out for him, you give him a reluctant demonstration.

You don't think he listens to a word you say; his attention seems to be focused elsewhere.

After his turn, you pad into the attached bathroom and brush your own teeth with the overhead lights switched off.

Tired, you don’t notice as you unscrew the lid of your old toothpaste that your own brush’s bristles are wet, whereas the toothbrush you’d handed to L is still unopened in its plastic packaging, left positioned neatly by the basin. 

-

L is garishly tall. 

It can be easy to forget that considering how often he’s hunched over a desk or curled up in a chair. When he stretches to yawn, his shirt rides up his abdomen, revealing a pale sliver of skin underneath. You avert your gaze. The last thing you need is to be caught staring.

“Take the bed,” you offer, already sinking into the loveseat's cushions.

L stares at you as he scratches his jaw. “I don’t sleep in beds.”

You don’t even want to begin deciphering that statement. You’re beginning to think this cryptic act is purposeful; that he gets off on being evasive. Out of reach. 

You’re not even sure if he can see you, considering how dark it is in the room, but you put on your sweetest smile all the same. It feels vindictive and thrilling and you believe it’s the least he deserves.

“Well, cheers to trying new things, Ryuzaki.”

He says nothing in response, and even though he’s nothing more than a vague silhouette in the absence of light, you manage to make out the slowly way he climbs into the bed—crawls to the edge of the Queen bed that’s closest to your own spot. Pulls up the duvet to his chin, and lies on his side so he's directly facing you.

It’s unnerving. You wish desperately in times like these that you could click his head open like a purse and look inside; it's impossible to tell what he's thinking.

And then he starts talking.

-

Finally, there’s a lull in your conversation that stretches far too long.

You make no effort to salvage the exchange, relishing in its conclusion, and much to your relief, neither does your partner. It’s not necessarily that L’s bad company but it’s also not not that he’s impossibly infuriating to talk to. You just want to sleep. It's been a long fucking day.

You close your eyes, allowing a welcome silence to settle inside the stuffy room. 

…

Then you try to ignore it.

…

You really, really do.

…

Much to your dismay, even your best efforts prove futile. The quiet doesn’t last nearly as long as you’d like. 

“Ryuzaki,” In the face of overwhelming fatigue, all niceties are forgotten and honesty reigns supreme. “Why the fuck can I feel your eyes on me?”

“I can’t sleep,” he simply responds, in lieu of a proper answer. 

You might’ve laughed if you weren’t so tired. Unlike him, you unfortunately do not have the seemingly inhumane ability to function properly without multiple consecutive nights of sleep. So, with a long sigh, you decide to let it slide.

Just one more time. 

Then, with disapproval evident in your weary voice, because it would feel too much like accepting defeat to say nothing at all; “you know, normal people usually just count sheep.”

“Mm." The sheets rustle. "Sleep well.” 

“...Thanks. You, too.”

Behind the heavy blackout curtains of the hotel room, the sky turns a soft, dreamy lilac. 

Outside, some parts of Tokyo wake up to the mellifluous sound of morning’s first birdsong, and others take that as their queue to drunkenly stumble home in search of a warm bed to fall into.

On the busy streets dozens of stories below yours, the city moves as it always does. Vibrant and alive—though waiting with bated breath in anticipation of death; Kira the only constant in this new world.

You don’t even realise you’ve dozed off in the armchair; sleep is simply a welcome reprieve from such a long day. A privilege, and not the routine it used to be.

You dream of running away from something. Of simply falling through a solid floor.

Conversely, though he has taken your advice, L finds rest evades him.

Content with staying awake, he takes the rare opportunity to simply observe you from across the room, and it’s such a fascinating sight, to finally see you so at peace. You usually run on such a short fuse. Well-meaning, but difficult to deal with nonetheless. You like to be seen; hate to be stared at. 

Aren’t you a charmer?

In the pale beginnings of dawn, he is a silent shepherd. He smiles at the thought, whilst gnawing on his thumbnail. 

The sheep he counts all have your face.

-

You’re not sure what exactly it is that wakes you up, but it’s quiet when you do.

Even still, something causes you to stir, and before you know it, you’re pulled out of a sleep you hadn’t even realised you’d fallen into with bleary, blinking eyes that adjust to the dark and land on—

Nothing. A startling absence where L’s body should be.

The bed’s empty, and the crinkled duvet has been hastily tossed to one side. You notice that the warm glow of the nauseatingly yellow bathroom lighting spills out from behind the door, left open just a crack. It strikes you as strange, that the door’s not fully closed. You feel justified in looking in. Call it concern. Curiosity. 

Does it really matter?

“Ryuzaki?” you venture, stepping closer. No answer. The silence is strangely more overbearing when you’re standing right in front of the bathroom door. With a hand resting on the brass knob, you decide to try once more. “Hey. L?” Silence, still and true.

It feels a lot like peering into Pandora’s box, when you inevitably do push the door open. 

Look inside. And, huh—

There is L, hunched over the sink. 

In one hand, he is holding what is unmistakably your underwear. You recognise the soft cotton instinctively, even though it’s balled up tight in his fist and he’s pressing the fabric against his nose; shuddering when he breathes in, languidly long and deep like a desperate smoker's drag of his last cigarette.

The lighting overhead casts sweeping shadows over his pale face, but despite the darkness the rest of his features are enshrouded in, you still manage to make out those black eyes; blown wide, wide open. Thick and heavy like eerily lucid, deep, dark pools of tar you can feel yourself getting sucked into.

His hand works at a methodologically steady pace. His breathing is perfectly controlled as he works at his cock with deft fingers. His tip is flushed a painful pink, leaks pre that’s been smeared down the shaft’s length. Between glimpses, you manage to make out prominent veins that eagerly pulse in response to his touch. 

Proud. Heavy.

Hungry to sink into something far tighter than his fist.

—Your breath catches in your throat. It is impossible to look away. 

The following moments are hazy, at best. Time seems to slow down to a crawl when the scene before you clicks into place, and the world moves in still frames after that; the last one lingering too long and imposing over the next. 

You don’t remember saying anything, but you must have let a gasp slip past your parted lips. Stumbled backwards, perhaps. Some involuntary indication of your presence, peering in behind him.  

Time fractures completely when L looks up; gaze snapping straight to meet yours in the mirror.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection, looking so laughably petrified—clearly just having rolled out of bed. There is not a single thing to be said as he lets his black eyes wander, appraisal silent and shameless as he drinks in the state of you; all tousled hair and crumpled clothes and bare feet. 

His hands work faster then. His movements grow jerkier, breathing shallow. Eyes flutter shut, finally looking away from you, as his grip on your underwear tightens—knuckles white from the sheer effort of holding on, refusing to let go and inhaling your scent—nose buried desperately deep in the dirty cotton. Pathetically fervent. Chasing that blissful high with a new vigour. 

You have been taught by many a smart man to never go seeking answers to questions when you do not wish to face them.

And so, when you glimpse this stranger’s tongue dart out to wet his cracking, dry lips the exact moment they wrap around the shape of a familiar name—hear the syllables repeated with a devotion akin to reverence; something like prayer—the man shudders exactly when you do.

Comes undone just as you slam the door shut.

You’re standing there in what you think might be shock, with a shaking hand resting against the doorknob. You choose to focus on the way in which the hair on your arm stands on end. Because if it’s not that, it’d be the sound of the tap running. 

The door swings open abruptly. The man breezes past you, and quietly crawls back into bed. Rooted to where you stand, it’s all you can do to turn over your shoulder and observe him.

He catches you staring, merely tilts his head to the side from where he’s settled into the sheets, a coy little lilt to his lips. 

For the first time, you’re the one who doesn’t look away. Couldn’t, even if you tried. Stygian strands of hair fall over his eyes, the darkest black they’ve ever been. Despite the fact that it feels like you’re staring at a stranger, facing him is familiar, as it always is; like wading into a thick tar.

Viscous and heavy and clinging.

You might’ve missed what he said if you weren’t so hyper focused on his every minute movement. His words are barely above a whisper, after all, and carry a strange lilt—as if recited, almost. Like he’s reading a line; performing some private joke.

“Take a picture,” L smiles knowingly. “It’ll last longer.”

[munsonsmixtapes]

A Guiding Hand

Simon "Ghost" Riley x virgin!fem!reader

You call a sex hotline looking to get some relief Ghost is happy to help.

cw: MDNI (18+) masturbation, dirty talk, use of nicknames

special thanks to @robinfeldt98 for giving me this idea!

Your hands shake as you type in the number on your phone. Your roommate gave it to you when you told her about your…problem. But now you’re afraid to commit, to actually call the number that you’ve typed in. You just stare at it, willing yourself to hit the green button but you just can’t. 

You finally press it and the speaker button then hurry across the room, hoping that they’ll hear that no one is on the line and hang up. That’s what you’re hoping for but all of that goes out the window when you hear that husky, British voice. 

You slowly come over to the phone after he’s greeted you, approaching it like you would a strange noise in your home. 

“Hi.” You finally get yourself to speak and your heart rate picks up when you hear a deep chuckle. 

“There she is,” he replies. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” You know you should give your name out to random men over the phone but this is his job, certainly he wouldn’t do anything creepy with that information-at least you hope not. 

“Y/n.”

“Y/n,” he repeats, the name coming out slowly like he’s getting a feel for it on his tongue. It sounds so…hot when he says it. ”I like that. I wonder what it would sound like during climax.” It sounds like he’s close to the receiver and it’s almost like he’s whispering it to you in your quiet bedroom and it causes a shiver to skate down your spine. 

Simon is never usually this forward. There’s usually a script that he created to make the calls flow easier, but you seem so nervous that he feels like he needs to take a different approach. He’s treading lightly, not wanting to scare you off. 

He doesn’t know why, but you seem…different from all the others. You’re not flirting with him like everyone else does. This is clearly your first time and since he started this job, this is the only time he’s wanted to be sweet and gentle. 

“So what’s the reason for your call, y/n?” He asks, his voice somehow getting even lower and you feel yourself getting wet already. How is he able to do that? 

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name first?” You ask and he chuckles again, making your heart leap again. 

“Oh, where are my manners? I’m Ghost.” 

“Ghost.” You don’t want to admit that you like it. That you can imagine yourself moaning it over and over even though you’ve never done that before. You’ve never done-well, anything. And that’s why you’re calling. To hopefully get some relief. 

“It sounds even better when you say it. So, what’s the reason you’re calling, sweetheart?” The nickname causes your cheeks to heat and you can’t believe how easily you’re playing right into his hand. 

“Well-“ you cut yourself off, unsure to tell him the truth without sounding weird. “I’ve never-I’ve never had sex before.” 

“I see,” is all he says in response, waiting for you to finish your explanation. 

“And I’ve never…masturbated either so I guess I’m just looking for some relief. To take some edge off.” 

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. How would you like me to help? You call the shots.” 

“Me? Why me?” You hate the idea of being in control. You want to be told what to do and how to do it. You’ve never done well in an authoritative role and he clearly has all the experience so you’d much rather have him take the reins. 

“Hey, let’s take a deep breath, darling.” he says. “In,” he says and you both suck in some air. “And out. Good,” he says once you’ve breathed all the air out. “I’m happy to take control if you want me too. I’ll do whatever you want. I’m yours for the night.” 

No one’s ever said that to you. No one has been so…eager to please you in this way and now you kind of wish you knew what Ghost looked like. If he’s as hot as his voice. You’re sure he is but you don’t know why. You want him to be here with you, knowing that it would ease your mind to have him standing in front of you.

But maybe it’s for the best that this is over the phone. You’d hate for him to see just how nervous he’s making you. How hot your skin feels, how your heart hasn’t stopped racing since he answered the phone. 

You’re so grateful that your roommate isn’t home. The wall between your room is so thin that you just know she’d be able to hear everything and you shudder just thinking about  her overhearing this conversation. 

“You take the lead,” you tell him and even though you can’t see him, Simon is grinning from ear to ear, loving the suggestion you’ve just made. He’ll be submissive some other time. Tonight, he’s going to make you his whore. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” he chuckles. “So you’ve really never touched yourself? Let’s start there. What are you wearing, y/n? Something hot?”

“Unfortunately not. Just a big t-shirt and panties. I-I was about to go to bed but I just can’t sleep.”

 Even though Simon has no idea what you look like, the outfit you’ve described is making him hard beyond belief. He closes his eyes, imagining sitting you down onto your bed, spreading your legs wide as he kisses you gently, pulling down your panties before fingering you until you beg him to stop, until you clench around him, screaming his name as you orgasm. 

“Ghost?” You ask and he’s immediately snapped out of his little fantasy. For the most part, doing this doesn’t really do anything for him. He’s done it so often that it’s just starting to feel like his job. But the fact that you want him to help you get yourself off-and for the first time-well that fills him with the kind of confidence he hasn’t had in a long time. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes. “I lost focus imagining you in what you described. What I’d do if I was there.” His voice is deeper, more seductive and you feel your panties getting progressively more wet the longer the conversation goes on. He’s imagining scenarios too? God, you wish he was here. “Where are you?” 

“In my room.”

“Alright, first, I want you to lie on the bed.” You do as he asks and wait for his next instructions. Your phone is by your head now as you imagine him hovering over you, whispering into your ear. 

“Are you on the bed, sweetheart?” He asks, his voice so gentle and you feel your heart warm at how gentle he’s being with you. You just know that other men wouldn’t be so nice.

“I am,” you confirm with a nod even though he can’t see you. 

“Now I want you to take your panties off and spread your legs wide for me.” You slowly take your panties off and toss them to the side before pulling your t-shirt up to your waist so it doesn’t get in the way. You then spread your legs wide, already wet as can be even though nothing’s happened yet. That’s just the effect that Ghost has had on you, suppose. 

“And once you’re ready, I want you to press your ring and middle fingers together then insert them. Your pace doesn’t matter. Go as fast or as slow as you’d like. This is all about you.” 

You bring your dominant hand up and hover it over your face as you do as he asks, you then take a deep breath, letting your eyes flutter shut as you slowly bring your hand to your cunt. You make a sound when they make contact, just the tips of your fingers sliding inside. 

You make a whimpering noise at how foreign it feels and Simon feels his cock straining against his jeans at the pretty sound. God, he thinks he’s going to come. 

“Does it feel good, princess?” He asks in a whisper and this nickname is your favorite of the ones he’s called you tonight. 

“So good,” you reply, pushing your fingers in and out of your cunt. You can’t believe you’ve never done this before. If you had known how good it felt, you would have done it a lot sooner.  

“A little faster. Can you do that for me?” You pick up your pace and all of these noises you’ve never made before start spilling from your mouth as your free hand bunches up the sheets that are underneath you. You spread your legs wider to give yourself more access and it makes all the difference when your fingers get deeper, reaching a spot that feels better than all the rest. 

“That’s it, princess,” Simon responds. “Just like that. Doing so good for me.” He’s now palming himself, so close to whipping it out and getting himself off, but he can’t. This is about you and he doesn’t want to get distracted from helping. Maybe if you call again, he can convince you to switch roles. “Fuck you’re so hot.” 

You’re close already, you can feel it. The movement mixed with Ghost’s encouraging words is making your head spin, making you feel dizzy. This is unlike anything you’ve felt before and now you understand why so many people do this regularly. 

“Ghost, oh my god,” you whine as you finally reach your peak, back arching, your cunt clenching around your fingers. Hearing you moan his name, he lets out a little whimper, knowing that he’s going to take care of himself as soon as the call is over. He has no idea how the hell he’s going to be able to do any calls after this. It’s the best one he’s ever had and now he hopes you call him all the time just so he can hear your pretty nosies again and again. 

“Fuck,” is all you’re able to say as yoou’re coming down, your body sticky with sweat as you remove your fingers.

“You did so good,” he says, his voice soft again, sounding so different from just moments ago. “How do you feel, princess? Bet you feel so good, don’t you?”

“So good,” you agree. 

“Well, I guess my job here is done. Same time tomorrow?” His tone is making it sound like he’s joking, but he really does want you to call tomorrow. And every day after that.”

“It’s a date,” you reply, your voice sounding a little tired.

“Alright, same time tomorrow. I’ll keep the line open so you just call this number again. Now go clean up and get some rest, princess. You’ve earned it for being such a good girl.” The line goes dead and you just lie there, not sure you can go to sleep after that, already counting down the minutes until you can call Ghost again. 

part two part three

[brittle-doughie]

Here to Help (Cookie Kingdom)

Don’t trust her….

(Main Story)

Two Cookies were walkkng down the hallway in the castle conversing with each other.

Dumpling Cookie: “And that’s how we were able to retrieve Y/N Cookie from the mines. It was a mess of destroyed minerals and scorched cave walls done by the fire elemental guardian.”

Salsa Cookie: “No wonder I arrived to a mess, what kind of guardian pulls off a reckless move like that? He could’ve gotten anyone hurt.”

Dumpling Cookie: “I..think that was the intention to destroy Agar Agar Cookie’s mirror.”

Salsa Cookie: “Speaking of which, why are letting a potential danger like that wandering around? Shouldn’t she be kept in containment in the very least?”

Dumpling Cookie: “Y/N Cookie couldn’t do it, she was still just a kid. She was sent to the infirmary after the fight with the fire elemental.”

Salsa Cookie: “With Black Forest Cookie and Cilantro Cobra Cookie? I’m surprised the infirmary hasn’t been trashed yet.”

Dumpling Cookie: “Bitter Candy’s medicine should be enough to keep them down. Her results are strong enough to bring down a dragon. I’ve made sure to make a note of that for later rowdy patients that I’ll hand to Y/N Cookie later.”

Salsa Cookie: “Emphasis on later. They’ve barely gotten sleep these days and we shouldn’t bother them. Don’t tell them this, but…”

Salsa Cookie stepped close to whisper the next bit to Dumpling Cookie.

Salsa Cookie: “A order of restriction has been placed on the Ancient Heroes-“

Dumpling Cookie’s eyes widen as she stepped back from her.

Dumpling Cookie: “Without authorization?!”

Salsa Cookie: “Y/N Cookie needs their rest and I’ll be damned if the next Ancient barges through our doors asking for them before we’ve gotten to the bottom of their affliction.”

Dumpling Cookie: “And if they won’t leave without them?”

Salsa Cookie: “Then we will make them leave. We’ve got to be looking out for Y/N Cookie as both our ruler…and our friend.”

Dumpling Cookie: “I can only hope you’re right…”

Salsa Cookie sighs.

Salsa Cookie: “I hope I am too….”

They stop at your door and open it slightly, seeing you laying on your side asleep.

Salsa Cookie: “See that? It’s been a while since they’ve looked so peaceful. THIS is what Y/N Cookie needs right now, not the next so called “Hero” bursting in for their help.”

Dumpling Cookie: “They don’t mean for all of this to happen, you know….”

Salsa Cookie: “Then why has it happened anyway? Why aren’t they protecting them?! Are they just ALLOWING for this to happen?! After everything they’ve done to help them!”

Dumpling Cookie: “Getting mad won’t make this any better.”

Salsa Cookie: “Then what would you do!”

Dumpling Cookie: “I would-“

Crowned Cupcake Cookie: “Heyyyy.”

Crowned Cupcake had joined the two in the hallway, her hair looked unkempt.

Salsa Cookie: “What happened to you, crazy?”

Crowned Cupcake Cookie: “There was a pesky little fly going around the castle and I had a feeling it was up to no good with my darling, so I kindaaaa chased it around for a bit.”

Dumpling Cookie: “A fly? I highly doubt that a mere insect was enough to warrant you chasing it around the kingdom.”

Crowned Cupcake Cookie: “If it’s for my darling, I’d do it! Matter of fact, are we watching them sleep right now? I want to join!”

Dumpling Cookie: ‘Kay, now you’ve made it weird. We were all just leaving now!”

Dumpling Cookie pushed the two down the hallway as they protested. She gave one more look into your bedroom, her face softening as she watched your sleeping face.

It reminds her that she, and the others, need to find something for your affliction if she ever wants to see that peaceful face again….

———————————————————————

You lay on your side asleep, the look of peace on your face temporary just as your Cookies leave, your face scrunched up and you toss about in your bed.

The shadows in your room morph and change, made to look like three figures looking down over you in the bed.

One of apathy.

One of deceit.

One of destruction.

The monsters manifesting in your mind so deeply rooted, they’re even chasing you into the dream world….

———————————————————————

You ran as fast as you could through a forest, running as far as your legs could carry you as the sounds of trees and other foliage being destroyed are behind you.

You look over your shoulder to see the blazing eyes and the large smile of your pursuer as he laughs.

Burning Spice Cookie: “HAHAHAHA! Run as long as you want, you’ll make this hunt all the more enjoyable for me! Even more so when I get my hands on you, little Cookie!”

You turn back forward as you kept running, jumping and ducking under branches and rocks as Burning Spice simply ran right into them, turning them into tiny pieces that did little to slow his advance.

You feel your breathing grow heavy, your breath shortening. You don’t know how long you can keep this up…

…

…

…

Until you can hear a faint voice in your (nonexistent) ear.

???: “Behind that tree to your left, hurry…”

You were confused by this instruction, but you didn’t have any other choice. With a quick movement, you dove suddenly to your left and up against the tree as Burning Spice kept rampaging through, you didn’t breathe until you were sure he was gone.

You: “Wha…*pant*….who…*pant*…”

A little heart floated in front of you.

???: “Me….”

You: “Who are you….?”

???: “Hehe…you can just call me…Pavlova!”

You: “Why are you helping me?”

The heart floated to your chest as it glowed for a moment.

Pavlova: “Your heart, so full from the love of others, but still so empty….”

You: “My heart…?”

Pavlova: “Yes, it’s full yet empty. What are you locking away your feelings for?”

You: “Something that isn’t your business asking..”

You weren’t just going to tell ANYONE who asked that…

Pavlova: “I can help you, help cure that lonely heart of yours and be able to love again…”

You: “Who can I love? Who can I love without putting them in danger? I don’t want anything happening to those I care about like it happened to them!”

You close your mouth with your hands as you shouted that last part. The forest around you growing quiet….

Pavlova: “Uh oh….”

???: “There you are!”

The tree you were hiding behind was suddenly gone in a second as you fall backwards, looking up to see a Cookie floating above you.

———————————————————————

You groaned in your sleep, adjusting your position to your back as you faced the ceiling, your snoring soft.

As a figure slowly floated into your room…

———————————————————————

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Lookie, Lookie, I’ve found my Cookie!”

Shadow Milk Cookie. His disappearance in your head wasn’t for long after pushing him back in Beast-Yeast, he had returned only more persistent than ever…

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Didya miss me? Oh, who am I kidding! Of course you did! Admit it, you missed me!”

You: “Did literally nothing stick in your head last time?”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “I was just a littleeeee frazzled seeing my very dearest, very sweet audience member offering me their hand, j just needed a moment to compose myself!”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “And I’ve come to say yes! Now COME HERE, lovebird!”

You sit up right again and rolled out of the way from his sudden divebomb. You get back on your feet as you start running again!

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Oooh~ Playing hard to get! I love a Cookie with a little feistiness to them~!”

He only made things difficult as he kept pace with you, tricking you with false illusions of obstacles that served to slow you down more then help you. You couldn’t tell what was real and what was a lie, but you can’t risk running into a rock and stopping completely!

If you ran into a trick, he knew exactly where you were…

Shadow Milk Cookie: “I’ve forgotten how FUN this was! I should repay you somehow! I know, just stop and I’ll shower you with all the love in my beating heart! I’m not heartless after all, ahahaha!”

———————————————————————

The flying figure flew to you, observing your slumbering state for a little bit before drawing a bow and arrow.

???: “I can sense your pain. She will make it better…”

They drew their bow and heart tipped arrow, taking aim….

———————————————————————

Mystic Flour Cookie: “Your burden can still be freed from you. Simply walk out to me and I’ll give you what you need…”

She was too fast, even more so then Shadow Milk Cookie and Burning Spice Cookie. You had to stop behind a tree to stop making noise, but she simply stopped and waited for you close by. One bit of noise and it was all over.

Pavlova caught up to you as they floated next to your head.

Pavlova: “These Cookies, they have been your source of brokenheartedness?”

You: “As if. They just made things difficult for me recently. I can’t say they didn’t come in handy a few times, but they’ve caused more trouble for me than what their “love” is worth.”

Pavlova: “They are not all like that. You will see when she comes for you…”

You: “She? Who’s she?”

Pavlova: “All will be revealed in due time, for when you wake up, you too will see her paradise…”

You: “What are you-“

The tree behind you explodes as you were sent forward, falling down as you flipped over on your back to see the three Beasts looming over you….

Burning Spice Cookie: “Nowhere left for you to run anymore, little Cookie. You are now mine and mine alone.”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Heyyyy, Spicy! I saw them first! Lemme just have first dibs on them before you two tear them apart. I don’t exactly trust you two to play nice~”

Mystic Flour Cookie: “There will be nothing left of them that I can free if I am last. Leave me with them and I’ll make sure they’re still remaining when I’m done…

Burning Spice Cookie: “That won’t do. It was me who had found their hiding spot. I will be the first one!”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Well now, you two are just being unfair! I want them too!”

Mystic Flour Cookie: “I will be the fresh one, there is no point in arguing this anymore.”

Burning Spice Cookie: “TRY IT.”

———————————————————————

The figure shot at your chest, the arrow hitting right where your heart was, but it disappeared before it really made contact.

It quickly flew out the room as your body reacted to the hit, springing up for a moment before falling back down in bed.

———————————————————————

You gasped and choked as you clutched your chest, falling on your back as the Beasts stopped their bickering.

Burning Spice Cookie: “What is this?”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Oh sweetie! You don’t need to be so dramatic! We’ve decided to just share you in this dream!”

Mystic Flour Cookie: “But I will be the first in the next one…”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “We’ll save that conversation for later. For now, I want to hold and kiss my little Cookie all better!”

As they approached, the sudden appearance of pink clouds manifested around you as the three stopped in their tracks.

Mystic Flour Cookie: “Is that-“

Burning Spice Cookie: “Not good at all….”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Ugh, of course she had to ruin a perfect moment like this…”

The pink clouds enveloped your vision, you couldn’t see as you kept gasping for air, it felt like your heart was struggling to beat, as if it was fighting back against something, but what?

———————————————————————

You jolt up, breathing heavy as you clutched your chest. You didn’t see any changes, but you felt like something was wrong with it. Why was it beating so much?

It was like you’ve fallen in love again…but from what?

Your room glowed a bright light at the opposite end of where you were, you looked over to see…an angel on clouds…

You: “What’s going on here-“

???: “Heyyyy, it’s okay.”

The angel opened her eyes, revealing their pink color with white slit pupils, the telltale sign of a Beast Cookie.

Her arrival was not a coincidence.

Yet…you didn’t raise your guard. No, you felt…calm. The opposite of what you were feeling with the previous Beast Cookies…

Was she…even one?

She looked so heavenly, so inviting….

???: “Many Cookies care and love you, but you are still void and empty…”

She floated to you.

You didn’t get away.

You couldn’t.

You can’t.

Eternal Sugar Cookie; “Your heart is still capable of finding the one it loves. I am the Bringer of Happiness, Eternal Sugar Cookie, and I am here to help you find your joy…”

You: “You….you can do that?”

Eternal Sugar Cookie: “Your heart is the warmest I’ve felt, it would be a shame to let it beat anymore without having found its love…”

Eternal Sugar Cookie gets real close to your face, her eyes looking into yours. She gently takes your hands into hers, which makes you flush red in the cheeks. Something she does in return as pink dusted her own.

Eternal Sugar Cookie: “You deserve to be loved. You deserve your rest. You deserve nothing but paradise…”

She takes you on her cloud and lays with you with her, her hand brushing your head as she held you close.

Eternal Sugar Cookie: “Just for you…and me….”

You: “……..Please…….”

[draculasstrawhat]

I feel like, as in a lot of medicine, there’s kind of a balance here? Because it is, broadly, true that the person delivering is the best judge of their own body - provided they are well informed and properly attended, both before and during the delivery, and that medical professionals are checking those instincts along the way.

Because, especially for a first delivery, “your body knowing what to do,” and “you, a person, knowing what your body knowing what to do feels like,” are two very different things.

But it’s also that “once the process starts, barring complications, your body knows what to do, and if something goes wrong we’ll be there to catch it,” and “this is a magical, natural process, everything is going to be sunshine and roses, don’t worry!” are two very different bits of advice.

And if you’ve been told the latter from the second paragraph there, and misjudge the former from the first… you’re swimming in very dangerous waters. It is not a magical, infallible knowledge, it is a general trend.

Like, my first delivery went painfully, almost catastrophically, wrong because my body “knew what it was doing”, except it didn’t, because I’d never done this before. I was *almost* right, but not quite, and no one checked my instinct, so I went from “coping really well,” to “hey maybe we need to call an ambulance.”

Because I wasn’t coping quite as well as all that - I just wasn’t as deeply in active labour as everyone thought I was. The midwives were lovely, they trusted me! They trusted the process! But they maybe should have checked before they told me to start pushing, y’know.

Fortunately, I’m quite a pragmatic person, was aware of the risks, and had the world’s best birth partner, and was actually very well attended - that one mistake not withstanding. In the absence of any one of those things, it could have all gone very, very badly wrong.

But it’s a balance.

Because the *second* time round the midwife dismissed my every feeling and intuition, tried to remove me to the hospital when there was no need, decided I was “coping badly” rather than just being further in active labour than she thought I was, and essentially missed the birth she was supposed to be attending because she’d decided I was a delusional liar - leading to the hilarious exchange, “Are you having a poo?” “No! I’m having a baby!”

She was literally in another room of my house, doing admin. Fortunately, my body did actually know what to do, I’m as bolshie as I am pragmatic, and (again) had the world’s best birth partner. (Otherwise, I’d likely have ended up giving birth unattended on the seat of my partner’s car on the drive to the hospital…) Either way, if there *had* been any complications, there would have been no one in attendance because the midwife wasn’t listening to me - the person actually doing it.

My point sort of being that, yeah, if I’d just “trusted my body” the first time round, without awareness of risk and medical assistance, it could have been a disaster.

But then, the same holds true if I hadn’t the second time. If the first midwife team had attended my second labour, it would have been absolutely fine. If the second one had attended my first labour, the best outcome would have been an (unnecessary) emergency C section.

Sorry, this has got long, and it’s been over a decade, but my point is that teaching pregnant people to trust their bodies is something that needs to be tempered with risk awareness, medical expertise, and a healthy whack of pragmatism. But without it, births become needlessly stressful, humiliating, and often actively dangerous.

I know I’ve made this post before but I’m listening to a documentary series on reproductive healthcare and I CANNOT STAND the ‘your body knows what to do!’ rhetoric about birth that is shoveled at pregnant people. I think it is meant to be empowering and reassuring but that is such a dangerous thing to be telling pregnant people. You see first time parents extremely upset their birth plan failed and they had to go to the hospital because they expected their body to know what to do and feel like a failure because they started struggling. If the human body always knew what to do, pregnancy and birth complications wouldn’t be one of the leading causes of death throughout history. You can be the healthiest person alive and have the best medical care surrounding you and still have a medically traumatic birth because literally anything can go wrong at anytime for any reason.

[hy0rii]

never yours

Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna x F!Reader Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/No Comfort Word Count: 2,328

being first never meant being loved

You, Ryomen Sukuna’s first wife, were strolling through the estate's gardens late at night. During the moonlit walk, you noticed your husband and Lady Mirai sitting on a bench chatting, laughing, and sharing soft kisses, an affection you had never received. Never will.

Sukuna’s gaze on her is soft and affectionate. So tender, it makes him appear humane. That woman had made your ruthless monster of a husband into a lover. 

Your footsteps falter as the scene before you becomes too much to bear. The cool night air feels like ice against your skin, but it’s not the chill that makes your heart ache. It’s the unbearable sight of him, the man you once thought you understood, now offering tenderness to another.

You almost don’t recognize him. The monster you married, the one who had only ever been cruel, cold, and calculating, now sits beside this woman as if he’s been made human by her touch. His hand caresses her cheek, his gaze so tender and full of adoration, making your breath catch in your throat.  

That was never for you.

You gave him everything, sacrificing pieces of yourself in ways no one could understand. You loved him fiercely, despite everything. You tried to be the one who could pierce through the darkness within him, but now it’s clear. Lady Mirai has done what you never could. She has made him vulnerable in ways you were never allowed. 

Were you ever enough?

Your feet carry you away from them, from the bench where they sit, entwined in a world you are no longer a part of. 

As you quietly distance yourself, your departure from Sukuna’s side doesn’t go unnoticed. His attention is suddenly taken away from the blissful moment, his crimson gaze swiftly following the shift of your form. He observes your receding silhouette in the distance, his eyebrows furrowing in a subtle expression of contemplation. He knows you too well; he feels your sadness, jealousy, despair. But the sight of you escaping only intensifies his confusion, igniting a flicker of regret deep within him. 

Your steps are soft, silent, barely a whisper against the cold stone path. The hem of your robe trails behind you like a shadow, dragging the weight of everything you can’t say. Everything you can’t feel without breaking. You move like a ghost through the estate grounds, unseen, unheard, as though your presence no longer matters. 

The night presses close around you. You take a deep breath, slow, but it does nothing to ease the crushing weight in your chest. You want to run. To disappear into the trees, shadows, or anything that offers peace. But you can’t. You’re bound. Bound by name, by duty, by the vow you made long ago to a man who never once looked at you the way he looked at her. You’re his first wife, his first, yet all that means now is obligation—a title with no affection. But there’s no room for weakness. No space for tears. You were never allowed that luxury.

When you finally reach your chambers, you pause at the door. For a moment, you simply stand there, staring at the shoji, your throat tight, eyes burning. Your room is no longer a sanctuary, but a cage dressed in silk and silence. 

You slip inside. And close the door behind you. Not with a slam. But with a quiet acceptance of someone who knows that escape is not an option. 

As you always had, you rose with the dawn, no trace of last night’s quiet heartbreak upon your face. The pain, the loneliness, all tucked neatly beneath the folds of silk draped over your body, and the practiced grace of your movements. 

You moved through the halls with silent dignity, issuing instructions for the day, checking on the kitchens, reviewing supply lists, and ensuring the servants had everything they needed. The household thrived under your care, as it always had and always will. 

The maids bowed to you with small, warm smiles, eyes lighting up when you addressed them by name, because you always remembered them. You asked after their families, noticed when someone looked tired, and ensured they ate before their duties resumed. You were never cruel. Never distant. You made this cold, fear-laced estate feel warm, for everyone but yourself. 

Even Uraume, ever devoted to Sukuna and suspicious of new presences, offered you a respectful nod as you passed. You had earned their regard not through force but with quiet resilience, unshaken grace, and tireless work. No one could deny the truth: the estate was yours before she arrived. You had been the spine that held it upright. 

Sukuna had witnessed your unwavering resilience long before. He observed how you moved effortlessly through the estate, taking care of everything, and the way the staff responded to you. It was as if you carried the very heart of the estate within your every action.

He watched from the shadows, following you like a ghost. He absorbed each step, each gentle gesture, and every word you spoke. He saw your connection with the people in the estate, something he had never truly understood. 

As you moved through your day, the contrast between his ruthless presence and your benevolent nature deepened in his mind. Something he has taken for granted. 

You paused by the engawa, gazing out at the garden. The same garden where, not long ago, you had watched your husband give his heart to someone else. You inhaled slowly, the scent of fresh blossoms rising in the breeze. You would continue your duties, smile, and lead, be the lady of the estate. Because that is who you are. 

Even if no one sees the cracks beneath your smile, even if he never does, you would endure because that’s all you’ve ever been allowed to do.

You found the gardener tending the flowerbeds, carefully pruning the blossoms you had once ordered planted, those pale petals he favored. Flowers that never held any warmth to you, only meaning to him.

You approached calmly, and they looked up at once, bowing their heads in greeting. You greeted them with a polite smile and offered them an apology before instructing them to uproot the blooms. 

You no longer walked these grounds as a woman seeking to earn favor. You were done with that kind of hope and shaping your days around the shifting whims of a man who had already given his heart elsewhere. 

One by one, their stalks were uprooted, delicate, hollow things. You watched them cast aside in piles, petal by petal, wilting under the afternoon sun. You had spent so long tending to things that were never truly yours. So long offering pieces of yourself to a man who never once offered his in return. 

You walked to the garden's edge where the earth lay bare, untouched, waiting. And there, with care, you began to mark the places where roses would bloom, your roses, not chosen to please, not offered in exchange for love—red, deep, throned things.

Sukuna watched from a distance, his gaze sharp as he witnessed the gardeners swiftly follow your instructions. The sight of the uprooted blooms, their fragile stems now discarded, echoed in his mind like a silent admonishment. But it was your next movement that truly caught his attention. You marked the ground carefully with purpose and determination, indicating where new growth should take root. 

His jaw clenched. Your actions spoke volumes. No longer would you tend to flowers only to have them cast aside. No longer would you offer your heart in vain.

Dinner was served in silence, the dining hall echoing only with the quiet clink of porcelain and the muted steps of the servants. The dining room is bathed in soft light from paper lanterns, its U-shaped arrangement on tatami mats exuding a quiet elegance. At one end, Sukuna reclined in his chair like a king on his throne, with an unreadable expression resting behind those crimson eyes. Beside him, Lady Mirai, ever gentle, with a softness in her voice that didn’t quite reach her smile.

You sat at the opposite end, regal in posture, your hands resting lightly on your lap. The distance between you wasn’t just physical. It stretched deeper, a quiet chasm filled with all the words Sukuna never said, all the touches he never offered, and all the love he never gave.

But tonight was different.

For the first time, the food laid before you was not tailored to his palate. It was yours. Dishes you’d grown up with, spices that reminded you of warm afternoons in the gardens long gone, of a life before this one. There was no subtlety in it. It wasn't a rebellion, but a declaration: you were done living in his shadow.

Sukuna straightened in his seat, the lazy air about him retreating like a tide. His gaze settled on you, hard, then thoughtful. He watched how you lifted your chopsticks and savored each bit of the food you had chosen. For the first time, he looked at you not as a fixture of his household, not as the dutiful first wife who moved through his halls like a silent moon, but as a woman.

Not clinging. Not waiting. Simply being. 

The veil, one that had perhaps always been there, woven from years of distance and indifference, lifted ever so slightly. He saw, in that instant, what he had overlooked: the quiet strength, the fire you had that he was blind to. And gods, it was beautiful. 

For a moment, he felt a pang of guilt. A flicker of something akin to regret for all the years he had taken you for granted, for all the times he had never truly seen you before. 

Sukuna’s gaze had not moved, still fixed, still studying, as though seeing you for the first time, and beside him, Lady Mirai felt it. She felt the change. She had grown accustomed to being the center of his attention, to the gentle curve of his lips when she laughed, to the weight of his gaze, which now lingered elsewhere. On you. Her smile remained steady, but a subtle sharpness emerged, masked by sweetness.

She leaned ever so slightly into Sukuna’s presence, reclaiming the space his attention had wandered from, asserting herself wordlessly. Her hands moved in a small gesture, directing a servant, adjusting a setting, as if testing the fit of authority. There was an unspoken declaration in her movements, in the poised elegance of her touch upon the domain that had always been yours. 

She wanted control. Not just him. But of everything. The title, the influence, and the unspoken power that came with being the one at the helm of the estate. 

His gaze flickered with a hint of agitation as Lady Mirai leaned closer to him, her subtle movements attempting to reclaim what was never hers to begin with. Sukuna, however, did not respond to her gestures, and his attention was still predominantly fixed on you.

Her attempts were met with his steely silence, her efforts to assert herself, to claim control over the domain that belonged to you, going unnoticed by him. The tension between you grew, your quiet defiance and her desperate maneuvering creating an atmosphere of unease within the dining hall. 

You did not need to assert yourself with petty displays. You didn’t need to touch what was already yours to prove it belonged to you. The aid still moved in rhythm with your routines. The meal served, the schedule maintained, the very breath of the household, it moved because you moved it. Lady Mirai might have his attention, hand, and affection. But she did not have the house. 

Days turned like pages in a book Sukuna no longer felt in control of. The estate continued as it always had, quiet, ordered, thriving beneath your hand. But something had shifted. Not in you, he had shifted. Sukuna, once unmoved by routine, now found himself watching. Observing. Remembering.

Each morning, he noticed the grace in your silence. The calm steadiness of your presence as you walked through the estate with purpose, your robes trailing behind you like a queen unbothered by the chaos beneath her. You spoke only when needed, issued commands without theatrics, yet everything fell into place around you. The staff obeyed not out of fear or duty to Sukuna, but out of respect for you.

He watched you in court, during appearances where you both were expected to sit side by side, husband and wife in title only. You spoke when spoken to, soft but distant. There was no warmth in your tone, no familiar flicker in your eyes. You addressed him as if he were a stranger, a necessary fixture, nothing more. 

And that coldness, that distance struck harder than any blade. Sukuna found himself wanting what he had never cared to earn. He remembered how you glanced his way once, silent, hopeful, patient. You stood beside him for years, never asking for affection, only recognition. And he had given you nothing. When he reached for you with his gaze, you did not reach back. You stood alone, unshaken, and he was the one left grasping at shadows. 

One night, the moon hung low and full, casting its pale light over the gardens like a watchful eye. The estate was quiet, hushed under the weight of slumber, but you moved through the stillness like a whisper. Cloaked in silk and shadow, you walked the paths you had claimed as your own, where no one else dared tread without permission.

Your roses had begun to bloom in full. Velvet-soft, stained in crimson. So alive, so utterly yours.

The garden that once took your haven away had become your sanctuary, the only place untouched by his choices, by her presence. Here, you were not the wife he ignored. Not the woman she tried to replace. Here, you were just you—rooted, alive, and blooming.  

THE END.

author's note: this is my first post on tumblr, so if you’ve read this far, thank you. i’d truly appreciate any constructive criticism, feedback, or thoughts on how i can improve going forward.

tbh i saw this prompt on c.ai and was inspired to continue the story(not in the app). it is authored by @monkey003. thank you for the spark of imagination.

[wonderjanga]

Hustler

Marvel does stuff with for the JL for like five cents a thing. Such as…

The time he would give haircuts for five cents a piece.

Marvel: “Haircuts! Get your haircuts!” *holding a little sign that says 5 cents*

Black Canary: *walks over* “Five cents…?”

Marvel: “Yup!” *has scissors in other hand and snips them a couple times*

Canary: “Hmm…? You know, I have been needing to get a haircut.”

Marvel: “Oh really?”

Canary: “Yes, you think you could give me a blowout?” *joking*

Marvel: “Sure!”

Before Canary could even register it, she was dragged away, and stuffed into a chair. Not even five minutes later, he finished and she was a little shellshocked.

Canary: *full, beautiful blowout, still sitting in the chair*

Marvel: “My money please?” *makes grabby hands*

She paid him a fifty dollar bill instead.

Or the time he went around doing repairs for the Watchtower when a large comet rammed into the station.

Watchtower Maintenance Worker(WMW): “No offense Mister Marvel, but do you even know how to rewire this…?” *yelling from fifteen feet away in case it blows up*

Marvel: “Of course! Trust.” *entire hand inside the cable box*

WMW: “You don’t even have any tools.”

Marvel: “Don’t need any.” *hand moving around*

WMW: “Yes, you do. Mister Marvel, could I please just fix this myse—”

Marvel: “And done!”

All the computers lit back up at that declaration. The maintenance worker sped over and looked at the wires and they were actually done correctly? (Billy used Solomon for help) The worker gave Billy the two dollars and fifty cents he’d asked for.

Or the time he set up an auction bidding for which food he’d make that week since it was his turn to cook.

Flash: “One dollar on burgers!”

Marvel: “Okay, we got one dollar! Do I have two dollars?”

GL: “Two dollars for lasagna!”

Marvel: “Okay we have two dollars, two dollars do we three?”

Martian Manhunter: “Jambalaya for three.”

This ended up with Batman dropping two bands for bat-shaped empanadas.

Billy was rolling in enough dough for the rest of the year because of that.

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Glimpse of Us

summary: routine became something finnick cherished. but course, the capitol must ruin everything, including his love. but he will still find a way to get her back.

finnick odair x fem!reader

content warnings for the whole story: descriptions of death, torture, starvation, and everything described in The Hunger Games, mentions of suicidal thoughts, implications of S/A

mood board + playlist

previous part | masterlist | next part

Chapter VII

They don’t bring Finnick into the War Room.

Not officially, anyway.

He isn’t invited to the briefings, or given access to intel. The door shuts before he can ask questions, the conversation ends when he walks by. Everything he hears, he hears in pieces—through murmured hallway conversations, closed doors that don’t quite latch, whispered updates passed between people who seem to forget that Finnick has ears. That Finnick has stakes.

Sometimes Plutarch catches him in the hallway, offers a vague reassurance about “progress,” or “developing stages.” Haymitch mutters things here and there, never the full picture. He always ends it with the same gruff line: “You’ll know when you need to know.”

But Finnick needs to know now. Every second he doesn’t feels like a betrayal.

Still, no one looks him in the eye for too long.

He’s not stupid. He knows what they see when they look at him: someone unraveling. A liability. A ticking bomb dressed up in Victory laurels.

Maybe they’re not wrong.

Because underneath the stillness, the silence, something inside him is splintering.

The guilt is constant. All-consuming. It burrows into the cracks of every hour he’s spent here, safe, while you’re out there—Gods know where, Gods know what’s being done to you.

And the worst part is: he left you. The wire snapped. The world exploded. And he hadn’t found you in time.

You had been right there. Somewhere just beyond the trees. Just beyond the smoke. And he’d lost you.

He’d let them take you.

And now the rebellion is moving like molasses—calculating, weighing, waiting. As if there’s time.

There isn’t.

He knows the Capitol better than anyone here. He knows how fast the pain starts. How they break you without breaking the skin. How they take what you love and twist it into something unrecognizable. They don’t need months to do damage.

Just days.

Just hours.

The first time he hears your name again, it’s from behind the glass walls of the Command room.

He isn’t meant to be there. He’s just passing by, pacing like he does now—like if he stops moving for too long, he might fall apart completely.

He catches a sentence midair, Coin’s voice clipped and cool: “She’s still being held with the others. Alive. For now.”

The words hit him like a punch to the ribs.

Alive.

His legs falter mid-step. He braces a hand against the wall, barely breathing.

Alive.

But for how long?

Is anyone asking that?

Because they talk about you like you’re a box to be recovered. An asset. A symbol. Not a person. Not his person.

That night, the silence is a scream inside his head. He thinks of what it must be like for you right now. Are you cold? Are you afraid? Is someone hurting you? Are you being told he gave up on you? That he forgot?

He presses the heel of his palm into his eyes until stars bloom against his lids. Anything to stop the images from coming—your face contorted in pain, your voice crying out for help in a place where no one is listening.

He can’t sleep.

Can’t think straight.

By the time morning comes, he feels like a shell of himself.

Haymitch finds him outside the infirmary the next evening, a bottle in his hand and circles under his eyes darker than the District tunnels.

Finnick doesn’t hesitate. His voice is hoarse but sharp. “I want in.”

Haymitch lifts a brow. “You always want in.”

“I mean it this time.”

“You meant it last time.”

Finnick’s jaw tightens. “I’m not asking to be coddled. I’m not asking for sympathy. I know how the Capitol works. I survived them. That has to count for something.”

Haymitch sighs through his nose. He looks like he’s aged five years in the last five days. “You’re not sleeping,” he says instead.

“Does it matter?”

Haymitch looks at him for a long time. “You’re slipping, kid.”

“I’ll be fine when she’s back.”

“And if she isn’t?”

Finnick doesn’t answer.

Because there is no if.

Two days later, they hand him a transcript.

No context. No warning.

Just a line of garbled Capitol communications and one clear sentence, spoken in a voice that’s raw and crackling through static.

“I’m still here.”

His knees go out from under him.

He catches himself on the edge of a table before he can collapse, his breath leaving him in a broken exhale.

It’s your voice.

Real.

Weakened, but real.

Alive.

You’re alive.

Around him, the others are talking. Plutarch is analyzing the source, Coin is giving orders, and Boggs is marking something on a map. There are plans in motion. Moving pieces.

But all Finnick can hear is you.

I’m still here.

He clutches the transcript in shaking hands, presses it to his chest like a prayer.

The next morning, they call him into the War Room.

Coin. Boggs. Haymitch. A few other officials.

He walks in with a spark of hope flaring in his chest. This is it. He’ll be a part of the extraction. He’ll get to go. He’ll bring you home.

There’s a map spread across the table, zones marked in red. Timelines. Strategized entry points. Extraction windows.

And your name—written in bold above one of the sectors.

Finnick’s eyes fly to the deployment list.

His name isn’t on it.

“I want to be there,” he says immediately.

Boggs doesn’t look surprised. “You’re not on the mission.”

“I should be.”

“You’re compromised,” Coin says, her voice clipped. “Emotionally. We need clean heads on the field.”

“I know the Capitol,” Finnick argues. “Better than anyone. I know the tunnels, the scent of the air, how they manipulate their prisoners. I should be there.”

“You’re too close,” Boggs says. His tone is gentle, but firm.

“I am the mission,” Finnick grits out. “She is everything to me.”

They don’t respond.

Haymitch shifts awkwardly in the corner but doesn’t speak. He doesn’t defend him.

And Finnick feels it then—that isolation, that frozen wall they’ve all built around him. He’s not part of the team. He’s the reminder of what could be lost.

He leaves before they dismiss him, fists clenched at his sides.

That night, he doesn’t try to sleep.

He just sits on the floor of his room, knees drawn up to his chest, the transcript of your voice folded and unfolding in his hands.

I’m still here.

He repeats the words to himself like a mantra, like a lifeline, like they can hold him together.

Because everything else is pulling him apart.

They’re going to the Capitol.

They’re going to try to bring you back.

And he’s not going with them.

He’s just supposed to wait.

Sit still while the people he loves walk into fire.

Hope that you come back.

Hope that you recognize him when you do.

Hope that some part of what they had doesn’t get lost in the dark.

Finnick bows his head and presses the paper to his lips, a prayer mouthed into the quiet, desperate and aching.

“Please hold on.”

He has nothing else left to give but that.

🌊 .·:¨🌊🐚🌊¨:·. 🌊

The knots come easily to his fingers. They always have.

Finnick sits on the edge of a bench in one of the unused prep rooms, a long coil of rope in his lap. The kind the District 13 soldiers use for field drills and training maneuvers. He doesn’t remember picking it up, just that his hands needed something to do.

Anything to drown out the thoughts.

He loops and pulls and tightens without thinking. Muscle memory. Over, under, through. A perfect square knot. A fisherman's bend. A reef knot. Over and over and over.

The rhythm soothes something in him—or maybe numbs it. He isn’t sure there’s a difference anymore.

The rebellion is in final preparations. A few more days, they say. Then the rescue teams launch. You might be back by the end of the week. Or not at all.

He swallows hard against the ache that creeps into his chest every time that second possibility tries to take root. He won’t let it.

***

You were quiet that day. The waves had stilled outside the Victor's Village, the salt-slick wind curling around the porch like it didn’t quite know what to do with itself. The ocean was waiting.

So were you.

It was only a few days after your Games, and you still flinched at loud noises. Still woke up with your fists clenched and breath caught in your throat. Still walked like the arena was stitched to your shadow.

Finnick found you on the steps that morning, curled into a knit sweater two sizes too big for you — one of Mags’s old ones, he recognized. Your eyes were fixed on the water. Like you were trying to find yourself somewhere out there.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat down beside you, dropping a thick coil of spare fishing rope between your feet.

You glanced at it. Then at him.

“What’s this for?”

Finnick didn’t answer right away. He picked up the rope and started working it between his fingers, slow and steady. “We all need something to do with our hands,” he said eventually.

You didn’t ask what he meant. You didn’t need to.

He offered you a strand.

You hesitated. Then took it.

“Start here,” he murmured, guiding your fingers, “and twist toward you. No—yeah, that’s it. Good. Now loop over—don’t let it tangle. Try again.”

You made a face when it slipped. “I’m bad at this.”

He smiled. It was the first time either of you had smiled in days. “You just won the Hunger Games. I think you can handle some rope.”

You looked up at him, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “It doesn’t feel like I won.”

“I know,” he said quietly. And you knew he meant it.

There was a long pause, filled only by the sound of the ocean below. And then, gently, he shifted a little closer, took your hands in his to show you again.

“This is how I got through it, you know,” he said. “After. I’d come down to the docks with a line of rope and tie knots for hours. My hands would cramp. I wouldn’t stop. It was something to do. Something that stayed the same, even when everything else didn’t.”

You didn’t say anything. But your eyes softened.

You tried again.

And this time, you got it.

“Hey,” he said softly, watching the knot hold. “Look at that.”

You exhaled a shaky breath and looked up at him. “Does the pain ever stop?”

He didn’t lie. He didn’t say yes.

He just held your gaze and answered honestly. “It gets quieter. Some days.”

You nodded.

And then you tied another knot.

***

He wonders where you are right now. If your hands are shaking. If you remember that afternoon at all— he way the salt air made your hair curl, the way your laugh, small as it was, had sounded like it didn’t quite know how to exist yet, but was trying anyway.

The knot slips from his fingers.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, rope pooling in his lap like it’s mocking him.

I'm still here. That’s what you said.

But for how much longer?

He presses the back of his hand to his mouth to muffle the sound building in his throat. It’s not a sob. Not really. Just a sound of something caving in.

You were trying.

And now he needs to try too.

Even if they won’t let him on the mission.

Even if all he can do is sit here and wait.

He picks up the rope again.

Pulls. Loops. Ties.

Something to hold onto.

Something that won’t fall apart.

🌊 .·:¨🌊🐚🌊¨:·. 🌊

Finnick sits beside Katniss in the stark studio of District 13, his body tight with nerves, a coil of rope in his hands that he works mindlessly into knots. Each twist, each pull of the rope feels like the only thing tethering him to reality. His hands move on instinct—loop, twist, pull—over and over again. It's a routine, a lifeline. Just like she used to be.

Across from him, Katniss stares at the camera, her features unreadable. She's trying to steady herself for what comes next.

“I can do it,” he hears himself say. The words come out thin, haunted. “If it'll help her. I’ll talk.”

Plutarch nods, stepping aside for the cameras.

When the red light glows and the signal goes live, Finnick lifts his eyes to the lens and begins to speak—not with the charm the Capitol once demanded of him, but with the weariness of a man hollowed out by truth.

"This is Finnick Odair, coming to you alive and well from District 13."

He tells them everything.

How President Snow sold him like a prized possession. How he wasn't the only one. How victors deemed desirable were paraded before the Capitol elite like toys. How they were threatened, controlled, used.

How she was one of them.

“She won her Games at sixteen. She didn’t know what was coming. None of us ever do.” His voice cracks slightly, but he keeps going, hands twisting the rope so tightly his knuckles go white. “She was a favorite. Beautiful, gentle. They said she had ‘softness’—like that was a gift, something they could harvest.”

Katniss glances at him, something shattering in her gaze.

He continues. Names, dates, horrors. The price of survival. The cruelty of silence.

“She was just a girl,” Finnick murmurs. “And they broke her anyway.”

The feed cuts eventually. The room is quiet again.

The mission is underway now. The rescue team is inside the Capitol. And all Finnick can do is wait.

He ties another knot.

Hours crawl by like years.

Katniss sits beside him, arms wrapped around herself. Neither of them speak. Finnick just keeps working the rope in his hands, tighter, tighter. It’s too quiet again—like the worst kind of storm is coming, and all they can do is brace for it.

Then the call comes through.

They’re back.

Katniss shoots to her feet, her face pale but hopeful. Finnick doesn’t even wait. The rope drops from his hands as he bolts from the room, heart pounding in his chest like a drumbeat of desperation.

He runs through the hallways of District 13, shoving past soldiers and medics, barely registering the people rushing the opposite direction. He rounds the corner and sees them—stretchers, gurneys, rebels swarming around figures too thin, too broken, but alive.

Alive.

His eyes scan the room frantically.

Johanna.

He stops briefly when he sees her. Her hair is gone—shaved brutally close to her skull. Her face is hollow, bruised, but her eyes are sharp. Angry. Still Johanna. She’s muttering something under her breath, spitting at a medic who tries to touch her. Still fighting.

He wants to ask if she saw you. If you were with her. But his feet are already moving again.

He hears someone say Peeta’s name.

“He tried to kill her,” someone whispers. “They hijacked him.”

Finnick’s stomach turns violently. The words barely register, swallowed by the storm brewing inside him. If they could do that to Peeta...what had they done to you?

What if you’re not the same?

What if you’re worse?

What if—

And then he sees you.

You’re standing by a doorframe, hunched in Haymitch’s coat, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. Your skin is pale, lips dry, hair limp and tangled, but...

You’re breathing.

Talking to Haymitch in a soft, uncertain voice. You’re malnourished, gaunt, exhausted...but intact.

He exhales shakily and takes a step forward, then another.

And then you look up.

For a second—just one—he thinks you might run to him. That your eyes might fill with tears of recognition, relief, love.

But instead...

You flinch.

Your body stiffens and you move closer to Haymitch, almost hiding behind him, like you’re afraid. Your eyes are wide, uncertain, like a deer cornered in a snare.

Finnick’s heart shatters.

“Hey,” he says, holding his hands out gently. “It’s me. It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

You don’t answer right away.

Then, your voice, smaller than he’s ever heard it, lifts into the air like a tremor.

“Who are you?”

The world tilts.

“What?” he breathes.

You stare at him blankly. Like he’s a stranger. Like none of it ever happened. The beach. The nets. The whispered secrets in the dark. The stormy nights. The love.

Gone.

“I-I don’t know you,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Behind you, a medic freezes. Haymitch’s eyes widen.

Finnick’s knees nearly give out.

“No,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “No, it’s me. It’s Finnick. You know me. You- you-”

But your eyes only fill with fear, your body curling tighter into yourself, like he might hurt you.

And that’s when everyone realizes it.

The Capitol didn’t just take your freedom.

They took him from you too.

Your memories.

Your love.

Everything you were together.

Gone.

A/N: i want you all to remember that YOU GUYS asked for this.

Taglist: @jacaeryslover @sundawn1990 @redama @noodleisodd @amara-mars @lovemyself-m-k @goosy-goose @potao-o @womenkisser05 @arsonistlizard @iguanagwen @lover-rep-fanfic@tatumrileyslover  @kimarii-00 @shuri-my-love @saleyeniu @succulent-ruler6 @aphxdea @humongousrunawaytiger @herbal-tea-and-manga @1i1winter @echoingrainydays @technicallyspookymoon @smthabsolutelyunhinged @yeah-idk-either @moon-zoons @shutendoji22 @thatoneamericanblonde @syd649 @curryexpress @harrypotterlovers-things @wonubby @212-apricity

if you'd like to be included in this taglist lmk in the replies!

[the-raindeer-king]

Safe

Based off this

Poly 141 (with a focus on Price x Gaz) Omegaverse, angsty with a happy ending! Enjoy my lovelies!

--- }I{ ---

Kyle can’t recall exactly when it started: this itch beneath his skin. Maybe it had always been there, dormant until the perfect moment. Or maybe it had just been a recent development, a side effect of his medication. Or maybe… no. He knows exactly when it started, and he knows exactly who’s to blame for it.

John Price.

Maybe blaming the alpha is unfair. He might not even know what he’s done specifically to upset Kyle, but the omega doubts that. Price doesn’t do anything unintentionally, and surely he’d have seen this coming when he built the team - the pack.

Using heat suppressants and scent blockers had always seemed like a good choice. Kyle didn’t want his secondary gender to get in the way of his job, didn’t want to be overlooked just because he was an omega. And he stands by this decision. He wouldn’t have made it this far in his career without those two prescriptions, and he doesn’t regret using them. He doesn’t regret using them…

Right? 

No. No. He doesn’t regret it. Being treated like a beta is what he wanted. Omegas tend to get overlooked in this field, shielded from anything considered “too difficult”. Sexist beliefs that society has clung to for far too long, and Kyle refused to let it stop him from doing what he wanted. So, then why does he feel like this? 

This bubbling, itching feeling beneath his skin, emotions he can’t name threatening to pull him out to sea, threatening to drown him if he doesn’t get a grip on himself. And all the doctor had to say was to stop using his suppressants. But Kyle already knows that won’t fix the problem. The only way to fix this is to bury himself in the scent of - 

“Gaz!” 

The hand on his shoulder makes the omega jolt in his seat, dragged out of his thoughts. He blinks, eyes darting around the empty meeting room before turning to look up at Price, worry written all over the alpha’s features. 

“You alright? You’ve been sitting here for almost five minutes,” Price asks, hand sliding from Gaz’s shoulder to the nape of his neck. 

Gaz immediately goes tense, fighting the urge to whine. Fighting the urge to lean into Price’s touch, the urge to submit to this feeling that sits below the surface of his skin. But there’s so many reasons why he can’t do that, and instead, he scrambles out of his seat, away from Price. 

“Sorry, sir. Just lost in thought,” Gaz replies, failing to hide the panic in his voice. But he’s out of the room long before Price can say anything else, missing the way the alpha watches him with a worried expression.

It’s in this scrambling panic that Kyle doesn’t realize where he’s going, how fast he’s moving, focused solely on putting space between himself and the aching feeling that always settles in him whenever he’s around Price. He ends up crashing into someone else, nearly knocking them both down if not for Ghost’s reflexes, the larger omega grunting as he catches Kyle. 

“Easy, Sargent,” he grunts, one arm wrapped around Kyle. 

The smaller omega shoves himself away from Ghost, who lets him go willingly. Whatever’s going on, pushing Kyle isn’t going to help. 

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” he forces out, running a hand over his face. 

“Ye don’t look fine,” Soap pipes up, peeking around Ghost with curiosity in his eyes. Both of the omegas are holding a pile of blankets in their arms, the scent of Price and Nik - the two alphas in the pack - heavy on the fabric. It makes Kyle’s nose twitch, and that whine starts to build up in the back of his throat again. 

He doesn’t understand how Soap and Ghost can both be just… fine with presenting as their secondary genders. Neither of them seem bothered by the prejudice or the expectations. It probably helps that they’re both built like a brickhouse. And while Kyle’s not dainty by any means, he’s built leaner than the other two omegas. 

“Do ye want us to go get Price?” Soap offers, taking a small step forward. The blankets in his arms shift, scent of the alphas filling the air between them, and Kyle’s hands curl into fists to stop himself from reaching out, from grabbing the blankets from Soap.  

“No!” Kyle snaps, harsher than he meant it to sound. For the first time in a couple of months, he’s grateful for his scent blockers. Otherwise, the hallway would reek of an omega in distress, and he can’t bear that kind of embarrassment right now. 

Taking in a deep breath, he exhales shakily before continuing, quieter now, “No. I don’t need…” Another sigh, a step backwards. “I’m fine. Think I’m gonna… go lay down.”

He’s already making his way back to his room before the other two can argue against it.

***

This feeling only grows worse over the next couple of weeks. He can’t be around Price or Nikolai very long, antsy and desperate. And he can’t be around Ghost or Soap either, territorial and snappy. It’s turning into a bigger problem than any of them care to admit, and Price is ready to put an end to it. 

“Careful, solnyshko, we do not want to push where we’re not wanted,” Nikolai croons as they settle for bed. Simon is settled between the two alpha, face pressed against Nikolai’s neck while Price rubs his back. It’s been a rough day for the omega, and he wanted comfort, despite the conversation going on around him. 

“He doesn’t have a bloody choice. Been disrespectful and bratty all fucking week,” Price shoots back. If it were up to him, they’d drag Kyle into their room and just force him to accept what his body wants. But they can’t risk him going feral. The omega’s already teetering on the edge of something, mentally and emotionally, and they don’t want to make it worse. 

“Hmm…” Nik hums for a moment before turning his attention to Simon, gently nudging the omega. When he gets a grumble in response, he asks softly, “What do you think, zaychik?”

“Think you need to ease ‘im into it,” Simon mumbles out, leaning back just enough to look at Nikolai. The omega blinks slowly, sleep pulling at him. He yawns softly, before adding, “Or jus’ hold ‘im down. I don’t fucking know.” 

Nik huffs softly in amusement, running a hand through Simon’s hair, nails scratching against the omega’s scalp. He lets out a rumble of approval at the way Simon melts against him. “We will not be holding anyone down,” he says, although the alpha would be lying if he didn’t admit that the idea was tempting. “Gaz is our packmate. We will respect him.” 

Price snorts, settling down in bed behind Simon, one arm slung over the omega. “Better off bending him over my knee. Teach him some manners,” he huffs, swatting at Nikolai when he pinches him. 

“I’ll bend you over my knee,” Nikolai threatens, but there’s a lightness to his tone that makes Price laugh, tension bleeding out of the room as the two alphas relax into the bed. There will be time to worry about this in the morning, to figure out how to help Kyle whether he wants it or not. 

***

It starts simple. Blankets left at Kyle’s barrack door, saturated in Price or Nikolai’s scent. Sometimes both. Sometimes with Ghost or Soap’s as well. At some point, someone sneaks in a giant teddy bear, but it has all four scents on it and it’s impossible to figure out who did it. Not that it really matters. Kyle’s finally starting to put together a proper nest, and it helps soothe the itching beneath his skin. 

He’s been going without his scent blockers for the last week as well, a small attempt to help. And when he can’t find them, seemingly having gone missing from his room, he decides that maybe it’s for the best, unaware that his naturally sweet scent is driving all four of his packmates crazy.

However, the itch doesn’t go away. After a few days, it only seems to get worse. He has to stop himself from snarling every time he sees Ghost cuddled up to Price, or Soap receiving affection from Nikolai. It’s so bad that sometimes he gets upset seeing Soap and Ghost scent each other. There’s no way that they’re all intentionally displaying more affection in front of him, but it certainly feels that way and Kyle’s not sure how much more of this he can handle. 

Lucky for Kyle, he doesn’t have to wait very long. 

Recruits. Stupid, idiotic, bloody recruits. Too fresh faced to really understand what they’re signing up for; cocky morons with veins full of hormones and a head full of idealistic heroics. And somehow (thanks to Ghost), Gaz is stuck watching over training. He shouldn’t have agreed, but something about being called ‘Price’s favorite’ had him feeling far more agreeable than it should’ve. 

One of them, an alpha who’s name Gaz can’t bother to remember, is being a showoff, flexing at any given opportunity and puffing his chest out, showing off for the omega Sargent. It’s obnoxious, watching how hard he’s trying to impress Gaz, and it’s kind of funny how uninterested Gaz is. 

There’s only two alphas that Gaz is interested in, and he can feel the weight of Price’s stare from here. 

“Sargent Garrick!” Private Show-off calls, missing the way Gaz tenses up as he approaches. The private smiles, scent heavy in the air between them. While it’s not a bad scent, it still makes Gaz scrunch his nose up.

Everything happens quicker than Gaz can process it. The recruit’s hand reached out for him, something about fuzz on his uniform, and Gaz is swinging his leg around, knocking the recruit’s feet out from underneath him, snarling and snapping until - 

“Garrick!”

Price grabs him by the back of his shirt, yanking him away from the recruit. The alpha snaps orders at all of them, but Gaz can’t hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears, and it’s not until Price gives him a rough shake that he realizes he’s even talking to him. 

“My office. Now.”

The walk there is silent, save for the sound of their boots against the floor. It’s been a while since Gaz has been reprimanded, usually on his best behavior while they’re on base. It’s really just a bunch of technical, bureaucratic bullshit, but he knows the song and dance and can play it well. Usually. 

For a moment, Price doesn’t say anything, just stares with a clenched jaw and stern expression. Without a word, he grabs Gaz by the arm, dragging the omega to the couch in the corner. It’s warm, a blanket forgotten by one the other omegas draped over the arm. And Gaz doesn’t fight it when Price manhandles him into his lap, face shoved against the alpha’s neck. 

“Don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Price mutters, one hand holding Gaz’s head, the other splayed across the omega’s lower back. “You’re better than this.”

Kyle wants to snap at him, scream that it’s the alpha’s fault. That he wouldn’t feel like this if Price would just stop. But… that’s not really the issue here is it. Whatever’s wrong, it’s all with Kyle. Suppressed instincts and hormones and heats - it’s all dying to come out, safe in the hands of Price and Nikolai. If Kyle would just let it happen. 

The omega sighs softly, practically melting into Price’s embrace. He nuzzles his face against the alpha’s neck, taking in a deep breath of Price’s scent, something warm and smokey and quintessentially Price. 

“... been fighting my instincts, sir,” Kyle admits quietly. Growing up as an omega had its own drawbacks, but being a male omega seemed to make it twice as hard. Yet another reason Kyle had been so insistent on taking his suppressants. But now? Now he just wants to stop, wants to willingly fall into Price’s arms, trusting the alpha will catch him. 

“Don’t have to do that anymore. Not with me, or Nik, or the others,” Price reassures him, his hand slowly sliding up and down Kyle’s back. “You’re safe here. With us.”

Kyle whimpers quietly, trembling, but he knows he’s safe. Knows that whatever baby steps the pack will have to take before he’s ready to fully integrate, they’re all more than willing to work with him. And he knows that in due time, when he stops taking his suppressants, when he has his first heat in years, there will be two alphas and two omegas more than willing to help him through it.

[psuejo]

❥ inspo from this twt...

your husband has a serious problem.

... okay, well, he has multiple serious problems, but you’re worried about one in specific. caleb’s greed regarding you is nothing new — whatever you’re willing to offer, he’s willing to take — but you really didn’t think he’d become so obsessed.

he’s got you propped up on a mountain of pillows like a queen on her throne, one hand running up and down your side while the other is busy with the sopping mess between your legs, fingers pumping in and out at a deliciously slow pace.

“c-caleb,” you moan, and his cock gives a happy twitch in his sticky briefs, “the milk is ‘posed to be for the baby, not you.”

your beloved only hums, the deep vibrations making your back arch and chest push further into his face as he suckles and nibbles at your puffy, sensitive peak, breast milk dripping onto his tongue. tastes like heaven. “she’s not even here yet. plus, gotta teach ‘er ‘sharing is caring’ early on, right?”

ugh. you regret giving him those pregnancy books.

your eyes narrow in a weak glare. “that isn’t how that works...” not that he’s at all worried about that right now. his pupils are blown to high hell — pitch-black leaving only a thin ring of violet.

he just can’t get enough.

even in your ire, caleb is sure you’re the most gorgeous thing to ever exist. face and body softer from the pregnancy, that swollen bump that he hasn’t quit touching since the day it became prominent, the furrow in your brow and the small but definite pout on those plush lips.

oh, he’ll never grow tired of worshipping you. he swears it.

“mm, really? didn’t know you were such a stickler for the specifics, pips.” his thumb swipes through your folds, gathering more than enough slick to rub small circles on your clit. you’re practically a waterpark down there, and he isn’t sure whether it’s due to your hormones or the fact he’s feeding from you.

(likely both. you’re just as debauched as him, even if you don’t like to show it.)

“oh, god— ‘m not,” you huff as your hips buck up into his hand, pushing those slender fingers deeper, right into places you’ve never dreamed of reaching alone. your thighs tremble, and he knows exactly what that means. “y-you’re just wrong.”

caleb tuts, as if reprimanding himself on your behalf. “oh, i’m sorry, honey. i’ll let you teach me about it and get me right when we’re done, yeah? just lemme finish my meal real quick.”

he ups his pace all around — mouth working faster as his hand abandons your waist to massage and squeeze your breast, fingers curling right at that spongey spot before they start to thrust faster, his own hips barely resist the urge to grind against the bed or hump the air.

“y’know how i am about lettin’ food go to waste.”

he certainly isn’t going to waste this. your milk is rich and sweet, a taste he wouldn’t be able to find and wouldn’t dare seek from anyone besides you. which, in his opinion, is exactly how it should be; the only ones allowed to experience this is him and your child.

hey, he’s never quite been in the habit of sharing.

[mydearzero]

It's Not Just About The Hair | Dark!Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader

18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Summary: You were only meant to dye one guy's hair and get out. How'd you get tangled into this mess? The shadows are creeping and taking over his body, while he is slowly taking over yours.

Contents: NON/DUB-CON, NO Y/N, afab!Reader, reader has hair that is long enough to grip, smut, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, filming, exhibitionism, sex against the window, choking, coming inside, no aftercare, if I missed any warnings please let me know!

3.3K words

uhm so this is not really for the faint hearted sorry not sorry I needed this off my chest. READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION PLEASE!!

You should’ve left as soon as your job was done. You should’ve stayed out of Val’s way after she was done with you. Why had you lingered?? 

Okay, maybe you were curious. Could anybody blame you? It’s not every day you get called out to the former Stark/Avengers Tower to dye one dude’s hair for a ridiculous amount of money. Hey, maybe she’d want a touch-up, herself? 

So here you were, hiding under the counter of a bar, waiting for the fighting to be over. The big red guy had already been thrown against the wall you were opposite of. It would only be a matter of time before somebody discovered your hiding place. You were peeking through the crack between the counter and the base of the bar to find a good time to run. 

You saw the young blonde run at Sentry, wrapping her legs around him and tasing his neck. Sentry flew himself to the roof, crushing her against it and dropping her to the floor. Sentry was attacked by the masked woman, along with the knockoff Captain America. 

Red Guardian picked up a barstool, preparing to throw it at Sentry, who’s name was apparently Bob, short for Robert. The guy who’s hair you’d just dyed. So not worth the money. Alexei ran to throw the stool, but was cut off when Sentry ripped the entirety of the bar off the floor and threw it against him. 

Fuck. The countertop had been ripped straight from your fingertips. Parts of the base had cut your fingers, neck and face where it had been roughly yanked out of the floor. 

While the others were distracted, still fighting, you ran behind the next best thing, the column of the stairs. You tried to catch your breath and prayed to whichever god would listen that nobody had seen you. You didn’t dare look at the sound of more commotion. You heard several punches, before they were interrupted by the sound of a mechanical malfunction and bending of metal. Bucky’s metal arm had been ripped straight off him, hit him in his own face and thrown behind him like a piece of garbage. 

The vigilante’s quickly went for the elevator, but not before Val came back from wherever she’d been hiding to give them a monologue. “I’m so glad you were able to catch a glimpse before your, uh, retirement.” 

“Camera crews are assembling. Finish the job, Robert.” Val instructs. You hear the elevator doors close. 

“Finish the job? No.” Robert replied. 

“What?” 

“They’re not a threat to me, so, why do I need to kill them?” 

“You need to do what I say, Robert.” Val’s tone was threatening. 

“Why?” 

“WHY?” Val sounded appalled that he’d even dare ask. 

They argued some more. You looked around for an exit, but besides the elevator, your only hope would be the very open stairs they’d no doubt see you on. You could only hope they’d leave sometime soon so you could get the hell out of there. 

“It needs to be more of a collaboration. The hair for example. Maybe I should’ve had more say.” 

“Don’t let those idiots get in your head. The blonde is great.” Thank you, Val, I did the best I could. 

“You sure? I don’t know, I thought I liked it but now I’m not so sure.” 

“That’s enough about the hair.” 

“It’s not just about the hair.” 

“Well you keep talking about the hair.” 

“No it’s everything! My suit, my name, my missions, I mean.. Why would a god take orders from anyone at all?” 

“I think you’re throwing around the word ‘god’ a bit loosely there.” 

“No, no, because you said I was all powerful, invincible and stronger than a whole team of Avengers, which includes at least one god, so..” Robert trailed off, letting Val fill in the blanks. 

“But I’m starting to think, maybe, you don’t know what I am,” he spoke when she didn’t reply. His words were laced with an underlying tone of malice. 

“Oh, goddamnit” Val spoke under her breath. 

“Or what I’m capable of. Maybe I need to show you.” 

“This is SO… irritating.” Val clicks something behind her back, but it doesn’t seem to work. Sentry grabs her by the throat and flies her against the wall. You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle a gasp. 

“You were gonna turn on me. Just like the rest of them.” 

“I’m not afraid of you, Robert.” 

You see Mel creeping towards them. She sees you, too. She looks confused at your presence, but doesn’t have time to worry about it right now. 

“It’s not Robert you need to be afraid of.” Sentry says as he starts choking Val tighter. Mel picks up whatever Val was holding and points it to the man basked in gold, clicking it in desperation. Sentry immediately falls to the floor, in turn dropping Val. 

“Good girl.” Val says as she sees Mel. “ You came to your senses. Come here help me up.” Mel helps Val off the floor and they scurry away. Mel sends you one last look before deciding it’s not worth her time to worry about you. 

“I want a raise,” Mel says as they walk to the elevator. “Okay, fine. Get cleanup on the body and tell Holt it’s finally time to go lethal on these losers.” The elevator leaves and suddenly, the penthouse is awfully quiet. 

You count to 10 before deciding it’s safe to leave. Cleanup would be here soon and you did not want to be stuck here any longer. You crept towards the elevator, hoping Val and Mel had gone down far enough you wouldn’t run into them again. 

Just as you’re about to press the button for the elevator, your phone buzzes with a notification. 

Bought you some time to get out. Cleanup won’t be there for at least 20 minutes. Get out NOW. 

It was Mel. Fucking Mel who’d roped you into this in the first place. It’s easy money, she’d said. One bleach job + I’ll owe you, her texts had read. Yeah, right. 

Before you’d had the chance to put your phone away there was a deathly grip on your shoulder. You tensed and slowly turned to look at its owner, who you’d up until now presumed to be dead. 

  You gave him a quick once over. His eyes were glowing. You couldn’t read the expression on his face. Shadows seemed to be gathering at his feet, ever so slowly creeping up his skin. He brought his other hand up to your other shoulder, turning you to face him. Your knees trembled as you tried to stand still, every nerve in your body yelling at you to RUN. There was something wrong with him. You weren’t a threat. Hadn’t he just used that excuse to not go after the others? 

His right hand slowly went down to your waist, his left traced your shoulder up to your neck. As soon as his bare hand made contact with your skin, no longer on your shirt, you were doused in a memory.  A horrible memory from your past that rattled you to your bones, leaving you breathless. 

No time seemed to have passed as he held you tightly, grip likely bruising. “Where is she?” Sentry spoke for the first time. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything, I’m not even supposed to be here,” you stammered. 

“Don’t LIE to me,” Robert yelled, making you flinch. “You work for her. For Val. Now tell me where she went.” 

“I promise, I don’t work for her. It was just a one off thing. I don’t know where she went!” His fingers slowly traced to the other side of your neck, encircling it with his hand. He brought his face closer to yours, inhaling deeply. He let go of your waist to brush your hair away from your face and leaned in to whisper in your ear. 

“You’re gonna regret lying to me. Val might’ve gotten away, but I’ll show her, show you exactly what I can do.” His grip on your throat tightened, cutting off your air supply. Your hands shot up to his wrist, clawing at it to get it off. 

A dark chuckle left his lips, the shadows still slowly creeping up his thighs. You tried kicking at him to get him to let go, but it was useless. “I’m not… with… Val…” you managed to choke out. 

“Did she or did she not pay you to change up my look? I think that’s the basic definition of working for someone, don’t you?” He loosened his grip on your throat, moving to hold your chin and run his thumb over your bottom lip as you tried to catch your breath. There was a hunger in his gaze that hadn’t been there before. 

“I wasn’t this strong before,” he mumbled. He fisted your hair and tugged it your head backwards harshly. 

“I like how it feels. The strength, I mean. I can see why people get addicted to power.” You had no choice but to look him in the eyes, his grip on your hair unrelenting. His other hand went back to your waist as he tugged your body against his. The hard metal of his belt dug into your skin. He brought his lips to your neck, mouthing at your jugular. You squeezed your eyes shut, begging for someone to come in and save you. 

He was losing himself, losing control. The shadow had made its way to his waist, creeping higher and higher the longer he held you. You could only help it stopped once it had consumed him, leaving you be. It couldn’t be anything good.

He let go of your hair, bringing both hands to your hips and sliding them up your shirt. You froze, holding your breath and waiting for his next move. Surely, he wouldn’t. 

His hands moved higher. He started peppering kisses on your neck, feeling your heightened pulse under his lips. You tried putting your hands on his chest and pushing him away. “Stop, please.” 

“I don’t think I will,” he groaned into your skin. With a flash your back met the wall harshly, head hitting the concrete. His hands cupped your breasts over your bra, his mouth kissing up to your chin. The shadow had reached his chest now. It wouldn’t be long before it would take over his entire body. 

For a second you felt relieved as Robert pulled away, only for it to disappear when you realised he’d done it to rip your shirt from your body. “Robert.. It’s Robert right? Or do you prefer Bob? Please let’s just talk about this.”

He ignored your pleas and went back to ravaging your neck, leaving bruises down to your chest. His hands fumbled with your bottoms, but he quickly lost patience and ripped those, too. You were only left in your shoes and underwear, pleading with him to just talk. 

“I’m not going to talk. I’ll show you. Prove to the world that I’m a god.” He held you close as he flew to the wall of windows overlooking the city. He pushed you against the window, breasts squishing against the glass with the force he was using. 

“Stop, Bob, STOP! Somebody is gonna see!” You tried pulling your body away from the glass. 

“Sweetheart… That’s the point,” he laughed darkly. “Let them see. Let them see what I can do to anybody who gets in my way, who dares to tell me what to do.” He unclasped your bra and pulled it from between your body and the glass. You tried putting your hands in front of your chest, but his hands grabbed your wrists and tugged them behind your back. 

Your mind was reeling with confusion as both of his hands returned to your body, yet you were unable to move yours away from your back. He put his fingers down your underwear and you thrashed your legs to try and get them out. He kicked your legs apart, placing his feet besides yours so you couldn’t close them. He took your hands and placed them above your head against the glass. You wanted to close your eyes, but something was holding you back. You could only watch through the window and see the slight reflection of his golden suit behind you. If you could be glad for only one thing in that moment, it was the fact you were at the top of the tallest building in New York. The likelihood of someone actually seeing was small. 

He tugged at your underwear and you could feel them strain against your hips. He was playing with you. He could’ve easily ripped them, but he wanted you to feel them rub against you before he did so. He tugged them up, the seam putting pressure against your clit. You let out a surprised whimper. “Robert, please. Stop this.” 

The only response you got was the eventual ripping of your underwear, relieving you of the pressure, but leaving you completely naked between his body and the window. He moved behind you, the noise of fabric rustling meeting your ears.

His hands roamed over your trembling body freely, making himself familiar with every dip and curve. They settled on your hips, pulling them backwards and arching your back. You flushed impossibly redder as it made your boobs press against the window even more, obscenely on display for anybody high up enough to witness. 

You felt it, then. His length settled between the cheeks of your ass. He took it in his hand and slowly slid it between your folds. 

“So afraid… Yet so, so wet for me.” 

You wanted to deny it. Tell him to get off and leave you be. But he wouldn’t, anyway. He was right. You were somehow soaked. 

The invisible grip on your hands disappeared, allowing you to lower them and put them flat against the window. You tried pushing off the window once again, even when you knew he wouldn’t budge. 

“Don’t move,” Robert threatened. You turned your face on instinct to look at him. You could only catch a glimpse of total darkness over your shoulder before his hand forced your head to face the window once more. 

“You’ll understand soon enough,” he mumbled incoherently. 

He took himself in his hand and slowly pushed his cock inside. Without any preparation, the intrusion was tight. You winced as he didn’t pause but took his time stretching you on every inch. He exhaled loudly and chuckled when you gasped as he bottomed out. 

He put his hands on your hips and tugged you back against him as far as you could, skin against skin. He pushed you back against the window slowly, his length leaving you as he pulled his hips back. He went so slow it drove you insane. He pulled out fully, stepping back to look at you shaking against the window, not daring to step away or look back. It was only then you’d noticed all the lights in the penthouse had gone out. 

As his hands returned to your body, so did his dick. He set a gruelling pace, pulling your hips against his own. Heat burned in your core. 

“So good. See how good it can be when I’m the one in charge?”

You didn’t know how to answer, so you kept quiet. A slap to your ass informed you that was the wrong choice. “Answer me,” he groaned. 

You yelped at the impact before nodding. He grabbed your hair again, bending your neck as far as it could go without snapping. He continued thrusting as he corrected your behaviour. “I said answer me. Now with your words.” 

“Yes!” you managed to get past your lips. Now actual vocal sounds had left your throat, you couldn’t seem to stop. Moans slowly escaped, even when you tried to hold them in. 

“There you go, attagirl.” He released his grip on your hair, choosing to squeeze his hands between the glass to grasp your tits as he fucked you. He used this hold on you as leverage to move faster. He pulled your back against him and pushed both of your bodies against the window. His fingers were cold, so cold as they toyed with your nipples. Must be a side effect of the shadow. 

A low, breathy laugh hit your ears. Your eyes darted around to see why. You looked down at one of the other buildings and saw why he was laughing. Two guys, pointing, one of them recording the whole ordeal. You came back to your senses, once more struggling against his grip and fighting the pleasure. 

“Stop! They’re recording, let me go!” you whined, but even to your own ears it somehow didn’t sound as convincing as it had in your head. The breathless and whiny tone of your voice was contradicting whatever you said. 

“Good, soon the whole world will know about me. And nobody will tell me what to do,” Robert moaned. “Not anymore.” 

You were mortified to find you were getting close. Your fingers clawed at the window, trying to find anything to grip tight as your body was slowly overtaken with pleasure. You bit your lip and felt your eyes well up with tears. 

“Fuck… Maybe I should keep you around…” Bob moaned. “Show you off like a token of my power.” 

You wanted to come up with an answer, to defy him. “Ah- Please,” was all that would come out. What you were pleading for? Even you weren’t sure. 

One of his hands wrapped around your throat, cutting off the oxygen as he held it tight. Your ears rang as you struggled to breathe, blood rushing to your head. 

“Tell me I’m your god,” he grunted. His cock hit the right place again, and again and again. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think as your orgasm approached. 

“Say. It.” He emphasised the words with sharp thrusts. 

“God,” you stumbled. “You… You’re my god… Fuck.” 

“One more time, like you mean it,” he teased. “Hmm and I know you mean it by the way you’re clenching on my cock.” 

You couldn’t utter the words, your mind jumbled as he toyed with your breath and pleasure. 

“Too stupid on my cock to even speak,” The Void laughed. He moved his other hand down your front, moving down until he found the missing piece to make you break. 

“Come for me, come for your god,” he demanded as he matched the rhythm of his fingers on your clit to that of his dick. Your hips moved of their own volition, chasing the high. 

His pace stuttered, his thrust going impossibly deep as he came inside of you. It sent you over the edge, all your muscles tightening and knees sinking as pleasure overtook your body. You’d never come so hard in your life. The only thing keeping you standing was him as the aftershocks of your orgasm worked their way through your body. 

He slowly pulled out and you were finally able to turn around and take him in. His features were mostly invisible, except for the eyes. They were still glowing. 

“You should thank me, you know. For allowing you to feel what true power feels like.” 

“Thank you,” you sobbed out, defeatedly sinking to the floor. The Void flew through the broken window he’d sent one of the ‘Thunderbolts’ through, flying above the city to slowly spread his shadows. All the while you could still feel the warm liquid spilling from inside you and dripping onto the floor. 

You only had a few seconds to make yourself scarce before a team of men clad in black with guns stormed out of the elevator. You’d scrambled together the remnants of your clothes and locked yourself in a bathroom, before suddenly you were dipped back into the darkness of your worst memories, just like the rest of New York would soon be. 

[habken]

Habs I want your 36 hour long YouTube analysis on bnha including thoughts on the new info from the fan book SO bad the toga stuff has me biting holes into the walls

Okay, it’s long:

First, stuff I liked:

Deku:

Good to see deku stocks rise, they doubted my nephew but he always comes out on top 🙏🙏

Circling back to 431, I don’t think it was all bad and I don’t hate it like some people do. I like that it shows us how passionate he is as a teacher and that he was able to carve out a path for himself outside of hero work. I think people were quick to judge him and make assumptions about him after declining Katsuki’s sidekick proposal, and it was Rough having to see Deku get bashed for it for months. I’m so happy that the new info shows that he didn’t give up on those heroic dreams, he just had to find the balance between teaching and being a pro.

I’m over the moon that he’s #4 and that Katsuki’s ranking bounced back too to #5 as a reaction to Deku being back on the hero scene, this is what I wanted so much from the ending, the two of them fighting neck-in-neck, competing for forever, teasing each other and being in each other’s lives… it’s perfect :’))

I think it’s so cool that apparently Deku was still placing in the top 100 despite being retired because of the extended requirements on the hero ranking, but I think that info should have come up in 430. The epilogue suggested that hero charts were going to be restructured or done away with entirely, and I think it’s silly that it’s only vaguely touched on in an art book lol. That should’ve been part of the main ending.

Streets are saying Deku did not get a degree before he started his teaching career… I’m electing to ignore that because I really want to imagine him in uni. I think it’s fair that UA wouldn’t have traditional standards for teachers… but let my boy get some certification before putting him in charge of a class c’mon.. But also this could be a bit of a misinterpretation considering there’s no official english translations out yet.

Also I’m so glad that it’s confirmed the suit mimics the ofa quirks !! I was worried that wasn’t gonna be the case and I was gonna end up disappointed but I can rest easy!

Bakugou:

I talked about him already kind of but the thing I’m happy to learn the most about from the art book is that supposedly older pro heroes have a soft spot for him. I think there’s something really endearing about that, and I feel like despite having a “bad attitude” he’s such a sentimental and sweet character and he’s grown so much from the middle school punk from chapter 1. He’s got this blunt but genuine quality to him and I think that’s what older characters would latch onto.

I am such a big fan of his friendship with todorok and love what they said about it in the book under todoroki’s section. Also a big fan of the tidbit that monoma tried to get close to him after the war, the guy saw him die right, and there’s something very touching about him trying to reach out and check up of katsuki and worm his way into his life because of that trauma idk. I want to make something about their friendship maybe.

Eri:

IThe information that jirou helped eri with guitar lessons fills my heart with so much joy :’)) I love that Eri has so many older siblings who all love her and want to teach her stuff and be part of her life and cheer her on

I really like that she’s pursuing music! I know some people wanted her to go down the hero path too, but I think it’s really nice that she was able to carve out a path that makes her happiest. It’s what first brought a smile to her face! When class A performed! And seeing her be able to live that dream is so nice :’))

Deku and mirio being her biggest cheerleaders also makes me so happyy. Those are her older brothers frfr.

I’m really glad the one shot was focused on her, very great thag we get to see her relationship with aizawa and the teachers, and learn about her life now. I was so worried about what the extra pages were gonna be about and it was such a pleasant surprise lol

Things I’m… less of a fan of:

Uraraka:

It’s genuinely criminal that the art book doesn’t touch on her reformed quirk counselling programs at all. To me, this was one of the most interesting tidbits of info we got from class 1-A in 430, and something I really wish we’d been able to learn more about.

It’s very clear that her character’s potential was tossed aside the entire story, and honestly her relationship with deku was too. I’m not really a fan of izuocha, but I am a lover of character relationships and the lack of growth the two had together throughout the series was very disappointing to me. I think the idea of romance between them and horikoshi’s aversion to writing it got in the way of their actual relationship and it stayed stagnant for too long — which is why 431 feels so disappointing in that regard — because they should have gotten closer in the actual story instead of in an add-on epilogue chapter.

All that to say, from what I’ve seen from the artbook, her info section is taken up mostly by things that relate to izuku, all we really learn is her parents don’t use the money she sends them LMAO. It’s just so strange for her to be both disregarded as a character and labelled the “Love Interest” when it comes to talking about her as her own person, but yet not have really any development alongside the character she’s supposedly going to end up with in the actual story.

She’s apparently there to cheer deku on, that’s the role they want her to have. They don’t care about who she is outside of that even though her entire character is a separate person with a life and a story beyond having a crush on a boy. It’s misogyny lol.

Toga and the LOV:

Speaking of misogyny… Toga’s death :( Learning that there were other options for her is upsetting. The artbook has really reopened my feelings about all the endings for the LoV members.

In my mind toga had the most satisfying ending, but that’s really not saying much. I don’t think she should’ve died, I don’t think her “facing responsibility/taking accountability” had to mean the only ending for her was death. She was a kid, she was mentally ill, she wanted love and to be loved and to me, her death being off-screened and used as canon-fodder for uraraka’s feelings and to be pushed towards izuku was so upsetting.

Idk it just feels like a habit for the female characters to be sidelined and for their sacrifices and deaths to be pushed to the side, it’s aggravating.

With the lov in general, it just seems like the overall message is there’s no real path to redemption, that the only way they could find it is to die. For a story that seems to want to highlight the fact that everyone can be saved, and that things aren’t so black and white, and that it’s the fault in society that drove these “villains” to where they are, it really does treat them as if they’re completely and utterly irredeemable and there was never any hope for them. That they are a product of their nature/nurture and cannot escape it any way but through dying. It’s not even tragic, it feels lazy and unsatisfying and feels like it goes against whatever the message of the story was supposed to be.

Idk I’ve defended mha a lot, and I think there’s a lot of positives in it. I think it does have strong messages that no one person can fix issues that are societal in nature, and that real change comes with forming community and being there for those around us. Etc etc. But I’m disappointed that a lot of the themes of mha fell flat and don’t go deeper than surface level.

I’m upset that horikoshi has made these compelling and very human villains, and shown us their stories and that they’re not all evil at the core, and then decided that their arcs all had to end in pain and suffering.

The one who upsets me the most is Tomura. He’s been one of my favourite characters since the beginning, and I think his ending hit me the worst. To me it felt like he was right on the cusp of something and then afo came in and told him his whole life was a lie, that he was groomed to be an angry man with half a quirk that could only destroy, and every choice he’d ever made was directly under afo’s influence. That he never had any free will, he was always meant to go down this path. I thought for sure the final battle with deku and afo would have shigaraki fighting back against the possession, and I was disappointed that his final moments were barely anything at all.

Learning about his original quirk and the original plans for his ending, it’s made me angry about his arc all over again. Thinking about how things could’ve been, and that there were other options for his final moments, I’m frustrated.

I hate that the villain’s are used as emotional canon fodder, to serve as character development for the heroic main characters, when horikoshi made us so invested in their stories as well. You just end up wanting to root for them, not in a “I want them taking over the world” way, but in a way where they find some sort of happiness. And we kind of maybe get that from toga, but to me all their endings just don’t hit the mark. They feel cheap and unsatisfying, and this art book drives a lot of that home for me.

Anyways yeah. I’m gonna stop myself here before I go crazy lol. Hope this made sense

[munsonsmixtapes]

Daydreaming

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!virgin!reader

cw: MDNI (18+) masturbation, hurt/comfort

This is part two to "A Guiding Hand" which you can find here!

Simon can’t sleep. He never can, but this is different. Your moans echo in his head over and over, the way you screamed his name swirling around in his head, driving him crazy. He even took a cold shower to get you out of his head but there you are, still lingering, taking up every fucking inch of it. 

He’s always able to forget about the calls once they're done, the names and noises they made flying out of his head as soon as he hangs up. But you-you’re different. You’re not like the others. Maybe it’s him being egotistical but he’s almost positive that you wanted him to be the one doing the job. You wanted him to be the one to be fingering you fuck did he want it to. 

He wants to jack off to finally be able to go to sleep but he won’t. He can’t. He doesn’t know why, but doing so without your knowledge just feels gross. Like he’s being a perv like a bunch of the guys he was on base with. And he never wants to be like them. 

But it gets to a point where he can’t hold it in anymore, like his cock is going to burst out of his boxers because of how hard he is. So he has no choice but to whip it out and he spits into his hand before moving it up and down. 

His eyes shut tight as he envisions your hand being the one that’s doing the work, encouraging with every stroke, with your pretty, gentle voice. 

Simon wonders if you’ve ever given anyone a handjob and he hates that he’s feeling jealous, taking his anger out on his cock as his pumps get more aggressive, the jealousy making him bubble with anger. 

He’s moving so fast, moan after moan falling from his lips as he tries to focus on you and some stupid scenario he’s made up in his head that he doesn’t even have a right to be mad about. 

Even after he comes and cleans himself up in the bathroom, he still sees what he imagines you look like on his eyelids when he falls asleep and dreams about you for the rest of the night even though he knows exactly how silly it is, especially since he has no idea what you look like. Nor knows anything about you at all besides your name and how hot you sound when you scream his name. 

You wake up the next morning from the best sleep you’ve ever had in your life. You didn’t know you had the ability to make yourself feel so good, but you’re going to give the majority of the credit to Ghost. He did most of the work and you just did what he said to do. You look at your phone and it’s seven in the morning, only fourteen hours until you get to talk to him again-not that you’re counting. 

He consumes every thought as you go throughout your day. His voice lingers in the back of your head as you get ready for the day, the filthy words, the sweet nicknames, everything replays in your head over and over, making you dizzy all over again. 

This is crazy, you think to yourself as you head out of your apartment to go to the coffee shop down the street where you get your daily dose of caffeine. You immediately wonder what he would order and you hate that one phone call caused the man to worm his way into your brain. 

You’ve never felt this way about anyone before and you can’t believe how easily you’re letting him in. You don’t know him- hell, you don’t even know his real name. All you know is how good he made you feel but that doesn’t really mean much in the grand scheme of things. 

As you enter the coffee shop, you’re trying to wipe him away, to focus on what you have to do throughout the day. You have too much to get done to think about him, like trying your hardest to remember the orders of everyone in the office where you work. You don’t know why you insist on getting all of them coffee when none of them ever seem grateful for it anyway. 

You’ve been with the company for years and it’s like none of them even appreciate you. Like it wouldn’t matter if you were there or not. How many times do you have to correct the wrong spelling of your name on the birthday cake they get for you every year before they get it right? How many times do you have to tell them you’re out of town when your time off is on the schedule and you’ve sent them emails? 

You just wish that for once, someone would appreciate you and the things you do. You don’t want to come off egotistical, but that company would crash and burn without you. You’re the one who schedules the appointments and follows up to make sure that the clients actually show up. You do everything except the actual appointments and somehow they tell you that you’re not doing enough. 

Maybe that’s why you can’t stop thinking about Ghost. Because last night, he actually made you feel like you meant something. He made you feel important after feeling like you were absolutely nothing for so long. He made you feel like you mattered. It’s been something you’ve been chasing after your whole life and now that you’ve finally gotten a taste, you can’t help but crave more.

-

Simon heads out of his apartment after some of the worst sleep he’s ever had. He loved dreaming about you but hated that he never actually got to sleep. He just tossed and turned, those intoxicating moans replaying in his head over and over, driving him fucking crazy. 

God, he feels like such a fucking weirdo for wondering if every woman he passes by is you. For wondering if you’ve ever crossed paths and he just didn’t know. The thought kills him as he enters the coffee shop down the street. God knows he needs some caffeine after the night he had. The line is long so he pulls out his phone and mindlessly scrolls through the few social media apps he has as he waits. Sometimes he doesn’t even know why he has a phone anyway. Well, his personal one. It’s not like anyone’s texting him or calling him to catch up. Outside of his job, no one ever seems to want to spend time with him. 

Even though he works for a phone sex hotline, he never actually gets lucky. He has a date here and there, but beyond dinner and sex, no one ever actually wants to spend time with him. It’s like they use him for what they want them to throw him to the side like he means nothing. And maybe that’s why he likes this job so much. Because he doesn’t get to know anyone beyond their name so he can’t get attached. It’s safe. 

Well it was before last night. Simon thinks you altered his brain chemistry and now he has no idea how he’s going to go about his other calls while he waits for yours. He hates that he’s counting down the minutes as he moves up in line, actually watching them tick by on the clock on his phone. 

Your name is called and his eyes follow a woman who he’s sure is the most beautiful he’s ever seen. He doesn’t actually think it’s you, though, he just needs to go back to bed. That’s what all of this is. He’s just tired from getting no sleep and that’s why he’s acting so crazy. 

But deep down, he knows that he would be thinking this way even if he had slept great. That’s just who he is. He’ll hyperfixate on something and that’s his only thought for days, weeks, months on end until a new hyperfixation comes along and takes its place. You, though? Simon doesn’t think he’s ever going to be able to stop thinking about you.

-

Of course it’s a slow day which gives you plenty of time to think about your new crush between phone calls and scheduling appointments. You’re not even sure how you’ve been able to do your job since his name has been on your tongue for hours. And you feel ridiculous for wishing that he’d call, wishing that he was the one you were talking to instead of these strangers. Even though he’s a stranger himself. 

You find yourself doodling on one of your sticky notes-drawing what you think he’d look like as you hum a song that’s been stuck in your head all day. It’s getting out of hand and you know it, but you can’t get yourself to stop. Something about that call rewired your brain and now you’re unable to think about anything else, not that you’d want to. 

When five o’clock rolls around, you’re out the door in a flash, making a beeline for the subway station. You stare at the sticky note the entire ride home, trying your best to stifle your giggles, ignoring the looks of the other people on the train. For once, you don’t care about how you’re perceived because tonight, you’ve got a date. 

You spend hours going through your closet for something to wear after your shower. You know it’s silly to be overthinking but you can’t help but want to look nice for him even though he can’t see you. And you can’t help but stare at yourself in your full length mirror at the outfit that you’ve chosen. It’s a tight, low-cut that your roommate, Jessica, convinced you to buy but it’s been buried in the back of your closet because you’ve been too afraid to wear it. You’ve paired it with a pair of cut off shorts that might be a little too short but you don’t care. For once, you actually think you look hot.

As soon as 8:59 turns to 9:00, you’re calling the number from last night, your heart rate picking up as it rings. You’re expecting Ghost to pick up after a few rings, but he doesn’t. The trills just keep going and going until you hear his voice telling you to keep your message short and hot. 

As you hang up, you hate that you get a sinking feeling in your stomach. You don’t know why you feel like your heart is breaking. He doesn’t owe you anything so you don’t know why you care so much. But you’re upset. He’s just another person who’s made you feel abandoned and you know this one only hurts so bad because you had yourself convinced that he was different. But you guess he’s not. He’s just another loser and you don’t need him. 

-

Simon wakes up from the longest nap of his life to chirping birds outside his window. He doesn’t know when he passed out nor does he remember when he fell asleep. All he remembers is feeling so tired after he got home from the gym. He was too tired to take a shower so he just collapsed onto his bed and fell asleep. He didn’t think he’d end up sleeping until the morning. 

He wipes his eyes and reaches for the time to check his phone, his eyes widening as he sees that he missed your call. He feels so fucking dumb for saving your number in his phone but he couldn’t help it. And he even went as far as putting a pink heart next to your name just because he felt like it fit you. 

“Shit,” he says through a sigh and rubs a hand down his face before immediately calling you back. It goes to voicemail pretty quickly and he just assumes you’re upset. And you have every right to be. He was the one who offered to do another call and now he feels like the world’s biggest dick for not answering the phone. 

-

You’re far past feeling sorry for yourself and have jumped straight to being unbothered. You don’t know why you even cared in the first place. He was just a guy who was able to help you orgasm and there’s plenty more where that came from. You can easily find someone who will make you forget his name. 

Your phone rings again and this time, you pick up on the second ring, ready to let him have it, but you melt just the slightest bit when you hear his voice and the nickname that falls from his mouth. 

“Baby,” he says and his tone sounds regretful, like he’s upset that he didn’t answer your call. And you hope he is, you really do. “I’m so sorry.” The apology sounds like the most genuine one you’ve ever received but you’re not going to give in that easily. “I fell asleep and didn’t hear my phone ring. God, I feel like a dick and I’m willing to do whatever you ask to get you to forgive me.” 

His voice sounds whiny and desperate and you hate how wet it’s making you. You’re supposed to be angry with him but hearing him let his guard down, sounding like he’s on the verge of tears because he hurt you, well, you think you’re close to forgiving him. You think you could use a little begging, though. You want him to be on his knees because he wants your forgiveness that badly. 

“Beg,” you tell him, your voice taking on an authoritative tone that you don’t recognize. And Simon doesn’t argue, he just does what you’ve asked of him as soon as the words come out of your mouth. Oh, you could get used to that.

“Sweetheart, please,” he whines. “I’m so sorry. God, if I was there right now, I’d be on my knees.” And he means it. He’d be on them so fast, holding your hands in his as he’d beg like no man has begged before. 

“I don’t know if I believe you,” you reply, trying your best to ignore hearing his whines because of you crazy they’re making you but you’re getting so wet as a cause of them that you feel like you have to hear them again. 

“I’d never lie to you. Believe me when I tell you that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we talked and I would have never purposely ignored your call. Your pretty sounds replay in my head over and over and the reason why I fell asleep is because I couldn’t the night before because you were in my dreams.” 

You don’t know why, but you believe him. Any other guy would have been lying, but you just don’t think he is. And if he is, then he’s a damn good one because you don’t trust people easily. You don’t know why you’ve made him so different in your head. He’s just another guy. But he’s not. You refuse to think that because you’d absolutely hate if he wasn’t what you built up in your head. 

“Ghost-”

“Simon,” he corrects. “My name is Simon.”

“Simon,” you repeat and don’t miss the little noise he makes when you say his name. “I like that.” 

“So does that mean you forgive me?” You can imagine him pouting and if he were here right now, you don’t think you’d be able to stop yourself from kissing him even though you’ve never done it before. But you’re sure that he would guide you. He’d be nothing but a gentleman about it too. 

“I forgive you,” you nod even though he can’t see you and you feel so silly for smiling so widely when you hear his laugh. 

“You have no idea what it means to hear you say that,” he breathes and his smile is unknowingly matching yours. “Fuck,” he groans when he hears another call coming in. “Listen, I’ve gotta take this call. But to make up for my mistake, how about uh-how about we meet in person?” Your eyes go wide at his suggestion but you can’t help but want to meet the person who’s taken up every inch of your brain for two days now.

“Are you sure?” 

“Positive. I’ll text you the time and place from my personal number. I’ve really gotta go but I’d love to see you tonight.” The line goes dead and here you are, giggling to yourself yet again before hurrying to your closet to pick out something to wear.

part three

[din-skywalker]

The Maid and the Dragon

Tags: Sylus, MC, Sylus/MC, Fiend Sylus, Dragon Sylus, Smut, Double Penitration, Maid MC, Commission for a friend, Sylus/Reader, Second POV

Rating: Mature

Summary:

You've been working the dragon Sylus for a short amount of time, and you're already over it.

But damn- why does he have to be so hot?

AO3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63259903

A/N:

this was a commission for a friend........ so it's her fault not mine lol. first time writing sylus but everyone says i did a good job so i'll believe them

in this it is WILLING- NOT dubious consent. sylus can see mc's desires and wouldnt have pushed her into this if she didnt want it. PLEASE DO NOT reblog this as anything but wiling.

DO NOT INTERACT IF YOURE A MINOR.

thanks

You haven't been his maid for long, but you're already sick of it.

You've never worked for someone that is as much of an ass as he is. You can't tell if it's because of the fact he's a dragon, or if that's just his personality. Maybe if he'd been born human, he would show a modicum of empathy or compassion.

You just wanted a safe place to live, with an easy job. Most of the time, being a maid is an easy job. You've worked for two other people in the past- both of which have died since then- and it has been incredibly easy. Then, this ass had to literally swoop in and whisk you away to his cave that's at the top of the mountain.

Ordinarily, you'd be rather upset that you were kidnapped, but at the moment, you can't really bring yourself to care. Sylus is a dragon… a handsome one at that. Living with a dragon is the epitome of safety, especially since you work with him. So your wish for someplace safe to live has been met… it's just that your contractor is not easy to work with.

He's extremely picky with how you clean his ridiculous amount of treasure, and where you place said treasure when you're done with it. He expects you to shine and polish every piece of it, in fact, which is an almost impossible task to complete! He has miles of the stuff, if that were possible, which it must be, because that's the case here!

After you're done cleaning his treasure, he expects you to clean him. And once more, he's extremely picky with how it's done. You have to clean him in one of two forms, in fact. Once in his annoyingly handsome human form, or his much larger, much more annoying dragon form. At least in the human form, you have something nice to look at.

You've never been made to clean your employer before, but he's insistent that you clean him. You have to make sure to do it properly- thoroughly. In his dragon form, you have to crawl all over his giant form, weaving between his limbs and wings and sliding along his tail. He’ll lean his massive head down for you to reach his scaly lips, and then open his jaws, allowing you to brush each of his pointy teeth. It doesn’t feel as intimate because he’s a giant dragon- he’s always naked in this form. It’s nothing different.

In his human form, however, it’s… a lot. A lot more.

The only thing that makes up for living and working with him is the copious amounts of treasure. Piles of gold, bundles of gems, mountains of precious metals. Many times, you can’t help but to pluck up a crystal or pretty necklace and stash it between your breasts. You’re sure he won’t notice a couple of things missing.

You look outside of the cave entrance, cursing when you see the position of the sun. Bath time. You sniff at the air, and when you don’t catch the heavy scent of sulfur, you know he’s in his human form. Great, you have to draw a bath.

By the time you’ve set everything up in the small bathing nook you’d set up- many candles and supplies lining the floor and walls, he’s already stripping behind a thin, cloth wall, moving painfully slowly. While you draw the bath to ensure the water is warm enough for his desires, you watch the silhouette of his form move. You swear he’s going so slow for you to watch, to entice you with the greatest treasure you can’t have; you’re his maid, after all. Sometimes, you think you see the shadow of a.. Second… dick? But no. That’s ridiculous. It’s most likely his tail.

Once he’s undressed, you turn and wait patiently for him to step into the steaming water, sinking into the bubble filled liquid. “You can look now, kitten,” he says. You can hear the amusement in his deep voice.

“Of course, master,” you say, cringing at the last word. He insists on you calling him that, and him calling you kitten. You’re not the biggest fan, but he seems to like watching you squirm whenever you say or hear those two words. You twirl on your feet, the high held skirt of your small maid dress brushing against the tops of your thighs.

This isn’t your first time cleaning him, but… your eyes travel down towards the bubbles, where you know his-

You inwardly shake yourself, and then step towards the edge of the bath. Grabbing a nearby rag and a bar of soap, you lather the damp fabric until bubbles cover its surface. Sylus watches you closely, his long tail draped over one edge of the tub, the tip brushing against the stone ground. His head is leaned back, the steam from the water is already turning his face damp.

Carefully, slowly, lightly- the way he likes it- you begin to drag the rag along his exposed arms. You sit on the edge of the tub, crossing one ankle over the other. You begin to sing softly, since you know how much he likes music, no matter how pathetic it sounds coming from between your lips.

He continues to watch you closely, eyes half lidded as you start on his legs, and finish on his feet. You grab another damp rag and drip a few droplets of lavender oil onto it, shaking it in front of his face so he can draw in a deep breath of the soothing scent. You then wrap it around his eyes, pressing the sides to his temples. You make sure to keep it in place by wrapping one end of it to the other, and then begin to rub soap into his pure white hair, lightly scraping your nails along his scalp.

His head leans back further as you work, fingers tangling in his white strands. Once you’ve finished your ministrations, you tap the side of his neck to let him know you’ve finished. With that signal, he sinks into the water, dunking his head under the surface.

You catch your breath while he’s under, your heart pounding in your chest. You toy with a ring on your finger, looking to the side as he reemerges. Now that you’ve finished, you step aside and keep your back to him as he steps out of the tub. He grabs a nearby towel, quickly drying himself off.

You hear him pulling his pants on, and let out a small sigh. Okay, time to return to your cleaning duties-

You let out a yelp when his tail suddenly wraps around your waist, tugging you back to him. Your back hits his chest with a small thump, and you grunt, the skirt of your dress brushing against your thighs lightly. He leans in closer, his hot breath tickling the side of your neck.

“I didn’t say you were finished cleaning, did I?” he asks, his voice a rough timber in your ear. You shudder, heat gathering in the pit of your stomach. His earlier teasing comes back to you; the feeling of his tail tip tickling your pussy lips through the bottom of your undergarments, his clawed hand grabbing your ass tightly, and the sight of how hard he is through his tight, leather pants. “You still have two more things to clean, little maid.”

You feel your eyes widen, and your cheeks flushing a bright red. “Pardon me, master?” you ask aloud. He chuckles, all buttery smooth. You hate how even his laughter is extremely sexy. It’s entirely not fair to your prospects.

Suddenly, Sylus twists you around so you’re facing him. His tail remains wrapped tightly around your waist, but you can feel the tip of it traveling further up your legs, just like it had before. You bite down on your tongue, and allow him to move your hand as he pleases. He guides it to the bulge in his pants, and your eyes screw shut tightly when you feel not one, but two hard ons. He has two dicks?

You swallow heavily, your heart racing in the back of your throat as he uses his other hand to lightly grasp your chin, tilting your head backwards. “I want to see your pretty eyes, kitten," Sylus murmurs, breath mingling with yours. You slowly peel your eyes open, and your gaze locks with his. He smirks, thumb brushing against the side of your chin gently. “There are those pretty emeralds…”

The sound of his scales rubbing together reaches your ears as he constricts it around you tighter, almost squeezing the air from your lungs. “I know you’ve been stealing from me,” he whispers, voice dropping several octaves. Your heart skips a beat, and you feel your palms start to sweat, one on top of his dicks, the other hanging uselessly at your side. He smirks at you, the firelight nearby reflecting off of his bright eyes. He tilts his head to the side, an eyebrow quirked. “Did you really think a dragon wouldn’t notice his own hoard missing treasures?”

You open and close your mouth several times, “I can explain-”

“I don’t want you to,” he says, shaking his head, eyelids drooping. He leans in closer, lips hovering just an inch or two from your own. “I just want you to be a good girl and accept your punishment… now take my pants off, and clean the rest of me.”

Had he seriously put his pants on after a bath just so you could strip him yourself? You almost scoff at the absurdity of it. But when you catch him watching you expectantly, your breath catches, and your stomach fills with butterflies. You should have known you’d eventually be caught taking more and more of his treasures. You’d gotten too greedy- not that he minds, most likely. Human greed is a delectable flavor on top of his sharp tongue. “I’m being punished?” you ask meekly, your voice a high pitched squeak. He grins down at you, all sharp teeth and malicious glee.

“You are,” he rumbles out, tail squeezing ever tighter. “Now get to work.”

Taking steadying breaths, you begin to move. Sylus slowly releases your chin, but he doesn’t unravel his tail from your waist. Instead, he loosens it, allowing you to have better ability to move. You kneel downwards, reaching up to grab the hem of his pants. He stares down at you, watching you closely with his head tilted. This isn’t going to be your first time seeing him naked, not even close- but this will certainly be your first time seeing his cock- ahem, cocks. You wet your lip and begin to pull his pants downwards, hearing how it rubs against his skin. You can see some of his draconic scales covering the sides of his thighs the further down you go.

You glance up midway down, feeling the blood drain from your face when you see them.

His two cocks- both huge and long. They’re not yet fully erect, but they’re not shyly hanging, either. You can see the veins pulsing on both, and the same shade of red on their tips. You swallow once more, your heart rate picking up. They’re thicker than a rod, but not so terribly thick you couldn’t wrap your hands around them. They look as if they’re the perfect size for you to hold onto and stroke.

Dear god, you may just faint then and there. You’ve seen another client’s dick in the past, but they never looked like this, nevermind the fact there are two, and that they have ridges on their shafts. They look like small, edged bumps, and you could just imagine how they’d feel rubbing against your walls. You feel dizzy, and close your eyes to urge those thoughts away. You need to clean.

Wetting your lips, you take the pants off the rest of the way, waiting for him to step out of them before you toss it aside. Then, you reach for the nearby bucket of water, dipping a rag into the warm liquid. You can feel him staring down at you, watching you. He’s probably trying to get some kind of rise out of you. If this had happened just a few days ago when you had first begun working for him, it would have for sure. But now that you’ve grown more used to his shenanigans, and seeing him naked, you aren’t as shocked.

Reaching up, you grasp the top dick first, feeling the way his tail subtly tightens around your waist at your touch. You draw in a deep breath and try not to think too hard about what you’re currently holding- because if you did, you’d probably end up melting into a puddle. You’ve seen this man naked, and now you’re seeing his dicks. Touching his dicks. Cleaning his dicks.

You feel lightheaded. You’d dreamed of something like this, but you never thought it would actually happen. Your heart is racing, your mouth going dry.

With your other hand, you bring up the soaked rag. He’s still watching you, his hands propped on his hips, claws very slightly digging into his skin as you begin to carefully clean the shaft of his first cock.

You move the long length with your other hand as you need to, your fingers curling around it, rubbing against it with each movement. You feel him tense under your touch. You’re lightheaded at the point you move onto his second dick, holding the first one up for better access. Water trickles down the sides of both, dripping onto the floor with audible plops. It’s gotten so quiet you can hear each one hit the stone floor, and the way Sylus’ breath has started to pick up speed. His dick is slowly hardening in your hand, and you close your eyes for a moment, and finally finish cleaning it.

“I’m finished, master,” you say with relief, tossing the rag back into the bucket. You move to stand, but Sylus’ tail tightens further, holding you in place. You look up at him with confusion, breath catching when you see the lust gleaming in his red eyes.

“You’re not finished,” he says, voice sharp, breathing heavy. His chest heaves as he reaches down, grabbing your cheeks with one hand. He presses inwards, against your jaws. Your eyes widen as he forces your mouth to open wide, the grip bruising. He then gestures at both of his dicks with his free hand, an expectant smirk on his face. “Use your tongue.”

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

You feel your own breathing becoming fast, and before you know it, you’re leaning forward, unable to resist any longer. You’ve thought about this for days since he’d first hired you. You’d wondered how he’d feel in your mouth, how hard he could become, what he’d taste like.

You open your mouth wider, your tongue sliding out. You place your face next to his first dick and drag your tongue along its side. He tenses further, and as you lick up the length of it, all the way to its tip, his hand lands on your head, fingers tangling in your hair, claws scraping across your scalp. You close your eyes at the sharp pain from those claws, but you don’t mind a bit. In fact, it eggs you on. You swirl your tongue along the tip, one of your hands coming up to the second. You cup his lower shaft, grabbing onto it tightly. He gasps sharply, and when you glance up at his face, you can see that his eyes have closed. His tail curls tighter around you, his scales grinding, your ribs creaking. You draw in a sharp breath and press your lips against the tip, your fingers tracing the tip of the lower one.

You can see his eyelashes fluttering, and you can almost see the steam puffing out from his lips. It makes your pussy throb, and it gives you further confidence to go further.

You open your mouth wider, and obediently take his upper cock into your mouth. You start at the very tip, closing your eyes so you can focus on all of the sensations. You begin to inch forward, opening your jaws more and more as you take more and more of him in. He grunts, claws biting into your scalp as his hips jerk, trying to keep himself from thrusting yet. You wouldn’t mind if he did; you could handle it. You need to let him know that. You want him to know that. You’re his maid, after all.

Without warning, you press forward further, causing him to moan. You move your tongue along the bottom of his dick, and make sure to press harder against his lower tip; the combined sensations cause him to finally thrust, further jamming his upper shaft into your mouth. You feel the tip of it brush against the entrance to your throat, and you swallow instinctively, making sure to not bite down or gag. When you swallow around him, he lets out a grunt, his other hand tangling into your hair, tugging your hair as he pushes you closer to his pelvis. You continue to suck on it, only pausing when he thrusts, when you have to open your mouth and pull back just a little to breathe, before he tugs your head back into place.

You close your eyes tighter, swallowing as best you can. Your stomach is full of heat, turned on by his demanding touch. Using your hand, you manage to tease the tip of his lower dick, tracing the sides with your fingertips. It’s growing harder under your light touch, and so you grip on it tighter, giving it a light tug as you swallow around his upper shaft once more.

Sylus lets out a low growl and thrusts harder, this time making you choke just a little with surprise. He does so again, and you lean back on instinct, until he holds your head still and in place once more. He continues thrusting, his first dick growing with the hardness, further filling your mouth until you can’t even move your tongue against its bottom anymore. Your eyes sting with the pain of his thrusts, but you can’t help but crave the feeling. Your free hand reaches up, blindly grasping at his hip, nails dragging against his skin, digging in. You feel your nails strain from how hard you grip on, feel the heat and liquidity of his blood wetting your fingertips. He groans once more, and his claws scrape against the hard curve of your scalp and skull.

You wince slightly at the pain, but honestly, it actually feels rather… nice. Grounding, really, while you’re touching all of his two penises.

Suddenly, he seems to lose his balance, because he stumbles forward. You grunt, forced backwards until your back hits the stone bench behind you. Your spine digs into the hard, cold edge of it until you’re arching. Sylus follows your descent, one of his hands reaching out to catch himself on the surface of the bench. He pants heavily, his body shuddering. He looks down at you, his eyes shadowed as he stares at your face, your mouth stuffed full of his upper cock. He groans at the sight, shaking his head, closing his eyes, the image of it burned into his retinas and mind. You smirk as best you can with your current mouthful, despite the pain running up and down your spine from the impact.

Taking you by surprise, Sylus pulls both of his cocks away from you. They’re both standing at full attention now, throbbing and pulsing. You begin to pant as well, your cheeks and lips wet with your own saliva. In the next second, you’re yanked off of the bench by the dragon’s tail. He grabs your hips and turns you around in one motion, bending you forward until your chest and face are on the bench’s surface. You gasp with surprise when you feel his claws on your bare thighs, tracing into them sharply, leaving thin, red trails on your skin. You shudder, letting out a small, pleased noise.

He pushes the skirt of your maid’s dress up, and then grabs your underwear. Your eyes widen at the sudden actions, and you shift under his hands, your cheeks hot like molten lava. He yanks the skirt downwards, and you know he can see how wet you already are. You’re throbbing, needing some kind of stimulation, some kind of attention. You want his dicks inside of you. You hear him chuckle, one of his hands tracing up the side of your waist and ribs, cupping your breast through the fabric as he leans forward. Your breaths stutter, eyes closing as goosebumps raise along your skin. His touch is so gentle, so light, it’s almost addictive. His teeth sink into the side of your neck, causing you to choke on air. His other hand cups the curve of your bare ass, gripping the plumpness tightly.

“You’re already so wet, kitten,” he whispers into your ear, dragging his tongue along your neck. You whine softly, and he nips at the shell of your ear. “You’ve been good and cleaned me rather well… I suppose now you deserve a reward. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Before you can muster an answer, his hand moves from your ass and in between your thighs. You breathe heavily, nodding jerkily as his fingers slide between your wet folds, slipping along the smooth insides. Your skin tingles as he finds your clit and begins to rub it teasingly, his two dicks brushing against the side of your thigh. You pant as his rubbing presses down harder, up and down, up and down, side to side, round and round. You moan, legs shaking as he bites down on your neck once more with a small growl. That familiar, pleasant heat courses throughout your stomach and legs, tingling as it goes. You choke on butterflies, eyelashes fluttering.

As you begin to tremble, his warm fingers taking you higher and higher, he shifts against your ass, the hand on your breast disappearing. It finds itself on one of your ass cheeks, tracing the hole. It sends goosebumps up your arms, down your back. It’s almost too much at once when his other hand moves backwards, finding your opening. His claws never cut you once, but the cool smoothness of their surfaces add to the sensations you’re feeling all. His tail uncurls just enough to tease the tip of it along your clit, taking his fingers’ place.

Said fingers tease your two entrances, exploring both, causing both to quiver. Your vagina throbs as he sticks one finger inside, using your own cum to wet it. It slides in with ease, and you can feel it inside, shifting around, feeling your walls. You tremble, crying out as his other finger enters your ass, stretching it out at the same time as your vagina. Is he trying to overwhelm you? Trying to make you pass out? With the added sensation of his tail rubbing against your clit, and his teeth digging into your neck, you’re starting to think he is.

You shout out with the overstimulation of it all, hands flying forward. You grab at the opposite edge of the bench, the coldness of it biting into your hot, sweaty palms as he slides a second finger inside of you. He’s still circling your anus, slowly stretching it, as it needs a bit more convincing than your vagina. But eventually, he plunges a finger into it, using it to stretch it out further. You claw at the bench, resting your forehead against the stone, your heavy breaths fogging the reflective surface.

And then finally, finally, after an eternity of fingering you, he finally removes his fingers with wet squelches. You use the opportunity to catch your breath, before you’re crying out once more; he’s stuck one of his dicks into your wet pussy, instantly stretching it out further than before. You gasp for air, nails cracking on the stone bench, fireworks exploding in the pit of your stomach. He presses to the side of your neck, carefully sliding in, not going too fast to keep from hurting you, but also not going necessarily slow. He’s hungry for this- you can tell by the pace he’s taking. You have that same hunger, and the way your walls stretch begins to feed that hunger.

Once he’s halfway into your vagina, he slides his second dick into your anus. Your eyes snap open, and your groan, legs trembling under you as you’re stretched wide open in two areas at once. You choke on air, lungs drawing in shaky breaths. You feel so stuffed- so full, and he hasn’t even cummed yet. You already have once, and you can feel it dripping down the insides of your thighs, hot and slick.

“Excellent,” Sylus whispers into your ear, grinding against you with a low groan. He pants heavily, rapid breaths filling your ears. He shifts himself, letting you feel both of his dicks in both of your holes. You whine sharply, your hands turning white from how hard you’re clinging to the bench. He’s not thrusting yet- he’s trying to get you used to the feeling before he really starts. You grunt, biting down on your tongue before you begin to move your hips, helping him grind. His breath catches, and he lets out a strained laugh. “You’re taking me so well, kitten. Let’s go a bit faster, hm?”

And faster he goes. Your vision goes white for a moment, and all you can do is cling onto the edge of the bench, eyes rolling into the back of your head as pleasure fills you.

You choke as he pulls out only to thrust back in, his pelvis hitting your rear end. You feel both of his dicks deep inside of you, stretching you to the brim. You feel the one in your vagina hitting your vaginal walls, finding that perfect spot. Your head tosses back, and you press your toes against the ground for extra support as you clench around him. He grunts, his hands finding your waist, holding you in place when he thrusts once more, harder this time. He hits that g-spot once more, and the one in your ass rips further in, touching areas that have never been touched by another before. You push at the ground with your feet, trying to move, but he holds you in place, claws digging into your skin once more.

It’s all so much. You squirm and whimper, and he bites at the top of your shoulder, shaking his head a little to further deepen it. He thrusts a third time, and then picks up the pace, staying at that angle to continue hitting your perfect spot. Tears pour down your cheeks, and sweat dampens your skin. Your stomach heaves, your heart racing almost painfully in your chest.

You’re floating as he pounds against you, coming in and out, in and out in a smooth motion. Your mouth hangs open, your forehead pressed hard against the bench, trying to find some kind of lifeline in the overstimulation. You’re tightening up, a familiar, tingling heat spreading through your thighs and gut and chest. He grunts, readjusts himself, and plunges in once more, making you see stars.

You cry out, and you release all at once. As you do, you tighten beautifully around both of his cocks. He growls, eyes rolling into the back of his head, and he feels himself burst shortly after you, following behind your pleased cry.

He fills you to bursting, and some of his cum leaks from your asshole, trailing over your folds and his lower dick, before dripping onto the backs of your feet. You’re trembling, and you can feel him shaking, as you both try and catch your breaths. He doesn’t pull out from either of your holes yet, remaining in place. He leans his forehead against the back of your shoulder, drawing in a deep whiff of your arousal. It’s delicious.

Your cunt is throbbing at this point, your vaginal walls and anus quivering around both of his lengths. You feel limp, drawn out, overused. He presses soft kisses up the side of your neck a second later, lips glancing over the side of your temple. He hums deeply, nose tracing over the curve of your jaw.

“Did you enjoy your gift, kitten?” Sylus asks in a low, rumbling voice. He kisses your cheek, lips warm against your skin. Mustering up your strength, you turn your head enough to catch his lips with your own, brushing them together lightly. He hums into it, eyes closing momentarily. As you kiss, he slowly and carefully pulls out of your holes, both popping out with wet “squelches”. “I’m going to take that as a yes. Now, don’t move. I’m going to clean you up.”

Catching your breath, you look over your shoulder, seeing him grab the water bucket from before and a fresh rag. “I thought that was my job, master,” you murmur, your mouth dry after gasping for air, after moaning and crying out. He chuckles, shaking his head as he crouches beside you. With gentle hands, he grabs your hips once more and turns you around, resting your back against the bench you’d just been fucked on. Dipping the rag into the water, he brings it up to your sides, wiping the blood from your skin.

“This is part of your gift,” he replies. “Don’t take it for granted, or I’ll stop.”

You close your mouth, allowing him to open your legs as he desires. He carefully wipes up the cum from your inner thighs, the water still warm from earlier, somehow. You watch him through half lidded eyes, head tilting to the side as he drags the rag up the top of your folds carefully; not pressing down hard enough to irritate your throbbing clit.

He moves slowly, leisurely, humming an off key version of a song you’d sang the day before. It’s spo off key, you almost don’t recognize the song. You bite down on your tongue once more to keep yourself from giggling; he can be adorable for a terrifying dragon.

“How do you feel?” he asks suddenly, glancing up at you, red eyes sparkling. “Are you okay?”

You can’t help but stare into his eyes, entranced for a moment. You hum lightly in response, closing your legs once he’s finished cleaning you up. He hums as well, and stands back up. He bends over for a moment to scoop you into his arms, holding you close to his broad chest. “I feel… nice,” you reply after a moment, resting your head against his shoulder, allowing your eyes to close. “That was nice.”

“Only nice?” he asks, a small huff escaping his lips. “Come now, it was better than nice.”

You chuckle, running your fingers along the curve of his deltoid. “Okay… it was great, master,” you say with a wistful sigh.

“Call me Sylus, kitten,” he says, steps even. “I think you’ve earned the right.”

Maybe you’re no longer sick of being his maid.

[ijustwannabecool]

Media Day Mayhem

Charles Leclerc x Wife!Reader

Summary... What should’ve been a simple twenty-minute press conference turns into full-blown chaos when Charles brings the kids along—and then the kids get their own turn behind the mic.

Warnings: Pure fluff, kid chaos, dad!Charles, teasing, swearing mentioned by children (in French), banter, major secondhand embarrassment

A/N: you guys... the way I had too much fun writing this! I hope you guys enjoy this little story. I would love to actually see a moment like this in the future maybe. That would be iconic. I hope you guys enjoy it. Please let me know what you guys wanna see next!!

If you loved this story and want to support more F1 fics and soft chaos like this, feel free to buy me a matcha 🍵 or reblog/comment to share the love!

As always—happy reading, and have a beautiful day today

Like, comment, reblog, enjoy :)

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The press conference was supposed to last twenty minutes. Just a few pre-weekend questions before FP1, some sponsor shoutouts, and a bit of media fluff. Charles had done this a hundred times. Easy.

What he hadn’t done a hundred times was a press conference with all three of his children clinging to him like magnets to a fridge.

“Mila, baby, don’t twist that,” Charles says quietly into his mic, gently removing his daughter’s hand from the cord running down his chest. She’s seated sideways on his lap, twirling the cable like it’s spaghetti. His twin boys, Luca and Jules, are squished on either side of him on the small bench Ferrari provided — all three with messy chestnut curls identical to their father’s.

“Charles, you’ve had a strong start to the season. What would you attribute that to?” a reporter asks.

Charles smiles, glancing down quickly at Luca, who’s trying to sneakily remove one of his shoes.

“Uh—consistency, for sure. And a lot of work with the team during the off-season,” he answers, his voice smooth despite the circus unfolding around him.

“I want to talk!” Jules blurts out, grabbing at the microphone in front of his dad. “I’m fast too!”

“You are very fast,” Charles replies automatically, pressing a quick kiss to his son’s temple as reporters chuckle.

“I beat Mila in the hallway!” Jules announces proudly.

“You cheated!” Mila screeches.

Charles coughs to cover his laugh. “Okay, okay, let’s not yell, we are live on camera, darlings.”

Another journalist attempts to move things along. “Charles, what’s your mindset going into qualifying tomorrow?”

Before he can answer, Luca pipes up: “Papa said the car was ‘a pain in the—’”

Charles snaps his fingers in front of him. “Luca! What did we say about telling secrets?”

Jules leans toward the mic. “Mummy says we can’t say ‘merde’ either.”

Charles hides his face with his hand for a beat as the media room loses it with laughter.

From the wings, you — Y/N — shake your head, arms crossed but clearly amused. Charles glances over at you like please come rescue me, but you're already motioning for the boys to come to you.

“Alright, boys, go with Maman,” Charles says, ushering them off the bench.

“Can we get snacks now?” Mila asks, hopping down and walking backwards toward you.

“Only if you stop tattletelling,” Charles replies sternly.

Jules makes a face as you crouch and hold their hands on either side of you, whispering something that makes them all go quiet and pouty at the same time.

Charles watches for a second longer than he means to—how you always manage to calm them down like magic—before turning back to the mic.

“Apologies. Where were we?”

“Honestly?” one of the reporters grins. “This is better than Drive to Survive.”

Charles laughs. “Welcome to my real full-time job.”

As he tries to finish the final question, he feels a small tug at his pants. Mila has snuck back on stage with her stuffed bunny.

“I forgot Bun-Bun,” she whispers.

He grabs it quickly and hands it to her with a gentle ruffle to her hair. “Okay, allez, go sit with Maman now.”

She nods seriously, then skips off.

Charles clears his throat. “Anyway—thank you all. I think I’m going to go find a quiet corner to cry in now.”

The media room erupts into chuckles again as Charles walks off, applesauce pouch tucked in one hand, baby wipes in the other, and you waiting with a knowing smirk and two giggling little boys tugging at your sleeves.

Charles barely made it three meters off the stage before Mila tugged on his sleeve and declared, “It’s our turn now.” He blinked, confused, until he spotted the row of miniature chairs being set up at the front of the room—and the Ferrari PR team, looking far too pleased with themselves as they waved the kids forward like VIP guests. Jules had already climbed onto one of the seats, Luca was dragging a juice box across the floor like it was part of his media kit, and Mila marched toward the microphone like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment. Charles stared for a beat, caught between horror and awe.

This was not on the schedule, he thought, eyes narrowing. Whose idea was this? Did Y/N sign off on this? Is this revenge for the broken espresso machine?

He looked toward you for backup, but you were already leaning against the wall, arms crossed and smirking like you’d known this was coming all along. When you caught his eye, you shrugged playfully and whispered, “You survived your press conference. Good luck surviving theirs.”

Charles let out a breath, resigned, and folded his arms across his chest. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered under his breath, watching his children take the stage with terrifying confidence.

Ferrari may build the fastest cars in the world, but nothing moves quicker than my own kids when there’s a microphone involved.

The Ferrari media tent is buzzing with cameras, press badges, and a surprising amount of juice boxes.

——

A journalist clears their throat. “Alright… first question for Mila. What’s it like having a Formula One driver as a papa?”

Mila: “Loud.” Jules: “Fast.” Luca: “Sweaty.”

Everyone bursts into laughter. Mila shrugs. “He yells a lot on the radio. I don’t think he knows we can hear it sometimes.”

Charles covers his face with both hands.

Another reporter tries to keep a straight face. “Jules, if you were in charge of Ferrari, what would you change first?”

Jules (serious): “Make the cars green.”

Luca: “And add rocket launchers!”

Charles chokes.

Mila (disapproving): “That’s not safe. I’d make the suits pink and add glitter so they sparkle on TV.”

Reporter: “What do you think Papa says the most on race day?”

Jules: “Merde.”

Mila: “No! He says ‘focus.’ And ‘where’s my drink?’” Luca: “And ‘WHY ARE THE TYRES GONE?!’”

The room is losing it. Charles is whispering something to Y/N, who is fully crying from laughter.

A hand goes up from a British reporter. “Luca, if you won a race, what would be the first thing you'd do?”

Luca (without hesitation): “Call my mumma.”

Everyone collectively awws—until he adds:

Luca: “And then eat a chocolate croissant the size of my head.”

Mila (muttering): “That already happened.”

Reporter: “Jules, do you like watching the races?”

Jules: “Only the start. Then I get bored and play Hot Wheels.”

Mila: “I watch the whole thing. I have a clipboard and give Papa scores.”

Luca: “She gave him a 6 last time and he almost won.”

Mila: “He messed up the overtake.”

Charles looks wounded.

Final question from a German journalist: “Mila, what advice would you give your Papa before his next race?”

Mila leans into the mic like a pro.

Mila: “Be brave. Go fast. And don’t cuss if the tires fall off.”

Everyone in the room breaks into applause as Charles walks forward, scooping Luca into his arms while Mila and Jules are immediately surrounded by press taking photos and asking for high fives.

Y/N slips a hand into Charles’, her smile wide. “They handled that better than you did.”

Charles grins, eyes still on his little trio. “They’re natural born media drivers.”

——

Back at the hotel that evening, Charles was flat on his back on the couch, eyes closed, two juice box wrappers on his chest. You were sitting cross-legged beside him, flicking through the photos already going viral online—Mila adjusting her mic like a pro, Jules midair off the chair, Luca holding up fingers like he was flashing a gang sign.

“Next time,” Charles murmured, eyes still shut, “we tell them I only have one child. Maybe two, max.”

You smiled, brushing curls from his forehead. “Sure, baby. But admit it… they kind of stole the show.”

He cracked an eye open, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m not even mad.”

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[marvelwitchergilmore]

Dog Tags (4)

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> After you get discharged from the hospital, things start to change between you and Bucky.

Disclaimer: This is part four to parts one, two and three. Little angst, lot of fluff, Bucky and reader train together, found family moments between the team, Sam and Wanda being exhausted shippers, Bucky blushes, swearing. Not Proof Read.

By the time you were finally discharged from the hospital, Bucky was the one to bring you home.

“Bucky, I can carry my own bags.” You watched as he hauled your overnight over his shoulder before pushing the trunk of the car down. 

“You’ve only just been discharged from the hospital and I don’t exactly feel like calling them up, as your husband, and telling them you’ve busted a stitch.”

“My stitches healed ages ago.”

Bucky shook his head. “Not taking any chances.”

“You’re a pain in my ass,” you told him, though it didn’t hold as much bite as it used to.

Bucky turned around with you in the elevator before clicking the button for the compound apartments. 

“And you’re a thorn in my side, sweetheart.”

You just smiled to yourself as the doors closed in front of yourself and Bucky.

It was noticeable, the change, between yourself and Bucky. 

The rare good morning grunts, or more often; complete, yet heavy, silence. They had been swapped for smiles and genuine good mornings. The training and shift patterns were easier to assign, mission reports were completed with less dent marks in the paper, and the evening dinners were less awkward. 

Sam and Wanda had become hopeful. They all had. 

“They look happy, don’t they?” Sam asked aloud, already knowing Wanda was silently standing beside him. 

She smiled. “They really do.”

Down the hallway, you and Bucky were exiting the training room, laughing. The look in Bucky’s eyes – the light – had been rare to see in the last year. But when he was with you…

The light between both of you could blind any shadow. 

“Is it permanent?” Sam asked, something in his gut denying him true joy. 

Wanda smiled, hopefully. “I think so. Their connection runs deep. He helped her heal. She helped him. Nobody can end a connection like that.”

Sam nodded, turning his head to look back down the corridor where you and Bucky had just turned. He could only hope it would last. 

Bucky had been in love with you for a long time, even if he didn’t like it. Sam didn’t want him to hide it away. He deserved love. And so did you. 

Even when all you did was fight, you were each other's safe space. 

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Shut up.”

“Because one wrong hit and it all falls down.”

You were starting to regret agreeing to family games night at Kate’s apartment. It was yourself, Kate, Yelena, Clint and Bucky; all sat on the floor. 

“Careful, doll.”

“Shut up.”

You knew you’d taken a risky move with the jenga block, but if you’d chosen the one Clint had first been trying to ‘help’ you towards, you’d lose. 

“You know, this is a stupid game. We should play something else.” Yelena said. Her’s would be a different tune if she hadn’t lost the last round. 

Kate shushed her, “She’s gonna do it.”

Clint looked at his work partner. “This is a one for all game. Can’t be girls vs boys. We’re outnumbered.”

Yelena scoffed. “Bucky is like…ancient. He qualifies for two people, at least.”

You sniggered, trying to keep your focus on the wooden block. 

“You are a child.” Clint deadpanned before turning to Bucky. “They’re children.”

“Ah!” You pulled the brick free and held up your arms. “Done it!”

The tower remained standing for another minute before Clint took his go and the tower came falling down. 

Yelena just laughed, “Ha.”

You chuckled, pushing yourself to stand. “Okay, I’m getting another drink.”

“I’ll set up the next game.” Yelena called out before picking up the monopoly board. 

“I’ll come with you,” Bucky said as you stepped over his legs before helping him up.

As the pair of you walked into the kitchen, you could hear the other three stuck in an argument over who should be the banker. 

“Beer?”

Bucky held out his hand and you passed him the two in your hand. Popping off both caps, he threw the tops into the sink before handing you yours. 

You both clinked the necks of the bottles against each other’s. “You did good.”

“Would have been easier if I didn’t have this super annoying voice coming from across the table.”

Bucky smirked a little, narrowing his eyes. “Now where would the fun in that be?”

You just shook your head as you took a sip of your beer. You leaned against the sink as Bucky leaned adjacent to you. 

“So…”

“So?”

Bucky lowered the beer bottle from his lips and braced himself on the counter. “I’ve got a free day tomorrow if you want to…do something. With me.” 

You looked him over. “Why are you shy?”

You saw him blush a little as he looked away. “I’m not- I’m not shy.”

You smiled and Bucky felt like he needed to look away despite that being the last thing he wanted to do. 

“Bucky,” your voice was soft as you looked at him. “What is it?”

“I just…” Bucky’s question was on the tip of his tongue. But then he chickened out. “I was wondering if you wanted to train with me tomorrow?”

“You were nervous to ask me to train with you?”

Bucky nodded. “Last time I asked, you said no.”

You just stood back for a moment, your eyes fixed on him. “I’ll train with you.”

Bucky felt like his crush in a 40s dancehall had just finally agreed to dance with him. “Really?”

“Really,” you nodded. “Don’t know who would train on their day off, but sure.” You smiled before grabbing the bowl of snacks on the kitchen counter. 

“We better get back in there before the bank has a hostage situation.”

Bucky chuckled, following you back into the living room. 

By the time the next afternoon rolled around, you and Bucky were beat. 

Bucky held his side. “I thought you were taking it easy after your injuries.”

You laughed, “I got a full clearance from the hospital four months ago. Good as new. Thought I’d go easy on you? Never.”

You almost had Bucky to his feet but he pulled a reverse on you. Somehow you found yourself trapped on your knees, your back against his chest. “Little too cocky, sweetheart. And who said I wanted you to go easy on me?”

Jabbing him in the ribs, he calculated your next move. You were rolled onto the mat together. As you had Bucky on his back, you felt him reach for your knife. Only, it wasn’t there. 

He felt a small pinch by his side. He looked down, a little breathless. “You remembered.”

A small chuckle left you. “I remember a lot of things about you, Barnes.”

You didn’t know what it was. Your words and their hidden meaning, the smile on his face as he was looking at you, the way his eyes flicked to your lips, or the fact that yours did the same with him. Maybe it was his hand, holding onto the side of your leg, his thumb mindlessly rubbing back and forth. Maybe it was the breathless exchange. Or maybe it was your constant reminder of him that fell forward from your t-shirt. 

Dangling between you both were Bucky’s dog tags. 

Pulling your attention away from the slow-swinging metal, Bucky spoke, “You’re still wearing them.”

Your gaze locked onto his. “Yeah…never take them off.”

Maybe it was the fact that Bucky was looking at you like…like he wanted to kiss you. Or the fact that you wanted him to. 

But something shifted. 

You cleared your throat and quickly moved yourself from Bucky’s body and stood up. “I, uh, I should…there’s somewhere I’ve gotta…” 

You couldn’t think straight. You just needed to get out of there, before you did something reckless. 

The rest was a blur. Gathering your things up, Bucky slowly standing up and trying to keep you calm. He was clueless and worried. And somewhere between it all, you’d pressed his dog tags into his palm and left. 

For the next month, things were…awkward, to say the least. 

“Has she told you anything?” Bucky asked, once again frustrated that you weren’t talking to him. 

It was bordering on week 5 of you ignoring him. 

And it. Was. Maddening. 

Wanda shook her head. “No, nothing.”

In saying you’d told her nothing, that was the truth. But deep down, Wanda already knew why. Whatever had happened between you and Bucky after that day…it had scared you. It had opened something up inside of you that you’d been forcing down for a long, long time. 

“I thought we were finally getting somewhere,” Bucky sighed as he sat down. 

“Maybe you should just try and talk to her.”

“How?” Bucky almost exclaimed.

“And we’re standing again,” Wanda whispered to herself as Bucky launched himself from the sofa and started pacing again. 

“Everytime I see her, she doesn’t look at me. If she sees me coming down the corridor, she takes a completely different exit. We got assigned a three day recon mission last week, she won’t take the mission.”

“She’ll take the mission, Bucky.”

He just shook his head. “She won’t. She hates me. Again. I don’t even…”

“She doesn’t hate you, Bucky. She never has.” Wanda told him. “Look, Y/n…she’s not someone who trusts easily. And she trusts you, Bucky. I know she does. Maybe even more than she even knows. Which also means, I know that it scares her.”

Wanda stood and laid a light hand on Bucky’s chest, a little over his heart. “Just talk to her. Find her. Make her sit down if you have to. Talk. It’s the only thing you can do.”

Bucky bowed his head and sighed. That was even if he could get you alone in a room for ten minutes. 

“We need to talk.”

You ducked your head as if a bullet had just been fired towards you. “Jesus- James.” You closed your eyes and sighed heavily. “You need to stop sneaking up on me. Make a noise or do something. How long have you been standing there?”

“Ten minutes. At least,” Bucky answered honestly before pushing himself from the wall. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t about to run off. And, from the way you’ve been punching that bag, I’d say you’re really pissed at someone.”

“Want me to give you three guesses?”

Bucky just hummed and continued to watch you as he stood a little closer. 

“What do you want, Bucky?”

“I want to talk.”

“What about?” You continued to hit the punching bag in front of you. 

“You know what.”

“No, I don’t.”

Bucky came and held the bag still and for a moment, you stood back. Breathless, sweaty and tired, you looked at him. 

“I know you’re not dumb, Y/n. You know what.”

You stepped away, untying the bandage from your hands. “Enlighten me.”

Bucky watched as you walked away from him. He could take a lifetime of you hating him, but not a lifetime of you ignoring him. 

“Aren’t you tired of this game?”

“What game?”

“This one. And the one we’ve been doing for the last few years. I thought we made up. I thought we were finally friends.”

You shook your head. “You don’t wanna be my friend, Bucky.”

“Yes, I do.” He stood in front of you before you could walk away. You finally looked at him. 

For the first time in over a month, you finally looked at him. And he knew it was still true. He could drown in your gaze for the rest of his life. 

“Or maybe I don’t.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What I do know, however, is that I want you to talk to me. I can take you hating me for the rest of your life, Y/n. But I can’t take you ignoring me. Pretending like we don’t exist.”

“We?”

“What happened here?” You knew what he meant. The training mats were less than eight feet away from you. “That day?”

You turned your gaze away from him, trying to run away from the conversation. “Nothing. Nothing happened.”

He let you pass but he still followed behind you. “Something happened.”

“Nothing happened, Bucky.”

“Y/n.” Bucky stopped walking. 

“Goodnight, James. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Y/n, wait!” 

Finally, you stopped in your tracks. Your back was still facing him, but you had stopped running. For the moment. 

Slowly, you turned around to face him. Your grip tightened on your bag. “What?”

Bucky stood looking at you. Breathless. Angry. Worried. Sad. Annoyed. Tired.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he muttered, almost to himself as he bowed his head and braced his hands on his hips. “I can’t.” He looked back up at you, a little more determined. “I like you, Y/n. I can deal with you hating me. I’d prefer it, actually, compared to you ignoring me. If I’m being completely honest, I more than like you. But since I’ve barely been able to keep you in the same room as me for the last month, I’m gonna keep that to myself until I know you’re not gonna run away from me.”

You didn’t know what to say, so Bucky continued. 

“Just…tell me what happened…please.” Bucky was ready to get on his knees and beg. 

Your words were caught in your throat. Stuck in place, burning underneath whilst freezing on top. So you did the only thing your body was allowing you to do. 

Move. 

You could have turned away. You could have ignored it all. 

But you stayed. 

Bucky watched as you dropped the bag from your shoulder and it landed with a loud thud on the ground. Then you were making your way over to him. 

Pulling him in by his dog tags, you placed your other hand by the back of his head and kissed him. 

It was safe to say Bucky hadn’t been expecting it. Dreamed of it a few times, but never expected it. 

It felt surreal. 

You felt his hand clasp your waist, his fingertips pressing lightly into your skin almost as if to check you were real. It wasn’t long before you felt one of his hands beside your face, trying to hold you closer as he kissed you right back. 

Eventually the kiss broke apart, but Bucky wasn’t ready to let you go. 

“That,” you eventually said. “That was what happened…what almost happened,” you corrected. 

Bucky felt lightheaded and unsteady on his feet but in the best way. 

“You should have stayed that day.”

You found the courage to finally look at him. 

You shook your head. “I…couldn’t. I know it’s bullshit but…it scared me. More than anything. I’ve been hiding that part of myself for so long I just…I didn’t know what to do.”

“Well, just for future reference, this is the better answer.” 

You felt yourself chuckle a little once you saw the corner of Bucky’s mouth lift up. 

“I can take you hating me, doll. But I can’t take the silence. Even when we’re fighting, I still know you’re there. You still talk to me.”

That was when Bucky let you go. 

“What are you doing?”

From around his neck, he pulled the dog tags up and over his head. “Giving you these back.”

“But they’re yours.”

Bucky just laid them over your head and around you, holding them with a smile. “They’ve been yours since you stole them, doll.”

Holding them in your palm, you looked at them. 

“They haven’t been the only thing you’ve stolen from me.”

You looked back to Bucky, a softened smile on your face. And he was looking right back at you, the same stupid grin on his face that had been making your stomach fill with butterflies. 

“Promise me you won’t run away from me, again?”

You shrugged. “Like you said, this is the better answer.”

Bucky grinned, sharing a laugh with you as he cupped your face before kissing you again. 

He hadn’t been expecting for you to kiss him when you did, but he was certainly glad you had. Because it meant he could finally kiss you back.