#era: call off your ghost | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

b1rds3ye · 1 year ago

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Mask On

How the boys react to their new ally who is more adamant on wearing their mask than Ghost himself.

Characters: Captain John Price, Simon “Ghost” Riley, Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

GN!Reader w/ no physical descriptions (except shorter than Ghost)

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 3.1 (~0.8 each)

Warning: Canon-Typical Violence, Mentions of Reader potentially having insecurities, Not Proof Read

A/N: You know what maybe I want to be the badass masked character 😤

Captain John Price

The captain is thorough, and he immediately knew something was up when he looked up your file only to be greeted with no photo. He’s honestly a little peeved that his rank doesn’t grant him this confidential information, he’s known Simon before he took up the mask so this is the first time he’s genuinely had a faceless ally

But ultimately, as long as he can trust that you’ll be following orders, he doesn’t care if you have a mask or not. But his concern is only that for a fellow soldier

It takes a little longer for him to warm up to you - facial expressions tell a lot about someone’s character. He’s a bit prickly around you, he learns about you indirectly with how you interact with the rest of the 141

But over time there’s a shift. He can’t pinpoint when exactly but the sight of your mask relaxes him. After days separated on a mission, high stakes and adrenaline has Price snapping his head at the faintest of foreign sounds. But upon the familiar sight of your signature mask, he feels at ease

Price is fiercely protective of you and your mask. He likens it to his hat, only far more important - that mask is part of your identity and he knows just how important a soldier’s psyche is. If the enemy manages to take off your mask, he’ll stop at nothing to get it back on your behalf, even if you reluctantly tell him to abandon it

If he can’t salvage your mask, Price has now made it a habit to carry a balaclava for you in one of his pockets. If that’s not available, he’ll even offer you his hat, tipping it down far enough to obscure your eyes

Off duty he finds himself staring at your visage more these days. Looking at how the mask curves over your features, or the small slivers of skin that reveal themselves. He catches himself before you notice but he’s still disappointed in himself, he feels like a Victorian-era prude hyperventilating at the sight of an ankle

“Looking fresh, sergeant.”

You let out an audible chortle at Price’s words. The last mission was a success but at great costs, one of them being your mask damaged beyond repair during melee combat. Your face still wasn’t revealed, but slashes against fabric embedded with dirt and ash have made your signature mask look unrecognisable. Immediately upon returning to base and after debriefing, you were out of commission until you could don a new mask.

Price would be lying if said he didn’t miss your presence for the last few days, hiding away from the rest of the soldiers in base. He has no doubt you’ve still maintained your training and visiting the infirmary for mandatory checkups, but he’s gotten far too used to you being at his beck and call. The famed sight of your mask is no longer in his periphery, giving a nod of approval (not that he ever needed your approval, but he does enjoy your attention).

And now here you are with a new mask, the highlights glowing under the overhead lights and the darks swallowing up the lightwaves like an animal starved. Your updated look had you noticeably confident, shoulders square and head tall.

“Thanks, Captain.”

He can hear your smile and he ends up sitting next to you. Did he need to sit so close? No, but he acts as though his thigh brushing against yours was pure coincidence.

“What are you going to do with the old one?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, giving a light pat to a pocket in your cargo pants that your past mask currently resides in. “I know there’s a lot of memories in this… it’s my first mask… but I don’t know what to do with it.”

“I’ll keep it.”

You look at him. Price now has the uncanny ability to read your mood purely through your body language. From the speed at which you turn your head, the inclination of the neck, how your shoulders slant, he’s surprised that such a vicious soldier can act so endearingly in these moments.

“For what?”

“Safekeeping,” he says simply. “I’m proud of my soldiers, sergeant - want to remember their accomplishments.”

You shrug in agreement and fish your mask out of your pocket. You don’t need to know how much Price truly values you, how having your mask will be like having a part of you by his side to motivate him when he’s working alone.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

You’ve got a mask? Cool, so does he. Simon really doesn’t care when he first met you. He offers a simple nod of acknowledgement to you and then it’s all mission talk. If anything, the mask makes him respect you more, like him it’s always the masked ones who’ve seen shit and can get shit done

Even before you two became friends, you two were often paired together for operations. Perhaps it was just assumed the two masked people were on the same wavelength and to be fair, they were right. It didn’t take long for Ghost to admire your prowess on the battlefield

However as the two of you start to get closer, Simon gets a bit of a eureka moment. So this is how all his allies feel when trying to get along with a masked figure, unable to see any of their expressions. Oh how the tables have turned. It’s not daunting for him, more just amusing

He knows the struggles of having a mask so he helps out where he can. He reminds you if it’s been some time since you last washed your mask (advice he does not follow himself) and he’ll offer you some of his obsidian powder he uses to obscure any uncovered patches of skin

Price often has the two of you accompany him for interrogations, he calls it “mask pressure”. There’s nothing more terrifying to a target than having two imposing faceless figures standing on either side of them, unreadable and unpredictable

It’s clear you don’t want to show your face to anyone and Simon doesn’t question it. His natural curiosity is not worth your discomfort and he makes that abundantly clear. If on the rare occasion you catch him without a mask, he’ll sometimes put it back on so that you don’t have to be the only one with their face covered

If your mask is ever compromised, Simon covers you with his hulking figure. No one dares get on the bad side of Ghost who shoots the most terrifying glares towards anyone looking in his - and consequently your - way. He stands in front of you, back rigid and shoulders square, his posture only slacking if he feels you hold onto his back, seeking comfort

A few weeks ago, when left in a briefing, you finally noticed Simon was staring at you from across the room. He had been staring for a good while now, but you - ever the diligent soldier - were distracted discussing tactics with a corporal. So there he was, standing and observing in the corner of the room - his “observing” being drinking the sight of you. And that was when he noticed, among all the glory that was you, that your mask was slightly off alignment. Cue his eyes being trained on your head for you to get the idea that something was wrong.

When your head stayed still - probably challenging his gaze - he tried to change tactics. He added the occasional upward jerk of the head - miming an attempt to shake the mask back in place - but your head only tilted in confusion. You still could not figure out what he was doing.

Eventually he gave up and walked up to you. He lifted a tentative hand, silently asking for permission and you nodded. He pinched at the fabric on the side of your face.

“Your mask’s slippin’,” he said gruffly. It wasn’t the end of the world, only a small adjustment that only someone as observant as him could notice. Still, he felt satisfied at your heavy exhale, you must’ve noticed it’s a little easier to breathe with everything in alignment now.

“Thanks.”

Today, Simon finds your gaze trained on him, head following whenever he moves across the room. You used to stare when you first met, you probably found him intimidating and he doesn’t blame you. He thought you’d be over that though, you two were closer than that. At least he hoped.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He eventually asks and that spurs you into action.

Standing in front of him, you reach up, your hand grabbing the top half of the skull that overlays his balaclava. Your thumb lightly hooks into the skull’s eye socket - a little close to Simon’s actual eye but he trusts you. He feels you tug upwards, and Simon now realises that the skull had been sinking down his face, the peripheral around his brow no longer obscured. He’ll need to reapply the glue for the mask later.

“We really need a hand sign for this,” you mutter.

And so you two make one. It’s discreet, a closed fist with a thumb poking out, dragged from the jawline up to the hairline. The rest of the 141 just look at the two of you in confusion whenever you use it though, your little secret.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

Johnny’s generally a good judge of character. Although it’s a little uncanny being unable to see your features, he’s used to it because of Simon. One conversation is all he needs to reach a conclusion as to what type of person you are and now he treats you as if you’re good friends

Yes, he is curious about what you look like under the mask. He used to make comments about it occasionally until he caught you on a bad day

“C’mon Sarge, just a peek.” “Not happening, Johnny.” “What, you ugly?” “… that’s not for you to speculate, MacTavish.” “Shit, sorry. I- I’d never think that of you, or care. I know you’re a looker.”

And Johnny stands by his statement. Even if he’s never seen your face he quickly developed a little crush on you. How you conduct yourself in battle has him watching you with stars in his eyes and he just knows you’ll take his breath away if you ever show your face

When Johnny’s bored, he likes doodling your mask and potential alternative designs in his journal which he’ll show you sometimes. He’s not an artist but he gets the idea across. He’s created a “happy” design, an “angry” one, and the “when I see Soap” design which is just your standard mask with a whole lot of shoddily drawn love hearts on it (you haven't seen that design yet)

He’s genuinely surprised at how determined you are at keeping your mask on in all circumstances - you’re worse than Simon at this point - but he’ll never ask because he doesn’t want to potentially open up old wounds. Despite his curiosity for what you could look like, Johnny will never invade your privacy and ensures no one else does either. If you’re in your room he’ll knock once, twice, thrice, until he’s absolutely sure you’re ready for him to enter

If something goes wrong and your mask falls off he’s looking away and shoving everyone else to look away as well. He’s like a guard dog, shouting and name-shaming anyone who dares look in your direction. No one except other members of the 141 will be able to approach you until you’re covered

Was it smart to have you and Soap - combined to be the most disruptive and obnoxious soldiers on the field - alone to handle a stealth mission that was off the books? No, but you sure as hell weren’t going to disappoint Price or Laswell. The objective was clear and the rules of engagement were even clearer; under no circumstance can the enemy know you’re from 141.

“We’re gonna need to cover our faces,” Johnny mutters absentmindedly beside you. You pull your binoculars down to send him an incredulous look and he chuckles. “I need to cover my face.”

“You got a mask?”

There’s a pause and Johnny’s looking at you, eyes glinting in that familiar mischief. That was never good news.

“You bet.”

You offer a tentative nod of encouragement before lifting your binoculars back up to observe the target site. You hear the repeated shuffles of fabric against fabric and clothes sliding against skin. It’s prolonged, you swear it’s enough time for Johnny to change his entire uniform. His breaths become muted, mouth now covered until it eventually falls to complete silence. It’s unnerving, the designated demolitions expert is not known for his silence, and you have to look back at him yet again.

Of course you expected Johnny to be wearing a mask, but it was the mask itself that took you by surprise.

“Is that… mine?”

“Was yours.”

You squint and somewhere in the depths of your mind, you vaguely recall Soap asking if he could have one of your spare masks back at the base. You humoured him, and said your wardrobe was his.

That was your first mistake.

You figured he was just going to take the piss, wear your mask to scare some privates around the base. You didn’t think he’d actually wear it on a mission. It was unexpected, but it felt like an honour. How he was so willing to identify with you in some of the most dangerous of situations.

But your silence has Johnny getting fidgety. He’s already reaching up to pull the mask off.

“I have a normal balaclava. If you don’t like this I can-”

“Wear it.”

You can’t see Johnny’s face but you see him pull his head back in surprise. Then he smiles, one so wide, expanding his cheeks you can see it stretch your mask. In that moment you’re glad your mask obscures your features as you feel yourself grin at his own joy.

“We’re a team, aye?”

“You bet.”

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Kyle’s may be close to Simon but he's not entirely used to masked allies. When you first arrived he shot Captain Price a cautious look, a silent conversation between them finished by Price’s definitive nod. Eventually he relents and puts up with you

Subconsciously, without seeing your face he ends up reducing you to a weapon. He respects you like a soldier, a robot. His language is restrained, only issuing orders and you recite them back

It’s only when another soldier cracks a joke on the mission and you laugh does it flick a switch in Kyle’s mind. You weren’t all orders, you weren’t a machine, you were a human (with a damn nice voice might he add). He feels terrible for reducing you to a tool simply because he can’t see your face but he’ll make up for it now

He becomes a bit of a menace in the sparse quiet moments of a mission. He makes the occasional one liner about how you wear the mask so others aren’t distracted by your good looks, but then changes the topic so quickly you’re not even sure he said it

Yes, Kyle’s a little obsessed with your voice. He can’t see you and he doesn’t have the experience like Price or Simon to read body language accurately. Instead, he can read your mood near perfectly with the inflections in your voice (which is arguably more impressive). While he doesn’t want you to ever be upset or angry, sometimes how you taunt the enemy has a shiver running down his spine

Because your mouth is blocked by a mask, many allies don’t offer you food or drinks. Not Kyle though, if he’s grabbed refreshments, he always ensures he has extra for you. At first he just gives them to you and then leaves. But when you said it was okay for him to stay - trusting him enough to just look away when you lift you mask - Kyle’s heart soared

If anything happens to reveal your face, Kyle is immediately by your side. He pulls you close to provide comfort, while also guiding your head into his neck or shoulder to block anyone from seeing you. Another member of the 141 will find a solution to cover your face, you are Kyle’s first priority and he’ll gladly hold you all day

After a long mission, you and Kyle are finally safe upon reaching exfil. Sitting on a helicopter Kyle slumps against his seat, and you do the same beside him. Although he could finally relax, he feels absolutely filthy, swamped in his own sweat under multiple layers. Dirt and mud caked his boots and crept all the way up to his thighs. Some even sneaked up into under his tactical vest.

He spares a look and sometimes he thinks you can’t possibly be human. The heat is suffocating enough without a mask, Kyle has long forgone his signature cap to let his head breathe. If your body language was any indicator, you weren’t handling the sweltering heat of the helicopter engine or Al Mazrah’s temperament. Your chest notably heaving under the weight of your tactical gear, breaths so laboured it sent the fabric around your mouth pulling and billowing with each inhale and exhale.

There isn’t much Kyle can do for comfort, but he tries. He shifts a little closer to you. Your head shifts to look at him, the movement was far too slow, like your head was too heavy and his heart tugs a little.

With one hand, Kyle gently tilts your face up to him. With the other he lightly pinches the fabric of your mask at the junction between your jawline and ear. Teasing it between his fingers, when he pulls his hand away there’s gunk on his fingertips. Dust, dirt and as he squints at your mask he realises that some of the stains are likely the dried blood of an unidentified enemy.

The hand he’s resting on your chin is about to pull away until he notices how you’re resting your head on it. He can’t see your face but he has no doubt that your eyes are near shut, almost drifting off to dreamland. He occupies himself by gently brushing away loose debris off your mask which has you relaxing further into his touch.

“We gotta wash this,” he murmurs defeatedly.

“... yeah, we do,” you grumble, voice thick with fatigue. Kyle does not stop his ministrations - even pulling some fluff off of the cotton of your mask. It does little to actually clean your mask - at this rate it’s going to need pure bleach to clean it - but he can’t bring himself to stop. Not when you trust him this much, leaning into his touch, entrusting him to be the respite from your mission.

Masked Reader Masterlist Call of Duty Masterlist

#cod x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x you #task force 141 x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #john mactavish x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #/*avery actually writes*/#/*cod x masked reader*/

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mind-empty-just-fictional-people · 11 months ago

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Comfort Crowd

main masterlist | supernatural masterlist

summary: dean just needs you next to him

pairing: (stanford era) dean winchester x female reader

rating: R for language

word count: 1.9k

warnings: hurt/sad dean, language, reader drives after drinking but she’s not drunk, that’s it i think

author’s note: i know this gif is of jason teague and not dean winchester but that’s literally samford era jackles so i think it fits perfectly <3

music: comfort crowd by conan gray — was listening to conan gray and bam! dean winchester fic idea! anyways…

When you saw who was calling your brows furrowed — Dean? You had talked to him earlier in the week, just a casual check-in to make sure you were both still alive. You and Dean had gotten into a fight about a month prior and you both decided to just take a break from each other. You had made it clear that you were not breaking up with him, you just needed a break.

Last time you talked he was working a case in Texas, something with ghouls and sororities. You had just finished up a werewolf hunt and he had voiced his jealousy. He hadn’t gotten to fight a werewolf in many, many moons (pun intended).

“Dean?” you answered the call, still holding your first beer of the night in your free hand. He didn’t say anything, there was only labored breathing on the other side and that worried you. “Dean? Honey, is everything okay?” He still said nothing. “Dean, what’s—”

“Where are you?” he asked. His voice was clearly on the verge of cracking. He’d been crying?

“Uh, Bakersfield California,” you told him. “Just finished another case, simple ghost hunt. What’s wrong, Dean?” He again went back to just breathing. “Dean, where are you?”

“I’m in Palo Alto,” he said. “You—Could you get up here, p-please? I need you, hun. I just—I need you here.”

“I’ll be right there Dean, four hours tops,” you told him. You stood up off your chair and paid your tab. “Talk to me, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t…fuck, I just wanna see you…please?”

“Of course, Dean, I’ll be there soon,” you reminded him. “What motel are you staying at?”

“I can text you the address just please…please hurry.”

With that, he hung up.

Please don’t be dying, you thought to yourself.

After several traffic violations and broken speed limits, you were finally knocking on his door.

“Dean!” you called out, not caring if it was now nearly three in the morning and there were definitely other people staying at the motel. “For the love of god Dean, open the fucking door!”

He unlocked and opened the door, rubbing his tired eyes. “Hey, you made it.” He smiled a little…smiled?

“Dean what the hell is going on?” you asked, trying to stay calm as you walked into the room. “You—That call? What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” he shrugged, “I’m fine.”

“Fine?” You furrowed your brows. “Dean you called me in tears and asked me to race over here as if you were dying?”

“I…I wasn’t in tears,” he mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Hang on…how do I know you’re you?” you asked.

He smiled and rolled his eyes a little before you both did the usual tests.

“See, sweetheart? All me!” He smiled again.

“Dean,” you said softly, “what’s going on? Are you…Are you dying?”

“No!” he scoffed, not calming your nerves in the slightest. “I’m sorry I scared you I just…needed you here. With me, next to me. I—Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Dean,” you shook your head, “I get it.”

You walked over to him and pulled him down into a hug; your right hand went to the back of his head as your fingers combed through his hair.

“I’m here Dean, you’re okay,” you told him. His grip tightened around you, as if he was scared you’d break off the hug. “I’m right here.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice cracking again. “Thank you.”

The two of you stayed like that for what felt like an eternity. You were on your tiptoes, which was kind of uncomfortable, but your love for the man in your arms outweighed any discomfort. You felt Dean’s tears begin to dampen your neck and your eyes grew cloudy at the thought of him in pain. He truly mastered the art of silent crying, he must’ve had to hide his tears from that bastard father of his growing up, and that thought only made your heart break more. Your grip tightened around his shoulders and you turned your head so you could place a soft kiss on his temple. You made a trail of kisses down to his jawline then left your lips there against his skin.

“Thank you,” he pulled away, “just…thanks.”

“Do you wanna lay down, Dean?” you asked. “We could cuddle up and maybe watch a movie? Or we could listen to music? I’ve got my iPod and we could share my earbuds?”

A soft smile returned to his tear-stained face and he nodded; “Music sounds perfect.”

“Mkay,” you replied. “Now, I have to admit I don’t have many Zeppelin songs downloaded—”

“It’s okay,” he shook his head, “I don’t care what song we play, as long…as long as you’re here. Just need your company.”

“Funnily enough, I do have some Bad Company songs,” you joked, causing his smile to grow.

“You’re the best company,” he countered.

“Why don’t you change into your PJs while I go get my bags from the car? We can get comfortable in the bed and maybe you’ll even get some sleep.”

Your fingers were once again tangled in Dean’s hair as his head lay on your chest, he was facing away from you but you knew he was still crying. You just didn’t know why.

“Is this Heuy Lewis?” Dean chuckled.

“Hey! No disrespecting Heuy!” you laughed, but Dean knew you were serious. “You want me to skip it?”

“Nah, I’ll live,” he joked. The joke made your heart clench a little though; your mind going back to the call he made to you a mere few hours ago. How scared he sounded. How scared you were as you raced to get to him. Dean must’ve sensed the change in the room because he made sure to remind you; “I’m fine.”

“You said that line already, Dean,” you said through a sigh. “I’m here if you wanna talk, okay?”

“I don’t wanna talk,” he mumbled. “I meant what I said—I just need you here with me, I just need you around.”

Your free hand (the one that wasn’t currently in Dean’s hair) went to rub comforting circles on his upper back. He let out a contented sigh which made you smile.

“I love you, Dean,” you told him. “I love you more than anything, you know that, right?”

“Thank you,” he mumbled. He buried his face against your chest, trying to hide the sheepish smile forcing its way onto his face before he lifted his head so he could look into your eyes. “I love you so much.”

He leaned over and kissed you softly, his smile connecting with yours. He pulled away after a moment, simply looking into your eyes. He kissed you once more before laying back down, this time resting his head next to yours so he could kiss you again.

“Sorry about your shirt,” he said, laughing awkwardly at the damp mess of spilled tears covering a fair portion of your tee.

“I don’t mind, kinda like my shirt soggy,” you shrugged with a smile, pulling him closer to you and tucking your head under his chin.

When you woke the next morning you did not expect Dean to be singing to himself while making breakfast.

“What time is it?” you asked with a yawn as you sat up in bed.

“About seven,” he replied. “Good morning, by the way.”

“Good morning.”

You hurried over to the small kitchen so you could wrap your arms around him from behind.

“What’s gotten into you?” he teased.

“Could ask you the same question, handsome,” you replied, not letting go. “The food smells amazing and all, but since when do you cook?”

“Remember that fight we had?”

“I vaguely recall,” you said, somewhat flatly.

“I’ve been working on my breakfast cooking so when I saw you again I could you know…woo you.”

“‘Woo me’?” You raised a brow, your smile growing. “You’re wooing me…with bacon?”

“Damn right!” he scoffed lightheartedly. “I know the way into your heart, and whether you admit it or not—it’s mother fuckin’ breakfast food.”

“You know me way too well,” you laughed. “I’m officially wooed.”

There was a comfortable silence before Dean answered the question he knew you were still wondering about; “Sam and I fought last night.”

“I’m sorry,” you said.

“I knew him going to a fancy college would put a bit of a rift between us…but fuck, sweetheart,” he said. He ran his hands down his face before he leaned against the counter and looked at you; “I think we…I don’t think Sammy and I will ever be as close as we were growin’ up ever again.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, Dean,” you assured him, placing a hand on his bicep and giving it a comforting squeeze. “Sammy just needs time, maybe a bit of space, but that’s only temporary, Dean.”

“Seems like everyone around me always needs space,” he chuckled humorously.

“If this is about what I said—”

“Nah, you don’t have to explain yourself, I get it!” He shook his head, faking a smile. “You couldn’t stand being around me all the time and hey, that’s okay.”

Your brows furrowed with slight anger; “That’s not what I said, Dean.”

“That’s what it sounded like,” he mumbled before he turned back to the stove to continue making breakfast.

“Dean I love you, you know I love you!” you said. “I raced here last night when you asked me to, doesn’t that prove I love you!?”

“And what happens when we get into another fight?” he exclaimed. “What happens when you decide that you need more space and you don’t bother coming back to me?”

“That’s not going to happen?” you countered.

“You can’t say that for sure,” Dean said.

“Yes I can, Dean!”

“What makes you think that, huh?” he replied loudly. “What makes you think you aren’t gonna run the second you realize that putting space between was the best decision of your fucking life!?”

“Because I love you, Dean!” you said, matching his tone. “Because no matter how far away I was from you the one thought running through my head was that I should call you. That I should stop being so stubborn and run back to you.” You sighed as he continued cooking and you went up to him again, leaning on his bicep and running your hands up and down his forearm. “Because when I got that call…all logic flew out the window and all that mattered to me was getting to you. When I thought you might be dying I didn’t care about anything else and I raced to you like a mad woman. Like a girl so lovestruck she’s practically crazy!”

Dean let out a chuckle which made you smile.

“So…you’re sayin’ you missed me?” he asked, a cocky smirk finding its way to his lips.

“Yes,” you sighed dramatically. “Okay? Yes, Dean, I missed you like fuckin’ crazy, and I’m sorry for ever suggesting we take a damn break. But… you know what this means now, right?”

He looked at you cautiously; “What?”

“You’re stuck with me, Winchester.” You grinned. “And I’m never letting you go again.”

“Sounds good to me,” he replied as he leaned down and kissed you.

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cheolhub · 1 year ago

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WHAT YOU NEED — JEON WONWOO ࿐

summary. wonwoo knows how shy you get telling him what you want, but he’ll get you to use your words one way or another.

wc. 2.5k

warnings. mean-ish soft dom!wonwoo, sub! reader, corruption kink + slight humiliation kink! lots of teasing from wonwoo, lots of begging from reader, pet names [love, baby, sweet girl], dirty talk [😵‍💫], possessiveness (reader is so into it), heavy praise, unprotected sex, creampie — MINORS DNI 18+

note. it’s been months… hellooo… i forgot how to write so forgive me for the shitty plot lol. this is me attempting to get back into the writing world 🤓 hopefully ONE of u enjoys this <3 p.s. i’m srsly in my wonu era

“remember what i said, love,” wonwoo murmured, soft lips pressed against the shell of your ear. “if you want something, you gotta use your words.”

you hated this– everything about this– the teasing, the deep timbre of his voice that shoots heat straight to your core, him in general. he’s well aware of the fact that you can’t stand it at this moment, but that doesn’t put an end to his teasing.

your back arches off his chest as you feel the ghost of his fingers over your painfully wet cunt, covered in a pair of cotton panties. “wonwoo…” you whine, eyes brimming with tears of frustration. “please…”

he merely chuckles, pressing a kiss to the skin under your ear. “please what?”

when you and wonwoo started dating, you were so shy. so shy and so, so sweet. you’d never been with anyone before him, and of course he felt bad that he was the one to rob you of your innocence, but he was filled with a sense of pride (and urgency) when he’d found out he was the one to corrupt you and ruin you for everyone else.

and he was gentle. yes, jeon wonwoo was so, very gentle, handling you like a pretty doll while coaxing orgasms out of you left and right with his hands and mouth till your body was slack and you were nothing but a puddle of tears. he got you ready for his cock and you took it well. then you took it again. and again. and again, till you and him both knew you were his and he was yours.

it got to the point where you’d crave him at the most inconvenient times. while you were running errands, at work, at dinner with your friends– it was almost insufferable.

but he always took care of you. all you had to do was ask and he’d be there at your beck and call with whatever you wanted, whether it was with his mouth, fingers or cock.

he always makes you ask because wonwoo’s taken a certain… liking… to making you say the filthiest things. he knows it makes you nervous, but that’s why he thinks he loves it. he loves your stammering and how he can feel the heat radiating from your body. it’s cute.

which is why you’re in your current predicament, sat between his legs, your own spread over his with your back pressed to his chest after sending an innocent ‘come over, please? <3’ text.

“don’t make me say it, won… it’s…it’s unbecoming. just… please.”

usually, he’s not so adamant on getting you to say exactly what you want. all you had to do was say please, and he was all yours.

but no, not today apparently.

“there’s nothing unbecoming about it, my love.” he noses at your neck, his breath fanning over your racing pulse and eliciting your soft shudder. “just tell me what you invited me over for and i’ll give it to you.”

“please… touch me.” you whisper, heat creeping from where his lips are on your to neck all the way up to the tips of your ears.

you can feel his shit-eating grin and you want to scream at him, but your need for him is much more profound than your desire to slap him in the face for teasing you to this extent.

his hands rub up and down your arms and you hear his smile when he asks, “like this?”

you groan, shaking your head, “you know what i mean!”

“i don’t know what you mean, actually. can you dumb it down for me?”

you mentally curse him out, but you try to steady your breathing before you speak again. “touch me… down… there.” you attempt to say, but it comes out as more of a squeak.

wonwoo’s uncharacteristically large hands find your tummy and you want to sob when he asks, “here?” you shake your head. “words.” the demand vibrates through you and you let you an embarrassing whimper.

“lower,” you whisper, unable to trust your voice. “please, wonwoo.”

he runs his fingers down your abdomen and trails them down your thighs. you can’t help the cry that leaves your mouth. “mean. you’re so mean.”

“you can say it, sweet girl.” he whispers. “it’s not unbecoming. it’s not inappropriate. it’s fucking hot. i want you to tell me exactly what you want and i swear to god i’ll give it to you.”

you sniffle, frustrated and slightly embarrassed, but you stutter out in the softest voice he’s ever heard you use, “please touch my pussy, wonwoo.”

you think it feels awkward and gross coming out of your mouth with your voice, but wonwoo… wonwoo groans, hand immediately slipping into your panties. “good fucking girl.” he grumbles as his fingers find your clit.

you jolt at the contact but melt into him just as quickly. “fuck,” you whimper, thankful that you’re finally receiving the touch you’ve been craving for the past half hour. “f-faster, please.”

wonwoo’s chest swells with that familiar sense of pride again as he hears your beg. he obliges, the rough pads of his fingers circling the swollen, pleading bud. “you’re so fucking wet…”

you moan, head falling back on his shoulder. your face burns like never before as you get out, “f-for… you. ‘m wet for you.”

wonwoo isn’t always vocal, but when he is? he’s loud. so the moan that slips from his mouth startles you a bit.

“that’s right, all for me.” he grunts, possessiveness lacing his voice causing the jostling of butterflies in your tummy. “all fucking mine, forever mine.”

you change your mind at this– you love the teasing, the deep timbre of his voice, him especially.

“always yours.” you nod vigorously, body writhing as he quickens the movement of his fingers.

wonwoo doesn’t have much self-control when it comes to you, so it’s taking everything in him to not flip you over and fuck you till all you can say is yours, yours, always yours. instead, he opts for trying to get more out of your pretty mouth. “how do you feel, baby? tell me how much you like my fingers playing with this pretty little cunt.”

it’s so filthy, but you can’t help but arch your back at the sound of his words. “love them s’much, wonwoo. feels s’good.”

he’s sure you do feel good, he’s a skilled man after all, but he knows you probably need more.

“yeah?” he responds breathily, cock aching at the validation and how pretty you sound saying his name. “this enough to make you cum, or do you want more?”

your brain fogs over at the thought of more. you can nearly taste ecstasy on the tip of your tongue and you don’t doubt that you could get off with just his fingers, yet… the idea of being filled to the brim with his fingers or his cock is much more compelling.

“more.” you breathe in reply.

“what was that?” he teases, fingers slowing down.

there’s that wicked sense of humor that makes you want to slap him across the face.

you barred your teeth before gritting, “fuck me, please. i need more. i need you, wonwoo.”

his ministrations stop and before you get the chance to complain, he’s rolling your panties down your legs and guiding you to straddle his abdomen. he slips his sweats down enough for his cock to come out and, even though you can’t see it, you can feel its looming presence.

“take what’s yours, baby.” he stares up at you while you stare back, eyes wide.

“y-you… you want me to…?” he knows what your unfinished question translates to and he nods and gives you a lazy smile even though you can see the burning desire in his blown out pupils.

you let out a short breath and nod, more to yourself than anything. he’s never let you have control while you’re on top, but you feel giddy that he’s giving you a chance now. you lift your hips up and take a hold of his hardened length in your hands. you run the blushy tip of his cock through your folds, eliciting a hiss from the man under you, before finally sliding down his cock. slowly, you feel every inch of him invade your pussy and it’s so good, despite the slight burn.

you forget how tight the fit is every time. even with how wet you are, you still feel your walls stretching to accommodate his size.

you cry softly, body going limp as you finally hit the base of his cock. “won…”

“you feel so good,” he moans softly, hands finding purchase on your hips. “are you alright? does it hurt?” he manages to ask, cock twitching at the way your walls wrap around him.

you shake your head incessantly, hoping he doesn’t worry too much. “no– no, ‘m okay. j-just need to adjust.”

wonwoo nods empathetically, rubbing soothing circles into your skin to ease you. “you’re doing so well.” he whispers after a minute of silence, the only sounds being your ragged breaths and the soft hum of the air conditioning. “gonna make sure you feel so good, baby.”

you feel the heat reappear and a gush of arousal leak at the praise in his hushed voice. it inspires you to take action.

you press your palms to his clothed abdomen, wishing he’d taken off his shirt so you can feel his skin, but you can’t be bothered to ask him to do so now. you lift your hips up his cock before letting yourself drop, a moan tumbling out of your mouth when you feel how deep he is inside you.

you repeat the sloppy movements, stangled moans slipping with every sharp thrust as you spear yourself on his length over and over.

it’s not till wonwoo guides you with the tight grip of his hands on your waist that you find a steady tempo, the sound of skin on skin growing louder with the mixed sounds of his grunts and your mewls.

you slip your hands under his shirt, craving the closeness, and lightly run your nails down the skin. you feel him contract under the contact and you can’t stop the way your walls tighten around him when his hands squeeze you harder.

the longer you ride him, the more your thighs burn. it eventually causes your speed to falter and wonwoo, ever the observer, is quick to notice. he decides you’ve had enough and bucks his hips into you, meeting you halfway while groaning out your name.

the bulbous head of his cock rams into your sweet, special spot as he takes over and you throw your head back in utmost pleasure. tears spring to your eyes and wonwoo finds this to be the most beautiful sight he’s ever laid his eyes on. your tits bouncing with every push, your mouth cracked open as the prettiest sounds leave it, the way your eyebrows knit in pleasure– he makes a mental note to bring his camera next time you invite him over.

“tell me what you need, love.” he demands yet again, words breathy and clipped as his cock throbs in between your velvet walls. “tell me what this pretty pussy needs and i’ll fucking give it to you.” his sentence ends in a growl when your nails bite into his bare skin, leaving red, crescent shapes in their wake.

you let out a choked sob, “w-wonu–”

he sits up, using his strength to bounce you up and down at a leisure pace– one that he knows does nothing for your needy body. “don’t get shy on me now, baby, you can tell me.” he coaxes, sultry voice circling your brain.

you swear if your body burns any hotter, you’ll explode.

your mouth opens to let out a plea, “p-please make me cum– please, i-i wanna–” your words are swallowed by him as he smashes his lips to yours. you moan his name into his mouth and he all but moans back into yours.

you involuntarily clench around him when he hastily bucks into you while also guiding your hips on his cock. when he pulls back, he sports swollen lips and lust-ridden eyes and it makes you all the more needy for your coveted release.

“rub your clit and get yourself off for me, yeah?” you pants before his mouth lands on one of your breasts, sucking and tugging at the peaked nipple.

you follow instructions, two of your fingers moving to circle the swollen bud and your free hand gripping his shoulder for more support.

at the onslaught of pleasure, the knot that’s been rapidly forming in your tummy all night tightens beyond belief and you know you’re on the precipice of an orgasm. wonwoo, being as perceptive as he is, just moans at the way you pulse uncontrollably around his cock.

if you’ve learned anything from the teasing and the rather humbling experience you’ve had tonight, it’s that you should definitely voice what you want.

and that’s exactly what you do.

“i– fuck, wonwoo. i need to cum, please let me.” you beg as you get closer and closer to your anticipated release.

he releases your nipple with a pop and nearly growls. “cum for me, baby.”

it’s all you need to hear before a silent scream leaves your lips and white, hot pleasure runs its course. your body goes taut as the tether in your belly snaps in half, cunt and body practically spasming all the while your brain spins erratically.

wonwoo is enthralled by the sight and feeling of you. the grip he has on you is near bruising as he watches you fall apart on him– feels you fall apart on him.

“so beautiful,” he praises, voice strained as he nears his own release. “my beautiful girl. you’re so fucking good for me, you know that?” he rambles, cock twitching as you let out more whines and whimpers.

“c-cum in me.” you demand, voice broken and hoarse from all the screaming. “i-i wanna feel it. i need to.”

an animalistic growl bubbles in the back of his throat and his slow pace and sweet praise disappears, replaced by an unforgiving speed at which he pounds into you. you’re back to broken moans as he lets out labored pants till, shortly after, he’s stills inside of you, cock nestled at your hilt and he’s releasing his warm load inside of your battered walls.

you collapse on top of him, savoring the feeling of his warmth inside of you.

“did i hurt you?” he whispers after a few minutes of unsteady breathing from the both of you.

you shake your head. “just my dignity,” you joke softly, resting your forehead against his. “i’m alright, don’t worry.”

he chuckles, cupping your cheek and running the pad of his thumb over the dried tear streaks, “i was a bit mean, huh?”

“so mean.” you tease, kissing the corner of his mouth. “you’re lucky i love you.”

“beyond lucky.”

taglist! @ficrecnctskz @bowmonde @jinxedmuse @rubyreduji @peachyaeger @roe-sinning @ollieollieoctopus @dunixxd @uwuheeseungie @limbomoon @wonuqrtz @onlyyjeonghan @hotchnrz @vikc

wanna join my taglist? click here!

#wonwoo smut #jeon wonwoo smut #seventeen smut #svt smut

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ourfatherwhoartinhell · 5 months ago

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My 67 year old mother watched RHRN for the first time last night. I thought I would share some gems that came outta that:

Her: "He doesn't actually... that's not how he actually talks is it?" Me: "No no. Just imagine a Swedish dude, speaking English, pretending to be Italian." Her: "Oh, so that's why he sounds annoying. Ok!"

Her: "....is he gay?" Me: "No, he's married and has kids." Her: "Do his kids know what he does for a living? Can you imagine at school: 'My dads a firefighter, my dad's a doctor, my dad's a paramedic.. my dad's a satanic cult leader!' "

More below the cut!

*After If You Have Ghosts* Her: "Ok, that song was reaaaaalllyy pretty. I really liked that. He did a really good job." Me: "You hated it when I played it before." Her: "Yeah well... I don't actually like Ghost, so."

Her: "I know that one is Mountain, and there's a Swiss, and a Rain... cause every time I open the fridge to make a sandwich, or it's raining outside I'm reminded." Me: "I'm so proud. You're only missing the two guitarists." (She only likes the ghouls... don't come for me) Her: *Very confidently* "Alpha and Omega!" Me: "Um..." Her, laughing: "...no? Wrong era?" Me: "Phan–" Her: "PHANTOM! And the angry one I can never remember."

*Copia standing next to Dew* Her: Wow, he's really small isn't he? Me: Who? Dew or Copia cause either one would be an accurate observation.

Her: "Is he wearing contacts?" Me: "Yeah just the one, the white one." Her: "I just noticed." Me: "........... you JUST noticed?!" Her: "Only cause it's up close!" Me: "I hate to blow your mind.... but ALL the Papa's have a white eye. Even Nihil (her fav)" Her: "Really 👀 ?!"

Her: "Huh..." Me: "What?" Her: "I just noticed they have horns."

Her: "I think his pants are my favourite part about him." Me: "You just like the crotch corset." Her: "Nooo.... He has a nice ass too." *moments later* Her: "Why can't the ghouls have tight pants?!"

Her: "Don't their helmets ever fall off? Y'know when they start gettin into it, do they ever just 'whoops!' "

Her: *Sitting on the couch, humming, dancing and tapping her foot to Spillways* Me: I thought you didn't like Ghost?? Her: *Immediately stops* Well... y'know *starts dancing again and singing the correct lyrics*

Her: "Thats the end? They're not going to do right here, right now?" Me: "You mean Square Hammer?" Her: "Yeah the right here, right now song. Whatever it's actually called." Me: "When have you ever heard of a band not doing an encore?" Her: "Oh good. I was about to get upset. I love that song!"

*after the post credits scene* Her: "Wait, so thats it? Do we know who the new Papa is?" Me: "No! Thats the worst part about it!" Her: "Maybe it'll be a Mama instead" Me: *dies of laughter*

--- Anyways, Ghesties please protect my mum. She's trying lol If I can think of more moments from last night, I will add them!

#the band ghost #ghost band #nameless ghouls #ghost ghouls #dewdrop ghoul #phantom ghoul #swiss ghoul #rain ghoul #mountain ghoul #rite here rite now #rhrn #ghost movie #ghouvie #ghost band movie

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raekensluver · 4 months ago

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moonlit confessions

description: connecting with theodore nott after escaping the chaos of a slytherin rager.

pairing: theodore nott x fem!reader

contains: partying, late night confessions, drinking, mentions of alcohol, smoking.

song rec: i'm yours by isabel larosa- "nervous, trip over my words, you're so pretty it hurts."

w.c: 1.4k

an: in my slump era....

the room was a blur of motion and color, the air thick with the scent of spilled alcohol and the haze of cigarette smoke. the pulse of the music thrummed through the floorboards, setting a rhythm that seemed to dictate the movements of the slytherin students as they danced and cheered. you leaned against the cool stone wall, watching the game of beer pong unfold with a detached amusement. mattheo and blaise were a formidable team, their laughter echoing off the walls as they scored point after point, while pansy and draco's competitive banter added a sharp edge to the atmosphere. it was the kind of party that you used to love, but tonight, it all felt a bit too much.

you decided to take a break from the chaos, making your way through the crowded room, looking for a familiar face. your eyes scanned over the faces, some flushed with excitement, others with the beginnings of a hangover. lorenzo berkshire caught your gaze from across the room, his dark eyes twinkling as he leaned in to whisper something to the girl he was flirting with. you rolled your eyes and continued your search for theo, wondering if he had retreated to one of the quieter corners to escape the cacophony.

as you moved through the party, the twins, fred and george, intercepted you with mischievous grins. "looking for someone?" fred asked, his hand offering you a beer. you took it, smiling politely. "theo nott," you replied. "ah, the mysterious one," george said with a wink. "last we saw, he was playing hide and seek with a group of his adoring fans." they both chuckled, their playful teasing a welcome distraction.

you thanked them and continued your search, the music's bassline vibrating in your chest. the party was in full swing, but theo's usual charm and presence were nowhere to be found. the crowd grew denser, a mix of laughter and shouts as the game grew more intense. you felt a gentle tug on your sleeve and turned to see luna lovegood, her eyes wide with curiosity. "have you seen theo?" you asked, raising your voice over the din. she tilted her head, considering for a moment before pointing towards the balcony doors. "i think he went outside," she said, her voice delicate as ever.

you pushed through the crowd and stepped into the cool night air, the stark contrast from the stuffy room making you gasp for breath. the moon was high and full, casting a soft glow over the grounds. you spotted theo immediately, leaning against the castle wall, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. he looked lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon.

his posture was relaxed, but there was a tension in his shoulders that spoke of his discomfort with the raucous festivities inside. you approached him slowly, the gravel crunching under your feet. "mind if i join?" you called out, your voice low and gentle. he glanced over, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "thought you'd be in there, cheering for the champs," he said, nodding towards the party.

you took a seat beside him, the cold stone wall biting into your back. "not really my scene tonight," you confessed, taking a sip of the beer that had grown warm in your hand. "yeah, me neither," theo said, taking a long drag of his cigarette. the silence between you grew comfortable, filled only by the distant sound of the party and the occasional hoot of an owl.

theo's eyes flickered to you, the embers of his cigarette casting a warm glow on his face. "you okay?" he asked, his voice genuinely concerned. you shrugged, feeling the weight of the night's expectations lifting. "just needed some fresh air," you replied, watching as he exhaled a plume of smoke. the air around you felt charged, as if the very molecules were holding their breath.

his gaze searched yours for a moment before he spoke again. "it's not easy, is it?" theo said, breaking the silence. "keeping up with all of this." you knew he wasn't just talking about the party. the unspoken understanding between you grew stronger with every shared glance. "sometimes i feel like i'm drowning," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

he nodded, taking another drag of his cigarette. "i know what you mean," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. the warmth of his hand found yours, and for a moment, you felt like you weren't alone in the sea of noise and expectations. "theo," you began, but he leaned in, cutting off your words with a kiss.

his lips were warm and firm, the taste of tobacco faint on his breath. his ring clad hand slid up to grip the back of your neck, pulling you closer as if he was afraid you would slip away. you felt your heart stutter in your chest, the suddenness of the kiss taking you by surprise. but you didn't pull away. instead, you melted into him, the warmth of his embrace a comfort you hadn't realized you needed.

his thumb traced gentle circles on your skin, sending shivers down your spine. theo's other hand rested on your hip, grounding you as the world around you faded away. the music and the laughter were just a distant echo, the only sounds that of your mingled breaths and the crackle of the cigarette between you. it was a moment of pure, unadulterated intimacy, a stark contrast to the chaos of the party just a few feet away.

you pulled back, your cheeks flushed and your eyes wide with surprise. "theo," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. he looked at you, his own eyes dark with something unreadable. "yeah?" he responded, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smirk that was all too familiar.

you opened your mouth to speak, but the words got tangled in your throat. his beauty had always been a silent punch to the gut, leaving you struggling to breathe, let alone form coherent sentences. "you're just… so pretty," you stumbled out, your eyes flicking down to his chest, where his shirt lay open, revealing a hint of his collarbones. it was a clumsy compliment, but it was all you could manage.

theo chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. "thanks," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. he took another drag of his cigarette, the orange ember burning brightly in the dark. "you're not so bad yourself," he added with a wink. the confidence in his voice made your cheeks burn even hotter.

you fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, suddenly aware of how close you were sitting to him. the warmth of his body was intoxicating, and you found yourself leaning into it, craving more of his touch. his hand on your neck had left a trail of fire, and you couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like if he kissed you again.

the silence stretched out, filled with unspoken thoughts and racing hearts. you felt your cheeks heat up as you stumbled over your words, trying to find the right ones to express the tumult of emotions churning inside you. "theo, i… i just…" your voice trailed off, and you bit your lower lip, feeling your heart thud in your chest.

his smirk softened into a gentle smile, and he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. the touch sent an electric jolt through you, and you leaned into it, your eyes searching his for any sign of what he was thinking. "i know," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in your very soul. "i feel the same."

you took a deep breath, the scent of his cologne and the night air swirling around you. it was a heady combination, making you feel both lightheaded and grounded at the same time. the party inside beckoned, the music and laughter a siren's call that you couldn't ignore. "we should get back," you murmured, not really wanting to leave the sanctuary of his arms but knowing that you couldn't hide away forever.

theo nodded, stubbing out his cigarette against the wall before standing up. his hand found yours, the warmth of his skin sending a jolt through you as he pulled you to your feet. "yeah, we don't want to miss the grand finale," he said, his voice teasing. you couldn't help but laugh, the tension between you easing slightly as you allowed him to lead you back into the mayhem of the party.

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astrasng · 5 months ago

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Little high on you || N.J

MINORS DNI!

pairing: idol!dom!jaemin x female!reader

summary: you and jaemin are old friends, spending the summer in a beach house under the influence. what could go wrong?

warnings: drugs and alcohol, handjob, oraljob, unprotected sex, thigh fucking (pls burry me) smoking and drinking, cursing,petnames (angel,baby,sweet girl,slut -oops) actually jaemin is kind of a switch here ^^

author's note: this has been sitting in my drafts for EVVAAA and i'm currently in my jaemin era again and APPARENTLY there are very little number of jaemin fics. (sad) so ig we're finally starting the jaemin list.

enjoy!

Jaemin was a sweet guy. You knew him for a long time now, years in fact. He was always polite to you and your family whenever he and the other members visited for holidays. His and your family often sat down together to chat about the two of you, and sometimes your family even invited his members to your beach house when the weather was nice. It was a good place to throw parties too.It would excite you every time just to think about being close to Jaemin again. You liked his company, and so did he like yours too.

So this is how you ended up in the same beach house on a hot dry summer day, wearing only your shorts and a flimsy tank top with a bikini under it. You were always comfortable around Jaemin and his friends, so you didn’t care about how you dressed. And the same goes to him too. He would occasionally take his shirt off if it was too hot, or wipe his forehead with his shirt when playing soccer with his friends. Your eyes couldn't help but wonder on his wide shoulders, the way he would laugh at his friends and then his abs would flex as he did so. It makes you bite your lip just at the thought.

But it happened the other way too. It took Jaemin so much not to pull you away from the others whenever you would push your cleavage together by accident when talking to someone as you bend over the kitchen island, or when you’d get out of the jacuzzi, the water sliding down on your body slowly, which drove him even crazier. His eyes would linger a little longer on your body when you decide to wear a slim dress on your night out. It drove him mad that he couldn’t get his hands on you in public, in front of everyone. He wanted to let everyone know that you were his, even if you weren’t even dating. Because when someone approaches you with a flirty demeanor, his blood boils.

The same happened tonight too, as you were rolling the wrapping papers together with Jeno sitting by your side on the couch, laughing as he would tell you stories about their tours. This wasn’t the problem, because Jaemin knows his best friend, and he knows you, but when he noticed Jeno being flirty after a few beers, he started being suspicious. You wouldn’t notice of course, because you liked his members so much and you wanted to have a good friendship with everyone. You would let his flirty interactions slip away and laugh due to the weed in your system. By the time you two finish wrapping the joints, Jeno lazily leans back on the couch and swings his arm around your shoulder. This makes you laugh as you light your cigarette. You are not thinking too much into this, considering that everyone is having a good time as the music in the house is blasting. As you inhale the joint deeper in your lungs, you sense Jeno moving on the couch.

“Wanna share it with me?” Jeno whispers, his mouth ghosting over your ear and it makes you chuckle. You turn your head in his way and see him already looking down at your lips. When you lift the joint to his lips, he shakes his head, motioning towards your lips when you blow out the smoke. You let out a smirk and take another puff, ready to shotgun it into Jeno’s mouth when suddenly someone pulls him up.

“Think I heard Mark calling for you in the kitchen. He was mixing some shit you asked for.” Jaemin looks down at the both of you, his eyes narrowing when he sees your state. Jeno jumps up and runs into the kitchen, leaving you two alone. Jaemin extends his hand towards you to take it, pulling you up softly from the couch.His hand slides softly around your waist, feeling him squeezing the flesh a few times as he walks towards the room he claimed when the whole group arrived in the house, pulling you softly inside. When he closes the door and turns around, he finds you already sitting on the couch with the joint in your hand.

You tilt your head to the side, looking up at him. You can clearly sense the tension in the air as you see his veins popping out on his neck. “Wanna join me?”

“Is this necessary? Is alcohol not enough?” He asks, his eyes glued on yours.

“Don’t judge until you don’t try it.” You giggle, your eyes trying to stay focused on Jaemin’s face as his dark hair decorates it. He thinks about it for a second, then plops down next to you. The weed wasn’t the problem for him, he wasn’t a judgy person to start with. The only thing that was bugging him, is that whenever you did something like that he was right next to you, keeping an eye on you just in case, but you didn’t even see him sometimes.

His arms automatically slide on the back of the couch, somewhat caging you in. “Fine.” He goes in for the joint but you stop him midway. When he looks at you with confusion, you shake your head.

You smirk before climbing on his lap, leaning him back as you plant your hands on his chest. You inhale once again, your fingers grabbing his chin to signal him to open his mouth slightly. When he opens his mouth, you lean closer to him, your mouth almost touching his as you blow the smoke into his.

Jaemin keeps his eyes on you the whole time, hands on your waist as you try not to squirm on his lap. The atmosphere went into a fuzzy, slow feeling. You had just entered the room with him, but you already feel like it’s filled up with smoke around the two of you. Your body is all hot, almost feeling his fingertips melt into your skin to your bones, Jaemin’s thin clothes keeping nothing from your eyes as you can see his body glistening from the hot weather. A smirk tickles the side of your mouth when you see Jaemin’s eyes searching for yours, his gaze softened but still sensual from being this close to you.

“I’m gonna explode if I can’t feel your lips, Y/N. I have been wanting to know how you taste for so long.” He can’t help but confess, his big dark eyes staring up at you as you softly wipe his hair back, making him lay his head on the back of the couch. Your hips ever so lightly grazing his lap to tease him more, getting him riled up.

“Is that so?” You hum, twisting the end of his hair slightly, taking another hit with your other hand. As you busy yourself, Jaemin softly inches closer to your exposed chest area, his lips pressing light and slow kisses on your flushed skin. He leaves a few red and big bruises ühere and there, licking at sucking at the soft flesh as he squeezes your body closer to his chest. You look down at him, your hand that was previously in his hair slides down to his chin, tilting it up again to share the intoxicating feeling. He gladly accepts, letting you press your lips to his, but not yet kissing him.

“Then I shouldn’t keep you waiting, hmm?” You whisper in his ear, pressing a light kiss after as you hear him groan slightly when you finally sit down on his very visible tent in his pants. You almost let yourself moan out his name when the fricktion finally reaches you, but you quickly attach your pink lips to his neck. Slowly, in circular motion you kiss at his collarbone, all the way up to his jawline.

“Are you teasing me now?”

He practically groans out, his hands keeping you close to him, his own body warmth radiating and keeping you warm. It makes you giggle as the words leave his mouth. “I enjoy hearing how desperate you are Nana~” You whisper in his ear again, biting down on his earlobe slightly. He feels like he should end this before he comes in his pants, but then the irresistible feeling catches up to him, and cloud fogs his mind slowly.

“Don’t worry,tonight, you’ll have me however you want me.”

-------------------

And Jaemin does have you, in every way he wants you. He has you where he imagined. Finally without those not so clothes-worthy clothing laying around on the ground as he lazily strokes your legs back and forth, his tongue sliding around your hardened nipples when he ever so lightly grazes his teeth on it. Hazy and glossy eyes staring at him when his slender fingers are ghosting your skin on your stomach, slowly inching to your heat where you need the most friction. It’s funny how desperate he was a few minutes earlier, almost begging you to kiss him finally,and now here you are, spread on the bed he slept the previous night. Jaemin himself drives you crazy, with his eyes and presence, making you feel all too small and not worthy to be on the planet with him, but when he laid you down on the white sheets which were swimming in his cologne, you knew you could finally kiss goodbye to your friendship with him. Jaemin knew it too, the minute you took off your clothes teasingly, keeping your eyes only on him when you undid the back of your bikini.

It was a miracle he didn’t come just from the sight, watching your body press against his as you sat back on him before he took you to bed.

His breathing is labored as he kisses your whole body. “I can’t get enough of you,doll.” He says, his words muffled as he can’t seem to detach from your skin. “Let me have you all night.”

“Please, Jaemin~” You whimper, feeling his fingers part your wet lips apart, his finger due to the slickness slides in easily inside your warm walls, making him groan out the minute as he can feel himself getting hard from the feeling. He’s been imagining how you’d taste on his tongue as he eats you out everywhere in his apartment. It didn’t matter to him, he just wanted to have you in any way possible.

“I finally have you, angel. I don’t intend on letting you go now.” He presses a kiss on your stomach, lowering himself down as he whispers against your skin. “Don’t worry, I’ll give everything to you.”

He can’t get enough of you, he thinks. It’s like something turned on inside of him, like someone spread glue on his hands, he never leaves your body as he softly kisses your aching core. You can’t help but whine, the feeling of his tongue on your pussy practically almost sending you into another universe.

“Pull your panties to the side for me, baby.” Jaemin whispers as he stands up, his hands gripping your plush thighs together, your ankles dangling on his shoulders, feeling his muscles flexing while composing himself. Jaemin tries so hard not to lose control, even in a state like this, when everything around him is happening in slow motion. The feeling helps him act more ‘natural’ around you, almost forgetting the situation you two are in.

You’re not his,and he’s not yours.

But does it really matter when the man in front of you spreads your pussy lips apart, keeping his eyes on you, watching every reaction you let out? A shiver goes over your body under his stare, his eyes more narrow than ever. “Are you feeling good, baby?”

All you do is nod and whine a little, trying to squirm away from his touch.

“Will you let me have you? Hmm?” He stares down at you, his fingers circling around your puffy clit while his other hand is holding you down, slightly pressing down on your lower stomach. His voice already almost made you come, just the pure vibration you feel even though your thighs as he squeezes them close to his clothed chest. Clothed chest. Why are you the only one naked?

“Answer me.”

“Yes! Please Jaemin, do something..” With a sigh you throw your head back, your body still fighting against his strength as his fingers are teasing your tight entrance once again. You couldn’t help but shudder again.

And then he pushed one finger inside, instantly finding your g-spot. “Are you going to let Jeno fuck you too?” He asks, his voice an octave lower, his skin glowing in the humid room. You want to shake your head at his pathetic question, but he slips another finger inside you. “Answer.”

“Jaemin–” You’re only able to moan out his name, your hands squeezing the sheets around you.

“Yeah baby, that’s me. Moan it louder for everyone” With his thumb he circles around your clit with force, the veins on his arms bulging out from keeping you in place. “Moan it so he can hear it too.” His voice is low,barely audible from your constand moans, but you oblige. You can feel your walls tightening around his fingers, your back arching unconsciously as you near your climax.

“Jaemin~~ I- I think I’m gonna-” As you whimper, Jaemin cuts you off by taking his fingers out, leaving you breathless as you blink up at him. “Take your panties off, angel.” He adds as he reaches for his shirt, pulling it over his head as he reveals his honey toned skin, his muscles glowing in slight sweat. When he notices that you took your panties off as he takes your thighs once again, and positions it on his shoulders on one side. The only things you can do is groan, your legs already numb from being up for so long.

“Good girl.” Jaemin groans out when he sees your glistening pussy, all waiting for him to be stretched. But he takes a big breath and unzips his pants, taking his leaking cock out. Your eyes almost fall out of their places when you see him for the first time. “Do you see this baby?” He taps it on the side of your thighs for you to see, making you whimper. “It’s all because of you. All wet and hard, just because you’re acting like a slut in front of everyone.” He hisses, dragging his tip all over the back of your thighs, the grip getting stronger. “Do you think you deserve it?”

“Yes!” You whimper again, craving for the feeling of him being inside you. You wanted this for so long, whenever you saw him in suits for galas or any kind of shows you wanted to throw yourself on him. He drove you crazy just as much as you did. But not in your wildest dream would you think that he would be the one being in control. Finally seeing him without clothes and his cock nearing your aching core, you let out another pathetic whine. “I deserve it…”

“Do you now?” With a smooth caress on your left thigh, he tilts his head to the side, humming before speaking up. “Let me see you touch yourself, pretty.”

His voice makes you bite your lip, your hand sliding all the way down to your clit, massaging it with need and lust. You immediately throw your head back at the sensation, the temperature inside the room almost hitting unbearable as your moans fill the room along with Jaemin’s groans. “That’s it…you look so pretty like this.”

With a shaky breath you continue working on your clit when you feel a sudden pressure on your thighs. Between your thighs.

You find Jaemin pushing his cock between your plush thighs, his eyebrows knitted together as he slowly pushes through the gap he created, muttering a low – “Fuck..” His grip on you tightens even more as slowly fucks his cock head in and out – leaving you breathless and almost forgetting your own task. The sensation of feeling his cock between your thighs, skin to skin, leaving trails of precum on your flushed red skin.

Suddenly, you feel his hand grabbing yours as he drags them down to your entrance slowly, his smirk only growing when he hears you cry out already knowing what he’s about to do. “Put them inside, baby. Or should I do it for you? Hmm?” He breathes, chuckling when you shake your head heavily, slowly pushing one finger inside.

“It’s not as good as yours..” You can’t help but mutter out, shutting your eyelids in shame, feeling your cheeks blooming in red color when he coos at you. “Aw, my baby can’t even pleasure themselves?” He thrust again while his fingers slowly guided another of your fingers inside you, stretching you out as you moaned uncontrollably. “See? It’s not so hard, is it?” As you only can think about him fucking your thighs as your fingers inside you, he sneakily pushed one of his fingers in your hole, making your almost scream from the stretch. “Nana–” With a whimper you warn Jaemin before your climax finally reaches you, the feeling unfolding in your stomach in waves, making you arch your back with a loud moan as you come around your and Jaemin’s fingers. You can hear him chuckle lowly as you keep massaging your clit while coming down from your high,

“There you go…you take it so well baby, don’t give up now.” With a groan he thrust inside your thighs one last time, seeing his tip leaking from precum, red and puffy as he kept himself back from actually coming. When he pulls back finally, he squats down to be eye level with your pussy coated in your arousal, making him groan out from the sight. “Baby,you did so well.” He smiles up at you, his big eyes filled with lust as he inches closer to your core. “Can I have a taste?”

He latches on your tight hole, tasting you on his tongue without waiting for an answer. Jaemin nearly comes from the taste, his hands gripping your sticky thighs so you can’t jump away from overstimulation.

“Jaem, it’s too – nghh..-- too much..”

“Just give me one more, I know you can do it.” His words are muffled due to him lapping at your juices like a starved man, moaning and groaning at your taste. The vibrations only bring you closer to your climax, until you reach it for the second time tonight. You feel like your whole body is going to blow up in any second as Jaemin continuously slurps up your arousal, not wasting one drop. When he’s finally satisfied with himself, he comes up, his lips shining with cum as he manhandles your legs to be on the side of his bed. Your whole body is situated sideways as he comes down closer to your lips, immediately melting his lips together with yours after waiting for so long. As you can taste yourself oh his lips and tongue, you let out another groan, your hand sneaking into his hair to tug on it. With lust filled eyes and an innocent smile, he looks at you;

“How about I make you fall apart on my cock, yeah?”

—------------

“Shh, it’s okay baby. I’m in…relax for me.” Jaemin groans beside you in your ear, his left arm keeping his body up so he can see your face and body, his cock disappearing inside your cunt. Your walls clamp down on him uncontrollably since he pushed his tip in, the delicious stretch making your eyes water as you squeeze the sheets in your hands. Jaemin is positioned behind you, one of his arms circled around your waist so he can reach your breast, flicking your nipples from time to time.

“Shit– why do you have to be so tight?” With a groan he pulls all the way out, slowly pushing himself back until he hits your cervix, making you arch your back.

With now all of the clothes gone from both of you, you can feel him everywhere perfectly. His sweat slightly touches your back as moves rapidly behind you. His arms bulging with veins as he aligns your head in a way he can deepen the kiss. His hair sticking to his forehead, just so you can swipe it out of his face. And him moving inside of you so freely, promising that he would pull out just in time. But both of you know that it’s a lie.

The simple thought of Jaemin filling you up with him cum makes you go crazy, imagining how it would drip out of you because of how much he came. He’d like to see that view too.

“I pictured this all the time.” He confesses, his hips moving with more force and quicker than before. As your whines get louder and louder he sneaks his hand up to your throat, caressing the skin there as he kisses the side of it. “Quiet down angel, unless you really want the world know who’s fucking you just right.” He groans again, feeling your warm walls squeezing him incredibly tight like you don't want to let him go.

You moaned as he slammed inside you, his hand now spreading your cheeks apart and squeezing the flesh in his palm while groaning in your ear. His thrusts were powerful, hard and steady as he buried his cock deep within you. “Fuck– you’re so pretty like this – all wet and warm, letting me use you however I want.” With another thrust you moan loudly, one of your hands flying back to bury your fingers in his hair.

“Come inside me, please — use me however you want–”

At your plea Jaemin lets out a moan, quickening his thrusts while leaving red bruises on your hips from squeezing them so much.

“Sweet girl, I’ll fill you up so everyone knows you’re mine,” He presses a kiss on your earlobe, then on the side of your neck. “Is that what you want?”

The question is obvious, but the way he’s asking it and waiting for you to answer, even though he knows you want it just as much as him. The way his cock hits the spot again and again brings him and you too on the edge, but Jaemin thinks of this as a priority – making you cum before him. So he takes his fingers and places it on your already abused clit, massaging it until he hears you constantly whimpering his name while tears are flowing down your cheeks.

“Say it, baby.”

“Yes! Fuck,! Yes I want you to fill me up Jaemin!” With a cry you come apart on his cock, pulsating around him as you nearly fall forwards on your elbows, your thighs shaking rapidly as you can’t seem to stop moaning. It’s the pushover for Jaemin too, hearing your cries and feeling you wrapped around him so nicely – only for him.

“Then it’s yours baby – all of it.” He moans beside your ear again, his finger still abusing your clit as he shoots ropes of his cum inside your warm walls, creating a creamy white ring at the base of his cock as it overflows. He takes a look down, smirking to himself as he gathers some on his finger which previously stimulated you — bringing it up to his mouth.

Your breath hitches as you see his eyes nearly roll back from the taste, feeling his cock slightly stirred awake again as he looks into your eyes.

“Don’t tell me–”

Jaemin pulls out with a hiss, feeling the temperature hitting his wet cock with a sudden wave as he positions himself to be on top of you entirely.

“As I said,” He grabs his cock by the base, swiftly tugging on it a few times before spreading your pussy lips apart again. “I don’t intend on letting you go now.”

Na Jaemin smirks with an innocent look before he makes you his all over again.

#kpop #nct dream #nct #nct drabbles #na jaemin x reader #na jaemin #nah #jaemin drabbles #jaemin x reader #jaemin #nct dream smut #nct dream x reader #na jaemin smut

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mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess · 6 months ago

Text

Most iconic Xie Lian moments according to me

Contains spoilers!!!

"Xie Lian didn't know whether to laugh or cry"

Keeping every memento of his worst time ever as a reminder of why being kind and forgiving is worth it

When he runs off after he gives Hua Cheng CPR that one time pretending he's looking for his hat

When he keeps roasting Xiao Ying's looks even as she's dying

When he was a prince and he was told his future looked dark and he said that can't be cause he only wears white

Eating food off the ground

Building his own temple, we love a girl boss

When he pet E'Ming like a little puppy after being explicitly told not to ever touch it under any circumstances

Putting Banyue in a pickle jar

When Wuming said he would follow Xie Lian to the death and Xie Lian went "youre already dead"

Breaking rocks on his chest for money

Being trampled to death as general Hua, doormat core

The whole Fangxin Guoshi arc, whew 🥵

Carrying around a big ass bag of scraps everywhere

When he became jealous of Hua Cheng's special someone not realizing the very obvious fact that he was Hua Cheng's special someone actually

Slapping tf out of Qi Rong for making fun of Hua Cheng being blind in one eye

Pretending he had no idea who Nan Feng and Fu Yao were

When Mu Qing and Feng Xin were freaking about how creepy the Ten Thousands Gods Cave was whilst he found it incredibly romantic

Being a bit too into pretending to be Hua Cheng's puppet on Mount Tonglu

Feeding into E'Ming's praise kink

When he disguised himself as a pregnant lady to be possessed by the evil fetus spirit and it worked

When he disguised himself as a woman so badly he looked hideous and needed help to not look like that

When he spent the entirety of the Xuan Ji capturing business in his wedding dress disguise, including meeting Pei Xiu like that

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts-

When his response to the sex pollen was to kill himself

"I do not worship god, i am god!"

Every single sweet and tender interaction with Hua Cheng's butterflies that everyone else is terrified of

When everyone ignored him in the communication array because he was cringe

Getting drunk on a tombstone with little ghost fire Hua Cueng after his life fell apart

Controversial but i think his calamity era was also iconic and very sexy

When Heaven's Eye said his lips are exuding evil energy and he turned bright red

And then later when Heaven's Eye said the evil energy is inside him and he immediately changed the subject

Recognizing literally everyone despite their disguises but keeping quiet about it not to embarrass them.

Calling Yin Yu boring and forgettable looking to his face

Defending Hua Cheng, evil ghost king, in front of the whole entire Heavenly Emperor

When he was working in the rice field with Hua Cheng and he kept staring

Being poor

Having ridiculously bad luck

Ascending three times

Big daddy issues even with his dad still alive

When his life had just fallen apart and he didnt know how much a lantern could cost because he had been ridiculously rich all his life

Holding up a massive temple from falling apart???

Kissing Hua Cheng for spiritual energy in front of literally everyone more than once

When he could hear rats talking???

Adopting children

Not iconic Xie Lian behaviors

His abhorrent cooking

Trying to kill himself???

#tgcf #tian guan ci fu #xie lian #hob #heaven official's blessing #most iconic series #original thots

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dixons-sunshine · 8 months ago

Note

Hiii! First of all i love love love your writing i get so excited every time i see you’ve posted ❤️ i was wondering if i could request a daryl x fem!reader where they’re just chilling out watching a silly cartoon and he’s finally relaxing and happy to be with his girl, maybe it could be young daryl it’s up to you. Thank you for producing such good work for us all to read!!! 🫶

Selfish | Young!Daryl Dixon x Young!Fem!Reader

*GIF isn't mine.*

Summary: When you woke up and walked into the kitchen, you didn't expect to find your mom sitting there with a man you didn't know. And you certainly didn't expect the man to go off on your boyfriend when you didn't even know who he was.

Genre: Fluff, teeny bit of angst.

Era: Pre outbreak.

Part of the Shopping Spree, Hangout Dreams AU.

Warnings: Swearing, suggestive themes.

Word count: 2.7k.

A/n: I hope you don't mind, but I already had an idea for my next installment to this universe, and thought this idea would work well with an idea I already had. To be honest, this isn't my best work and I feel like the plot is all over the place, but I hope you like this nonetheless!

➳༻❀✿❀༺➳

The moon was shining brightly in the night sky, surrounded by the twinkling of millions of beautiful stars. Crickets were chirping outside in the grassy areas and owls were hooting from their spots in the trees. All the inhabitants of the trailer park were in their homes, tucked in and ready for a good night's rest.

Everyone except you and Daryl.

“M'tellin' ya, this cartoon ain't all tha'. S's'posed to be 'bout a talkin' dog helpin' reveal the culprits tha' ain't actual ghosts, yet him and tha' green shirt guy still believe in ghosts. Even after all the mysteries they solved, they still believe in 'em. S'fuckin' ridiculous.”

You rolled your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest and letting out a huff, albeit a playful one. “So you're telling me, real or not, that if a guy who looked like a ghost was threatening to kill you, you wouldn't run?”

“Nah, I'd run fer the fuckin' hills, I ain't denyin' tha',” Daryl stated, lazily picking at the dead skin on his thumb. “But c'mon, these guys are s'posed to be professionals. They unveil criminals tha' dress up as monsters fer a livin'. Ya can't be a fuckin' pussy durin' somethin' tha's yer job.”

“Okay, then, smartass,” you replied playfully, lightly shoving his shoulder. You giggled when Daryl wrapped his arm around you and pulled you tightly against his side, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “How about we watch that roadrunner cartoon you like?”

Daryl's eyes lit up. “Yer serious?” he asked, excitement lacing his tone.

You nodded and nuzzled your head into his chest, flicking through the channels with the remote until you found the aforementioned cartoon. Daryl pressed a kiss to the top of your head, before wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on top of your head. The two of you sat there, cuddled up under the blankets, simply enjoying the serene moment.

Daryl couldn't believe how lucky he got with you. After nearly a year together, the two of you were still going strong. The so-called "honeymoon phase" that people said wore off after a few months into the relationship didn't falter between the two of you. What you and Daryl shared ran much deeper than just a phase. The two of you worked hard at your relationship, making compromises and being open with one another. Daryl wasn't the most open person, but for you, he tried. Likewise, there were things you didn't normally do that you did for Daryl—you weren't the most keen person on catching fish, but you did it for him, just because he liked it. Your love for one another ran deep, so it was unlikely for the happy, giddy feeling to wear off. That spark between the two of you would never burn out.

Your laugh suddenly echoed through the trailer, soon followed by Daryl's own chuckles at a particularly funny scene in the cartoon. Daryl looked down at you in awe, marveling at how beautiful you looked. Your eyes sparkled in the light that the television emitted and your smile was more radiant than anything he's ever seen before.

Yeah, Daryl Dixon knew he was the luckiest guy on the planet.

Before he could fully register what he was doing, Daryl cupped your cheek and turned your head to him, pressing his lips against yours in a firm, passionate kiss. You were surprised at first but ultimately sunk into the feeling of his lips on yours. The kiss soon escalated from loving and sensual to heated and lustful. Daryl picked you up and helped you onto his lap, quietly groaning when you lightly grinded your hips against his, putting a pleasurable amount of pressure against his growing erection.

You pulled away slightly, resting your forehead against his. “Do you want to take this to my room?” you asked in a whisper.

You giggled when he stood up while holding you firmly against him, not saying anything. You wrapped your legs around him, and he walked the short distance to your room, kicking the door shut behind him when he reached it.

The cartoon playing on the television was forgotten of for the rest of the night.

➳༻❀✿❀༺➳

Soft, feathery light kisses all over his face, shoulder blade and arm was what Daryl Dixon awoke to the next morning. Blinking away the last remnants of sleep from his mind, he turned over in the bed and locked eyes with you. You looked like a goddess to him at that moment, the sun gleaming through the window giving you a golden-like aura. You were wearing your shorts from the prior night, but you were wearing his shirt instead of your own. However, he didn't complain.

“Good morning, handsome,” you greeted him, giving him a cheerful smile.

Daryl gave you a lopsided smile in return, adjusting his head on the pillow. “Would be a better mornin' if I got a kiss,” he spoke in his raspy morning voice, sending shivers down your spine at the sound.

Complying with his not-so-subtle request, you leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to his lips. You pulled away after a few seconds, bringing your hand up to brush through his hair.

“I'm gonna make us some breakfast. Throw on a pair of pants and come meet me, okay?” you told him, your hand lingering on his cheek for a moment before withdrawing.

Daryl nodded as he watched you stand up, adjusting the sheets around him as he became painfully aware that he was as naked as the day he was born under them. “Alrigh',” he started, his eyes slowly trailing over your form, appreciating the way you looked in his shirt. “Ya look good, sunshine.”

“Thank you,” you replied, sending him a smile, before finally making your way out of your room.

You closed the door behind you and made your way to the kitchen, but stopped in your tracks when you saw your mom sitting at the table with a man you've never seen before in your life. The two were engaged in a heated argument, not even noticing your presence.

“For the love of god, Henry! You can't just come here and demand to see her after seventeen years of nothing! We've been doing just fine without you or your money, so you can leave, just like you did all those fucking years ago!”

“She's my daughter too, Cecilia! I have every right to see her.”

“Mom?” you questioned confusedly, finally making your presence known.

Your mom turned her head to you, her eyes widening in horror. However, before she could say anything, the man called Henry stood up, sending you a strained smile.

“Princess?” he questioned you, taking a step towards you.

You took a step back, unexpectedly making contact with someone behind you. You stumbled but a familiar pair of arms encircled you, steadying you. You turned your head and locked eyes with your boyfriend's beautiful blue ones.

“Wha's goin' on?” he asked you, slightly standing behind you to hide his bare upper body from your mom's and the unknown man's view. He was suddenly painfully aware that his scars were on display to a person who he did not know, and that made him want to shrink into himself and disappear.

Instantly picking up on what he was feeling, you moved to stand in front of him. You eyed the man standing in front of you warily, sending questioning glances to your mom.

“Mom? What's going on?” you asked her, feeling extremely uncomfortable under the man's intense stare. It wasn't uncommon for your mom to see you and Daryl walking out of your room in the morning—she was well aware of why he stayed over most of the time—but it certainly was the first time that she had an unknown man with her in the morning.

“Who's this?” the man asked, a slight bit of anger lacing his tone. “What the fuck are you doing sniffing around my daughter, boy?”

“What?!” you exclaimed in surprise, your eyes widening. “What the actual fuck are you talking about?”

“Sweetheart, please calm down. I can expl—”

“Shut up!” the man cut her off, turning towards you. “I come over to meet my daughter and this is what I walk in on? A fucking orgy? You couldn't even find someone better than some redneck?”

Daryl visibly stiffened. He ducked his head to avoid the man's harsh glare, uncomfortable with the way he dissected him with his eyes. The man had taken one look at Daryl and decided that his worth was nonexistent.

“Leave him out of this,” you warned him, snapping out of your confusion. Nobody had the right to target Daryl, especially not some man who, if he was your father, ran away seventeen years ago. “You don't get a say in who I date or not. And if you really are my father, what the hell makes you think that you can come in here after seventeen years and expect me to welcome you with open arms? What makes you think that you get to come into our home and play the man of the house? I don't know who you are, and after the last few minutes with your behaviour, I have no interest in getting to know you. You can go to hell.”

“Henry,” your mom jumped in, lightly shoving him back. “Get the fuck out of here before I call the cops.”

The man glared at you and your mom, before shifting his attention to Daryl again. “Well,” he started, scoffing and turning around to leave. “Like mother, like daughter. Seems like trying to get knocked up in high school is a hereditary gene.” He paused before turning back to you. “If you're smart, you can come find me at that motel near the bar. I'll be staying there.”

“Get the fuck out!” your mom yelled angrily, pushing him out.

Shutting the door once the bitter man was gone, your mom turned to you and Daryl. She looked at you sheepishly, a deep frown on her face.

“Guys, I'm so sorry,” she apologized sincerely.

“Mom, what was that?” you asked, allowing Daryl to pull you into his side, your boyfriend instantly recognizing your anxiousness. “Was that really—?”

“Your father?” she finished for you. “He is, but I really wish he wasn't.”

Your breath got caught in your throat. Unwillingly, you felt a lump form in your throat, the recent play of events turning your whole world upside down. For years, it had just been you and your mom. Your father was practically a ghost story, only being regarded as your "sperm donor". Yet there he had been mere minutes ago, standing in front of you. You felt overwhelmed, and you could feel your throat constricting.

You had to get out of there.

“I have to go,” you weakly mumbled out, withdrawing from Daryl's hold and pushing past your mom and heading out the door, walking in a familiar direction.

“Sweetheart, wait!” your mom called after you, but to no avail—you were already gone.

Daryl placed a hesitant hand on your mom's shoulder, bringing her attention to him. “I'll get her. I know where she's goin'.”

Your mom offered him a weak smile. “Thank you, Daryl,” she thanked him, vaguely motioning over to the laundry hamper at the other end of the room. “You left one of your shirts here the other day. It's in there.”

Nodding, Daryl walked over and grabbed the shirt, slipping it over his head—he was glad that his scars were once again hidden from plain view. Sparing your mom one last glance, Daryl ran out of the trailer and in the direction where you had disappeared.

A few minutes later, Daryl ended up by the river. There, just as he had predicted, you sat, your knees brought up to your chest, your bare feet resting in the cool water. You were staring straight ahead, clearly deep in thought.

“Figured I'd find ya here,” Daryl spoke softly as he sat down next to you, successfully gaining your attention.

You turned your head to him, tears falling from your eyes. The sight broke Daryl's heart. It was extremely rare to see you crying; you were always so happy and never let anything get you down, so the whole ordeal must've been too much for you.

“I'm sorry,” you brokenly whispered out, wiping the tears from your eyes.

“Fer wha'?”

“For leaving so abruptly,” you explained, tracing mindless shapes and figures into the sand beneath you with your finger. “You were probably so uncomfortable. I know how you feel about people seeing your scars and I just left. I'm really sorry, Daryl.”

It amazed Daryl how, even when it was something that didn't directly affect him and quite obviously took a huge toll on you, you still worried about him more than yourself. You were selfless and hated making just about anything about you, and even though Daryl loved that about you, in that particular moment, he wanted you to be selfish. He wanted you to make this about yourself. He wanted you to cry, to scream, to throw things. He wanted you to be mad at what happened. He didn't want you to worry about him in a moment like that.

Daryl wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his side. “Dun' worry 'bout me,” Daryl whispered into your ear, pressing a kiss to your temple. “How are ya feelin'? And dun' try and pull tha' "m'alright" shit with me. I know ya better than tha'.”

You inhaled deeply and sniffled. “I just... Never expected to meet my father like that. I've always dreamt of meeting him, y'know? And now that I have, I don't know how to feel. On one hand, he's my father and I wanna get to know him, but on the other hand, he's clearly a fucking dick and he needs to fuck off. And my mom... Oh, god. I left my mom. She probably thinks—”

“S'okay,” Daryl reassured you, wiping away the tears that had fallen from your eyes again. “She ain't mad. She's jus' worried 'bout ya.”

“I'm overreacting,” you mumbled, shaking your head in disappointment at yourself. “A few harsh words with that man and I bolt. It's ridiculous.”

“Listen to me,” Daryl began, pulling back and cupping your face in his hands, gently forcing you to look at him. “Yer not overreacting. Everythin' tha' happened was unexpected fer ya. Ya jus' met yer dad in the worst way possible and ya were overwhelmed. Nobody blames ya fer needin' a moment to process everythin', alrigh'? Ya deserve to take a moment fer yerself, a moment to be selfish. Ya hear me?”

You nodded, allowing the tears to fall freely now. Daryl pulled you into a proper hug, allowing you to sob into his shirt. He didn't care that your tears were soaking his shirt—his only concern was you. He whispered sweet nothings into your ear, rocking you from side to side until you calmed down.

“Thank you,” you whispered after a while, sniffling softly.

“Ya dun' have to thank me,” he told you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “M'always here fer ya, jus' like ya are fer me.”

“I love you, Dar.”

A beat of silence passed, until Daryl whispered into your ear. “I love ya too, sunshine. I love ya so fuckin' much.”

©dixons-sunshine 2024. I do not give permission for my works to be copied, modified, adapted or translated to any other site or platform without evidence of my given consent.

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mandalhoerian · 23 days ago

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( CALL OFF YOUR GHOST )

PAIRING: Leon S. Kennedy x OC

SHIP TROPES: Came Back Wrong x Unchanged but Damaged, Ghost of a Past Flame x Haunted by Their Memory, The Professional x The Wild Card, Grumpy x Sunshine, The Cat With Nine Lives x The Dog Who Never Stopped Waiting, Agent of Chaos x Reluctant Softie

READ PREQUEL 'NO TIME TO DIE' HERE !

READ ON AO3 ! | VERA KAPLAN TAG !

Five years after Raccoon City, Leon Kennedy’s life has narrowed to one relentless mission: dismantling Umbrella and exterminating the nightmares they’ve unleashed. Haunted by the horrors of that night—and by Vera Kaplan refusing to call off her ghost—he’s locked in a war with no end in sight. But when his latest assignment puts him on a collision course with "Gravedigger," an elite Umbrella operative who cuts down every lead AUPIT follows, Leon comes face-to-face with the impossible: his ghost has returned, not as a memory, but as a revenant. Once his closest ally and the epicenter of his grief, Vera now stands at the top of Umbrella’s food chain, her genius weaponized as a ruthless enforcer erasing Umbrella’s loose ends and anyone who gets in her way. Torn between the girl she was and the weapon she's become, Leon is presented with a particularly emotion-based burden of decision making that's out of the question to someone of his position. Either shut his head off, do his damn job like he always does and walk away in preparation for the next mission—but lose her again, this time for good, or follow his gut after the one truth he’s come to resent about her that day in 1998: Vera Kaplan never runs out of well-intentioned secrets.

( Work in Progress! )

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#leon kennedy x oc #leon s kennedy x oc #leon s. kennedy x oc #leon kennedy #resident evil oc #resident evil #story: gravedigger #era: call off your ghost #publishing the masterlist in hopes of it helping me start writing

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

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Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)

WORDCOUNT: 7.7k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, angst, mutilation, violence, death, being hunted, reference to unwanted attention from a man, 1890s period standards for men/women, religious references, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“Miriam?” Your voice carries over the open street, one of the two small steps leading into your nonexistent front yard firm under your feet. Across the way and one house to the left, your older neighbor, Miriam, readies her horse for you—kept behind the paddock door of her attached single-stall stable. Men and women shuffle past along the cobblestone, clopping hooves and tipping soft caps. Giggles and gloved fingers.

The city is lively today, and you’ll be glad to be out of it for the better part of the morning.

You brush down the front of your shirtwaist, patting at the pleating along the front before folding your shawl across your shoulders; hiking it farther into your high-collared garment.

“Miriam!” You call again, shuffling down that last step and trying to shove yourself farther into the crowd. Keeping your black skirt close to you, you sigh long and pray the pouch at your side will stay away from the hands of pickpockets—a tailor gets off well enough, but every penny was worth it. One setback could ruin you.

Which was the reason you were now making your way into the country on your neighbor's horse.

Miriam glances up from where she fiddles with the bridle strap, her head mixed in with the masses. You smile, raising a hand far above the sea as men sneer down at you, hearing the tinkling bells of her laughter.

You make it to her and Whistlejacket the Thoroughbred as you huff, rubbing your gloved hands together before the clicking sound of your heeled shoes can catch up to your ears.

“By the Lord, it’s chilly, Love,” Miriam utters, patting the horse as you softly rub the animal's neck. Black ears twitch to you, chestnut eyes soft and pliable. You smile before replying with a chuckle.

“And the chill won’t stop Mrs. Ida from having my hide for that wool-lined cycling jacket, unfortunately.”

“Ah,” Miriam scoffs, “Mrs. Ida. I’d tell that one to mind her manners to the fine lady who makes her husband's waistcoats.”

“She always asks for them a size small,” you hum, rummaging through your satchel to make sure you have the money you need for the wool that’ll go inside the order. “One with more of a brain would say she was trying to say something.”

Your eyes glimmer as you send your neighbor a glance. Miriam slides you a cheesy look.

“‘More of a brain’, the girl says,” she mutters as you laugh brightly. “A wonder you’ve not found a husband yet.”

You ignore the comment, sliding down Whistlejacket’s side to slip your foot into the stirrup, huffing at the beast’s size before shimmying up with all the grace of a young hooligan. Panting on the saddle, both legs over one side on account of your skirt, you take a breath and happen to glance at the dark house that borders Miriams.

“Miriam?” The words escape you in a moment of curiosity. “Pray tell…is Mr. Riley back from his trip to London yet?”

Mr. Riley—Simon as you know him to be called by only a whispered passing. It was apparent with your little…interest in him. It wasn’t a carnal interest, no, God forbid, it was a hesitant need to understand him.

You’d never sown nor mended so many clothes than to his own collection.

Frock coats, waistcoats, shirts, ties, and trousers all—ripped to shreds before being placed on your counter like it didn’t matter a smidge. And those deep brown eyes of his…endless; seemingly incapable of human emotion above the tight layer of silk that the man wears up to his nose. There was something strange going on with Mr. Riley, and you were determined to figure it out, but he was also quite alluring to you in a simpler sense.

You liked how he spoke to you.

“London?” Miriam asks, putting a hand to her wrinkling chin. “My, was that where he was off to—how do you hear about these things, Girl?”

You clear your throat, putting back on your smile. “Oh, never mind that. I was just curious, see.”

Whistlejacket’s feet shuffle from under you, the tall beast’s strength seen through his broad neck and well-bred attitude. Miriam’s husband had been a carriage driver, and when he died, the widow had taken Whistlejacket into her care as the only living family she had.

You rub at his neck again, and the horse nods his head up and down, knickering.

“You’ll take care of the old fellow, then?” The question is layered, anyone going through the forest to the farmer’s fields knows that the shadows grow long.

Knows what can hunt you.

You glance at the woman, nodding firmly. “And bring you back your share for taking the lovely creature out.”

With that you’re out, taking the reins in your hands before easing Whistlejacket into a walk and entering the flow of traffic; waving a hand behind you in goodbye. Miriam calls on the smoggy wind.

“D-don’t stray from the path, Love!”

A path wouldn’t save you from the Ghost.

—

It is the year 1897, and beasts live here.

They roam in the dark corners and the forgotten alleys of every city and street—silent, unseen. Waiting to strike with white fangs or sharp claws; a snarl or a whisper. Vampires, demons, specters lost to time…Werewolves.

Nowhere was safe, and so, the world had to adapt.

As Whistlejacket’s hooves meet the slowly depleting cobblestone of the outer city, the clink of the metal bit dances in your ears; your face roves back and forth through the fields, those far in between houses. In your bag, you have more than just money.

Holy water, a crucifix, and, of course, a knife made of pure silver. When in doubt, silver was always the safest bet.

But the forest…the forest was unpredictable.

You breathe slowly as it comes into view hours later, those creaking branches and the breeze that speaks to you—in your head, you hear the plea. Or the threat.

Turn back.

The both of you stop only a foot from the treeline. Whistlejacket knickers, feet shuffling. Your hand finds his hide, rubbing soothing circles as your lips thin.

“Easy,” you whisper, but nothing could be farther from easy. Your fingers brush through the horse's hair as he moves his head, hooves taking a step back. “Easy.”

The blackness of this forest is unnatural—the others in the city and town go around it; a four-day trip. You didn’t have four days. Like a moth to a dark altar flame, the oblivion takes you in and the forest expands in your view the longer you stare into it, down that path of overgrown grass and gravel. Rocks and twigs.

With one hand you grab at your shawl and pull it closer to your neck, holding the reins lightly as your fingers twitch around them with the other.

“Easy,” you say for a third time, quickly looking away from the path and clearing your throat.

Clicking your tongue, your boots tap Whistlejacket’s side and after a puff from his large nostrils, the animal ambles forward, far slower than he had before but still moving nonetheless. Your hesitance bleeds into him, and you know the horse's senses are far better than your own.

But you were stubborn—you’d come too far to go back now, and if you wanted to be home by supper you had to buy the wool you needed and leave as quickly as possible. Going through this forest would take up most of that time.

The trees enshroud you, and in their brimstone grip, they reach with gnarled fingers like a leering phantom. You lean to the side to avoid one branch, feeling it pull at your shaul slightly; trying to grab at you, it seemed. This place would devour you whole, but you were less scared of the general aura and more of the fabled monster that patrols this place.

The Ghost.

Whistlejacket is unsure of this, despite the journeys you’d both been on. It always worried you how such a large carriage animal could still get so nervous after years of desensitization—the horse didn’t flinch at the yells from the city; or the howl of mutts at midnight. But this brimstone forest made him shiver under you like a child in the cold.

As you speak to him lowly, your hand reaches into your satchel and grasps that tiny silver blade, attaching it to your cinched belt as your skirt sways in a dead breeze. A chilled puff of air falls from your lips, though there is no coldness in these standing sentinels—it is a dead-like atmosphere. Every pound of your heart can be heard.

“You know, old fellow,” Whistlejacket’s ear twitches back to you, but his eyes do not leave the path. You spare a tense chuckle. “I’ve half the sense to tell Mrs. Ida to shove that wool lining right up her—”

Something sharp echoes far off into the trees and you pull on the reins with a tight breath.

Whistlejacket squeals, trying to bolt, but you keep a strong hand on him—eyes flashing from one dark void to the next in between the trees as his hooves dance. Your head bobs with every jerk of his legs, yet you barely notice it.

A twig? You ask, heart hammering. No, no that sounded like an entire tree getting snapped in half.

Eyes glancing over your shoulder, you look back down the road and find the tiny speck of light that signifies the exit of this place, the last glimmer of home. With a heavy look around, you close your eyes and shake your head.

Mrs. Ida was…something else…but she was one of your best clients for all her abhorrent behaviors—money was tight as of currently, and the woman’s husband was incredibly rich due to his practice as a physician. This wool was needed not only for the jacket but for your shop upkeep and the price of fabrics, needles, and threads. This wool was an investment you couldn’t miss.

“Whistlejacket,” you click your tongue but the animal snorts and shakes his head, backing up. “Whistlejacket!” Your voice carries despite not even being above a hard whisper.

“I promise you, when we get to the farm I’ll let you eat all of the sugar cubes you want—my treat.” Your hand finds the space between his ears and below his skull, the soft black mane twisting in your fingers. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

Your eyes are half-narrowed.

That wasn’t a twig.

Monster Hunting was a booming profession—and many took to it out of glory or need for coin. Those hunters had been in and out of this forest for short generations, trying futilely to catch what was rumored to lurk here before they got ripped to shreds like their fathers had.

The Ghost.

Some say he stands over nine feet tall; and has fangs that are bigger than a man’s palm—claws like butcher knives. Blackened and dead is his brain, cruel and maniacal.

The Werewolf’s heart is chained to hell, and his soul to Satan. He is cursed ever to walk like a beast and feast on human flesh while in his wolf-skin and out of it.

A ghost.

The Ghost.

You close your eyes tightly, trying not to imagine the stench of blood or the injuries you’d seen those hunters bore—being dragged back into the city screaming and wailing in pain. Arms and legs ripped clean off, never to be found. Most never came back at all.

“Please, Whistlejacket,” you plead, bumping your forehead into his neck. Whispering into his skin, you take a deep breath. “We need to go on. Quickly. We can’t stop here.”

Stopping was making a bigger target on your back—letting your scent linger in the stale air.

With one last whinny, his fast flinching feet, the horse pushes forward as you click your tongue again; faster and more uneasy. But you didn’t slow him, no, if Whistlejacket was going to speed up, you were completely fine with that.

Moving again, you loose a sigh from your lips.

There were many dark stories living here, some too heavy to tell aloud, even—one specifically was the tale that you’d overheard in your shop while helping Mr. Riley fix a large hole in his waistcoat.

Riding along the path, you guide your steed down a small indent, blinking at the images your mind conjures up.

Mr. Riley had been far quieter that day than in the recent past, and you thought perhaps he was beginning to warm to you after a few long months of silence and clipped business talk. That day, though, you had your doubts.

Mr. Moore and Mr. Hill were coming in to inquire about the state of their overalls, working-class both and eager to have their second pair of articles fixed. Mr. Riley had been there first, and thus, you’d been talking to him for the better part of ten minutes.

“Mr. Riley,” you’d explained, holding his black silk waistcoat in your hands while opening and closing your lips. “I…I really must begin by asking how exactly you manage to do this to your clothes. In good faith, I half-believe you have a habit of getting into bar fights with a knife-wielding fiend in your free time.”

Brown eyes had stared at you above that cloth of his, soft cap on his head protecting blond tendrils of hair. Scars peel at his skin, old and pale.

You’d never been afraid of him, despite his large frame and his intimidating muscle—the gruff aggressiveness of his tone. It was strange, but you had a feeling he would never do anything nefarious…perhaps his morals shone through far better than his conversational abilities.

“Can you fix it or not?” He grunts in question, hands in his pockets. Eyelids blink at you slowly, long lashes caressing flesh.

You roll your eyes. “What kind of question is that? Of course, I can.”

In that intermission of silence, you’d heard the words from the men behind Mr. Riley—missing the spark of amusement that had coated those brown orbs as they watched you.

“Did you ‘ere, then, Mr. Hill?” A sharp, hurried whisper. Your eyes blink at the two as the man ahead of you slightly shifts his shoulders, tilting his head to the side to stare behind him. “There’s been killin' in the East district—they’re callin’ the ‘unters in, see.”

“Hunters?” Mr. Moore huffs. “They’ll not make a smidge of a difference now. I’ve heard about it—they say the Ghost slunk in from the Forest and ripped the man to pieces.”

“Aye! They found pieces of flesh hangin’ off the shop signs. Like he’d been put through a machine, I hear. Half a jaw was left in the street, an eye leading into the trees, and…and…”

“Gentleman,” you call, oblivious to how Mr. Riley is as tense as a rope, eyes small and tight on the two men. He barely breathes.

The two look to you as if being caught by their mothers. You frown. “Time and place.”

“Sorry, Ma’am.”

“M’sorry, Miss, lost myself.” You smile through a sigh and turn back to Mr. Riley.

“Well, now then, I…” He quickly walks to the door, boots heavy and knee-length frock coat swishing as he pushes open the barrier and slips through. You gape, confused for a moment. By the time you think about opening your mouth again, you can already see him entering his own house across the street and pulling the door closed firmly.

The curtains close. Black night leaking out around the illumination of the oiled street lamps. It was the news in the morning that called to the true horror that you’d overheard in your shop.

Mr. Lambert was never your favorite patron, in fact, you’d call him a creep at best—insistent on marriage to you and a hazard, considering that your home was connected to your shop. He knew exactly where you lived and when to use your time in his less-than-pure favor.

Mr. Riley had been a natural deterrent in recent months, but what really struck you was that the brown-eyed man had managed to show up exactly when you needed him regarding Mr. Lambert. The small silver bell above your door rang his arrival whenever the other was trying to lean over your counter, smiling sweetly at you as if you were a prize to him and his leering eyes.

Mr. Lambert would instantly straighten, tense, and dart away with a metaphorical tail between his legs while shooting nasty glances.

But you’d never imagined him to be dead.

You’d never imagined his body to be hung from the trees that border the forest like a trophy—the Ghost had dragged him out of his home, the door busted off its hinges, and the inside all but demolished by fighting bodies. Neighbors said they’d heard howls on the wind; yowling and wet snarls like a rabid dog.

Mr. Lambert was mutilated. Unrecognizable mass of flesh and hair, bone seen through shredded skin and tongue lulling from a ripped-off jaw. One eye and a branch through his toro to hold him up.

Now halfway through the forest, in the densest bit of trees, you can’t help but imagine becoming just like him.

You hadn’t spoken besides to reassure Whistlejacket, yet the fact was that you couldn't even reassure yourself—like a child, you cling to the animal below you and try to ignore the murmurs. Your shawl had been pulled up and over your head, creating a sound barrier for you that truly did nothing to help.

Looking slightly to the side at a large and moss-layered boulder beside the path, you shiver not from the cold.

“Maybe I should have just waited the four days…” Your whisper leaked out, and it seemed a sin to break the silence that had been layered here.

A shadow filters past the side of your eyes, a silent motion atop the boulder that you think perhaps is a crow. You pull at your shawl to show your face a bit more, turning your head upward.

Atop the stone is not a bird—it is not an animal of natural birth or of sound mind. It is a beast of ancient rites and white-fanged dreams; left here among the living in a sick game of predator and prey.

You don’t register that it’s really there, the Ghost, until its blackened form stands to its full height, great shaggy fur under the remains of clothes scraps, and muzzle curled to show off fangs and pink gums. There are his ears, atop that head; they point to the sky before flinching back to staple themselves to its elongated skull. Long hands that scrape the stone below it near the claws that dig into the rock until they make long scratches.

Like a demon made flesh, this Werewolf was the epitome of nightmares. So strangely human and monster at the same time.

Eyes like a burial mound.

You stare in numb horror, gloved hands steadily tightening over the leather reigns until your knuckles pop. Whistlejacket does not yet know the beast is here, glaring into your soul and branding it; taking a large step closer to the edge of the boulder as the moss flakes under his egregious large paw-pads.

A low rumble is all it takes, those pupils small and beady, from within the breast of the Ghost’s expansive chest. Whistlejacket’s nose sniffs the air, his head turning and already tense.

The horse screams like a dying banshee, spine curling and legs kicking out. He bucks as the Werewolf snarls through a loud howl, all four limbs connected to the stone and roaring. Your back slams into the ground as you’re tossed off Whistlejacket, your mouth releasing a scream to join the rest of the noises that echo off the foliage.

Crashing into the path, your neighbor's horse disappears with one last high-pitched squeal into the darkness as you feel your bones rattle at the connection to your spine. Tumbling down a slight hill, you quickly get your skirts in order before scrambling to your feet with pain brimming in your scraped skin. Looking back to the boulder, your pounding heart rampages.

But the Ghost isn’t even there.

“Oh, Lord Almighty,” you whisper, backing up multiple steps. “Oh, Lord.”

The blade is missing from your belt—you don’t know where you’ve dropped it in the fall and that might just be the death of you. Mr. Lambert’s story infects you; the other hunters.

You frantically look at that mighty stone, up and down, while skittering backward.

Where did it go?

Panting, you only stop when you hit the firm frame behind you, a large tree trunk of fur, and a hard chest that you sink into. You freeze—eyes wide and unblinking. A thin squeak exits your mouth, and a reverberating call purrs over your vertebra, making you shiver with fear.

Minutes draw before you gather the courage to delicately turn your head upward.

Those eyes meet yours again, small and coated over with rage; pale fangs so close to your forehead they’re like ivory with dripping saliva. One drop hits your flesh, but you fail to register it.

Those eyes.

Up close you’re completely stolen by them, sucked in and whisked away as a bride, this mixture of dark wood and earth. Brown so rich you’d never seen something like it…or…or had you?

Incredibly, in between your panic, something sparks you as being familiar in a way you can’t quite place in this state.

The Ghost is gargantuanly large, so much so that he bends his spine to lean over your entire body and growl down at you, the sound starting in his gut and expanding up to his throat. The fur around his neck is so thick it’s like the mane of an exotic cat, ironically, as tufts of hair are on the tips of his ears.

You stare and try to memorize the look in his eyes as clawed hands come up at your sides, horrifyingly human with long fingers; five-pointed except for the fact that the skin is blacked like hide. Sweating, you shake before your lips start talking for you, as they usually do.

“I do hope I’m not intruding, Kind Ghost.”

The beast halts his slow entrapment, right ear twitching forward at your voice. He doesn’t blink, and his mouth does not close.

“I…I only wished for safe passage.” Internally you wonder if you’d lost your mind—if it had broken in this moment of hysterics. Your voice is far more steady than it should be. “I must get to the other side of the forest, you see. Urgently. I have business that must be settled. Though,” you add quickly, tone cracking for a moment. “Though, I knew not how to contact you to ask.”

The Werewolf’s heart can be felt on your back, a deep thum of pulsing power and raw death. It watches, its mouth twitching a smidge more closed and lungs rising. Its feral heat leaks through your clothes into your flesh.

A furred hand connects with your hip and you squawk as you’re shoved to the ground very suddenly, thrown to the side onto the grass with only your palms to catch you. You’re flipped over, those same claws slamming beside your head before you can push back up and try to run. But there could be no running. Like a moth to flame the Ghost would hunt you down until there was nothing left of you but bloodied carnage.

You throw up your hands in front of your face, the great form splayed over you and a sniffing nose digging into your stomach. There is a low whine of a hungry maw as the shaggy head moves up and around. Like a human, the Werewolf’s hand grabs at your wrist, pinning it down to the ground as the other digs into the earth, dragging it up like a farmer’s plough.

“H-hey!” You shout, pushing with your free fingers at the muzzle—in sound mind, you’d never even think to do such a thing. “Get off of me!”

You should have been terrified, and maybe you were, but you’d gone past the point of knowing it. This beast was leering over you like Mr. Lambert, but far more dangerous and…and…

“Are you smelling me?!” Your angry voice makes his dark eyes snap to yours, and in an instant, you’re staring up his muzzle, body splayed out below him.

You shutter.

“Eh…Just don't…rip anything, would you?” You were talking to a Werewolf as if he was capable of higher understanding in this form—as if still human. Voice small, you thin your lips and feel sweat run your eyebrow ridge, heart pitter-pattering.

Why were you still alive?

The snout resumes, running along your shoulder and finally stopping at your neck with a pass of the Ghost’s tongue over his lips. You close your eyes tight.

This was it, you think. Of course, you’d be the one to lose the only blade that could let you actually damage this monster, the silver glinting in your mind as you curse yourself violently. You feel the puff of his vile breath on your neck, his claws peeling at your shirt collar slowly back.

Your breath hitches, fingers winding through the fur below your grip, but the confusion breeds with the horror. The sensation of his soft fur wasn’t unpleasant—in fact, it was perhaps the finest material you’d ever handled. While it wasn’t the time for this, your occupation was impossible to ignore…this texture was far better than any silk.

But he’s stopped moving entirely. Lids fluttering, you open your eyes slowly, afraid but addled at the inaction.

Brown side-eyes you closely, fangs dripping next to the meat of your neck and parted to show a lulling tongue. The beast purrs as you stare, looming with enough mass to block the sun and moving that muzzle closer to your pulse. In an act of pure desperation and womanly instinct at the sight, you snap out your leg and, not hesitating a moment longer as the animal’s tongue meets your flesh, you send your shoe straight in between the monster's legs.

A sharp yowl makes your ears ring, but you slip out from under the Ghost as it banks back, snarling and yapping before it rights itself with a shake and rabid hunger. The look from before is gone—but you’re already through the trees by the time the enraged hunting cry makes your neck hairs rise.

Guttural, savage, and devoid of humanity.

On the path you find your blade, and you snatch it as you gather your skirt in the opposite hand and dash away. To where, you have to tell yourself, you do not know. But it’s human nature to run, to sprint until your throat tastes like blood and your stomach rolls with bile—all of that can be tolerated if for the simple promise of survival.

So run you did.

Faster and harder than you ever had in your life, you sprinted into the brimstone trees and the dead thorns, not looking over your shoulder at the noises of snarls and breaking tree trunks; claws through the earth, and the primal howl of a hunt. Your throat is raw and scraping, clothes thoroughly ruined as you crash through a thorn bush while cutting up your arms and legs in tiny streaks of crimson.

Droplets make a path behind you, a path, and a scent to tell you by. But with how the Ghost had been smelling you too deeply, you doubted it would be long before he tracked you down to finish the job.

You lose a shoe in the mad dash, lungs heaving and whimpering from the sudden absence of sounds entirely—as if the beast had disappeared into thin air. Still, you don’t brave a glace behind as you take turns and bends in the earth at random, running deeper and deeper into the foliage.

Bloodied and running out of strength as you hop a small stream, yelping when you slip and bash your wrist into the ground, you had never wished for Whistlejacket more. All you could hope was that the horse was making his way out the other side of this hellscape.

You never should have come through here.

Tears stain your eyes, blurring the edges as you manage to run into a small clearing, head whipping back and forth from one area to another. Every turn was the same—every tree similar!

But the house was different.

No more than a hut, really, it was stone and had a thatched roof, nestled in a field of black flowers and wisps of dead grass. The door was opened, but the ground was torn up by claw marks—spanning up the sides and near a broken widow.

You rush to it without a blink, and just as you make it to the threshold, you grab the thick oak door with your torn gloves. Turning, you find him across the open glade.

Air is shoved from your lungs as you wheeze, the black shadow in the tree line. Brown eyes burn past flesh and bone—beady. Twitching lips and high-pointed ankles with rising fur. It was like a statue. Not even moving; barely breathing as it…watches.

What had happened to the snarling—the howling hunt?

Had…had he been behind you the entire time?

You whip the door closed and frantically slam the bolt in place, the blade brought to your side and shaking in your tight hold as you back up quickly.

“Oh, Miriam, damn you, you’re always right.” You gasp, back hitting the edge of a table. “Curse me for never listening.”

Your neighbor had expressed worries the day before your departure, but you’d been stubborn as always—wool, you said you needed. Just enough for a coat. It was nothing; nothing that should have led to this.

You feel like passing out, bile rising into your throat before you swallow it back down and breathe in quick heaves.

But the door didn’t cave in, and no great monster barreled through to eat you up and pin you into a tree branch. The house settled, the minutes dragged on…

…and nothing happened.

Your heart slowly goes back to a hesitant normal, like a mouse after being chased by a hawk; a lamb by a wolf. Standing up straighter with blood saturating your clothes, the uneven strides of your shoe-less foot mean little to you as your form slinks to the broken window. You don’t feel the pain in your cuts—the sweat or dirt—before you bend down and hiss at the stretching flesh.

Knees knocking on the floor, you peek above the sill slowly, eyes wide open and tiny pupils quivering.

“Why didn’t it come into the glade?” You ask yourself, seeing the large shadow in the far-off coverage of the dropping leaves. A steadily dying sun. You weren’t making it back home tonight. “Why is it staying away—it knows I’m in here.”

Surely it wouldn’t let you live?

Your brows tighten, swearing there are eyes looking back at you through the kaleidoscope reflections of the glass. You duck down, vibrating as your vision runs across the strange hut.

One room, it only held a table, a tiny desk, a trunk, and a bed. A fireplace with no logs. Dust lived in the corners, and candles that were unlit were melted in plates and cups all around your view—score of them as if the dark was something the owner feared vehemently.

This would be your sanctuary for the night.

“Do Werewolves not come upon hallow ground?” Your voice bounces off the stone. “Was this a priest's hut?”

If there was a church nearby in this damned place, that would truly be the best scenario. Churches held hunters more often than not.

Standing, you walk the space, feet aching as the adrenaline wears off and it all sets in. You place your blade into your belt, but your fingers never leave the pommel. First, you go to the desk, picking through letters and thin papers.

Blinking, you pass them over in favor of the journal, the one next to the hastily thrown down quill—the spilled ink.

Your hand touches the leather and flips it open, ears peeled for any noise from outside. The drawings come into focus quite quickly.

Diagrams and intense study fill your brain, images of the Ghost sketched so lifelike that you flinch back and physically recoil until you gather your bearings.

“I don’t suppose this would be of any help,” you utter with a frown. “Will it tell me how to make silver bullets? Give me a revolver?”

Shaking your head, you close the journal before the faded name on the cover register—you walk away slowly before you halt.

"Simon Riley."

Your heart tightens and those brown orbs come back to you. It’s like your mind expands in a millisecond.

Simon Riley and his frequent trips out of the city. Simon Riley and his shredded clothes exactly like the ones that the beast wears. Simon Riley and his silent, black, soul. His secrets.

“No,” you try to convince yourself, chuckling as your panic spikes. Every interaction whizzes past with surety. “No, that’s not possible. I couldn't have been that inept when he was right in front of me.”

Anger pierces you, and all sense leaves. You know it to be true, know it to be the reality even if you'd just put the pieces together yourself. This was too perfect that God himself must have come down and laid it out for you to find.

In a moment of raw rage, you stomp to the door—hand snapping to the bolt and reaming it back. The outside chill makes you growl, but you exit the hut nonetheless. It was like a spit in your face.

“Simon Riley!” You scream into the air, hand in fists. “Get your arse out here and explain to me why I’ve been fixing your fucking clothes while you’ve been galivanting around the bloody forest!”

Call you insane, but seeing your work constantly ruined made you more mad than being chased like an animal, especially if this animal had no intention of killing you. He'd had the option, but he hadn't.

That only serves to make you even more angry.

Your finger points into the tree line. “I spend my God-given time to make them perfect for you, and this is how you repay me?” A rustling from the bush to your left. You snarl and turn to find the upright form as it blinks at you, muzzle closed and ears forward. It steps out into the grass with one paw before you brandish your blade at it.

The Werewolf freezes, a low warning growl rumbling in his chest.

“I’m going to rip that damn fur from your body and teach you what it’s like to have your practice insulted, you twat.” Those eyes don’t stray, just like they never had in your shop.

Yet there was a more primal tint to them—more wild, unrestrained. Aggressive.

The monster stalks forward with slow and heavy steps, walking up to you until it can once more stare you down. You take down a shaky breath and press your knife into his abdomen as fur encompasses your field of view.

Your confidence wavers.

“D-don’t you know it’s rude to chase down a lady in her travel shoes?”

A snarl grinds itself out in cut intervals as if he were trying to speak to you, snapping fangs and tilting head. You have somewhat of an idea of what it means.

“I’m not apologizing for kicking you in the balls, Mr. Riley. You deserved it.” You lower the knife from his abdomen.

A nose pushes itself into your neck again before you shove him off with a curse. He doesn’t even flinch before he tries once more.

“Would you quit it?!” You yell, scoffing. “What in the devil is wrong with you?”

It was like he was trying to rub his head all over you—as if nothing but a dog scenting a bone.

Isn’t he? Your lips thinned. It wasn’t foreign to think he wasn’t in the right state like this. Of course, he wasn’t. Mr. Riley would never act like this, even with how often you saw each other.

Lord, you didn’t even know if he liked you that much, but judging by whatever this is, it happened to be quite a bit. You huff and push him back with a scene of finality, slithering backwards into the hut before slamming the door.

There’s a low grumble from outside, the barrier shaking as a large paw presses on it with immense force.

“No!” You order, pulse running. “No—you figure yourself out first! I’m not letting you in like that.”

The sudden enraged roar is so loud the broken window shakes. It makes your veins quiver under your skin. But there's a heavy slam of leaving feet moments later, the sound of screeching trees as branches are bent back.

You pause and stand straighter after a long minute. Your lungs inhale.

“It listens better than the man,” you breathe, feeling weak. Bravery was tiring.

Yet, there was still the problem of the dead.

Simon Riley was the Ghost—a Werewolf. He’d killed people, many, many people in these trees.

You grab at your neck softly, the scent of earth and blood stuck under your fingertips, infecting your very soul.

“...So why didn’t he kill me?”

—

You helped yourself to the clothes in Mr. Riley’s trunk, taking what you could find and slipping into it for bed. It was nothing more than a large undershirt and pants, but you wouldn’t be the one complaining. Luck was back on your side, as you also found a small package of bandages and matches.

Lighting the candles one by one, afterward, you did what you could for your wounds. You weren’t keen on traveling to find water to clean them out, so, for now, a wrapping would have to do.

The beast patrolled the glade.

You’d hear him occasionally bend by the door, shadowing along the crack before there was a tapping of claws on stone and a huff of hot breath. He’d always leave you unaccosted, a smacking of gums and licking of chops heard through the cracked window before the dog darts away.

Where fear had been previously, curiosity starkly remained at the forefront.

“Simon Riley,” you mutter, sitting on the edge of his bed after that same event that had happened not an hour earlier. And the same an hour before that. Clockwork.

A wolf stalking his hunting grounds, making sure all is where it’s supposed to be.

He smells you in here.

“It’s too damn late for this,” you huff, rubbing at your face. Ideally, you’d like a bath and a hot meal, but there was no supper here. No food at all, really.

You plop down into the feather pillow, face nuzzling into the deep scent that you remember smelling from Mr. Riley as he came into your tailor’s shop. This was demented—unholy action.

If this were a different woman in this bed, she might be praying to her God for some salvation, an angel to come down and whisk her away. But the thought is like a stake in your heart.

If there were a different woman in this bed…would she even be breathing as you were?

You shiver and burrow deeper into the covers, pulling them up to your chin. For whatever reason, Simon Riley, the Ghost, had stayed his fangs from your supple flesh; now you weren’t even sure that when he was leaning over you he had any intention to hurt you at all. He had seemed like he was…waiting for something.

Simon Riley, your neighbor.

Your neighbor the Werewolf.

You groan and hold yourself in the candle-light, unsure. You’d heard the tales—the murders. Mr. Lambert. Those countless hunters mutilated. Like a child, you pull sparse memories that bring it all to light.

Mr. Riley was quite the gentleman when you happened to catch him.

There was never a time when you had to carry in your own fabric shipments—he was always outside to grab them before you could get one hand on the carriage compartment; it all seemed like lifting a feather. You’d speak to him about his day and his trips to the bigger cities that he always frequented.

He’d told you it was because of his business, and you’d refrained from asking what exactly it was that allowed him to purchase such exquisite clothes—or even how they always ended up ruined.

As your eyes flutter in this bed full of long black hair, you sigh and listen to the howls from far off in the distance; shivering.

“Where do you need ‘em, then?” The accent was aggressive, yes, but the tone was casual. You smile over at Mr. Riley and see the large trunk in his hands as the carriage leaves outside.

“I don’t know,” you tease, “But I think you look quite dashing being such a ready and willing neighbor, Sir.”

“That it?” He raises an eyebrow, but no expression slashes his visible face. To even get that was something to celebrate.

You raise a hand and wave him behind your counter, chuckling.

“I jest, Mr. Riley. Right back here the same as always.” He wordlessly ambles forward, feet heavy upon your wooden floors.

You smell the scent of fresh earth as he passes, and your fingers twitch at your sides. Clearing your throat, you ask easily as the man strangely flinches as he brushes your arm, eyes flicking just a smidge wider.

“Any more travels this month, then? I am a bit curious to hear about where you’ll be off to this time.”

“London,” is a swift answer. Brown eyes glance at you as the trunk is set down with a puff of breath in the space below the shelves. “Ever been?”

You shrug.

“No, unfortunately.” Simon stands to his full height, hands finding the insides of his pockets. You should be hesitant of his stature—his great shoulders—but you find it suits him. He tilts his head at you, his cap off today to let his wisps of hair collect at his temple. “You?”

Mr. Riley grunts, feet shifting.

“Quite a few.” He blinks slowly. “Not missin’ much. Bloody filthy.”

You laugh and tilt your head down, staring at the floor for a moment as your cheeks heat up. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Simon puffs a sound of amusement, looking you up and down. He stares at your waist before he hums.

“That a new one?” You look down at your corset above your blouse, putting a hand above the embroidery and nodding earnestly, touched that he’d seen it. Mr. Riley was far more in tune with his surroundings than others.

“Yes, had a horrible time with the designs—I’m not quite sure I like it yet.”

“It’s nice.” The man seems just as surprised about his quick outburst as you do, wide eyes meeting each other to connect with bare emotion.

It’s a long pause that leaves you stuttering, your heart skipping a beat as your flesh burns with brimming affection. Simon grunts tensely and darts his eyes away to stare hard at the counter behind you.

“Well, I…” you tilt your head, beaming through a soft chuckle. “Thank you, Mr. Riley. That’s high praise coming from you.”

“It’s nothing.” He takes his leave, firmly moving past you and shifting his body to make sure he doesn’t accidentally run into you. “Wear whatever you want, won’t make a difference… You’ll still be lovely.”

Before you can gape into the expanse of his back at the blunt compliment, he’s already out of the door with a whisper. You watch him cross the street from the window and see him climb his steps, sucking down a shaky breath.

An embarrassing giggle meets air.

The man far across the street pauses in front of his door, gloved hand outstretched. He stays there for a hint of a moment, and you swear he turns his head to space you a tiny glance over his shoulder.

Suddenly feeling as if you’d gotten caught, though you don’t know why, you squeak and hurry away into the back room.

You wake up to the sound of the door opening.

Drowsy and fatigued, your ears twitch to the sound of low groans and clipped growls—thick curses that would make any mother go shy that slip in and out of your reality.

You should be afraid.

Footsteps stumble in, the thick closing and bolting of the door eching. Candles flicker through your eyelids, and you make a low noise in your throat as your face scrunches.

All sound ceases.

So quiet that death himself would vacate the area, your brain catches the end of a set of surprised footsteps coming to the bed and a sudden low exclamation of, “Bloody fucking hell.”

It all fades in and out, glimmering and glinting.

A swift cleaning of the objects in his possession, organization, and fixing—moving papers. Feet stop at every other minute, and eyes burn into your face from above the covers.

His fingers pull back at fabric, seeing the clothes you wear, the ones that he needs as of currently.

A deep chuckle encircles you; your sleep deepens. Those same fingers, like a plague of slumber, travel up your bandaged arms and twitch along your shoulder—moving up until they come to the pulse at your neck. They add pressure and a breathless grunt is expelled as you tilt your head farther up.

That touch is moved to your chin, moving it back down to hide your flesh from that brown gaze before a heavy sigh brushes over you. The covers are all at once pulled farther up along your form.

The shadow disappears, and with it, it takes the extra blanket from the end of the bed, harshly grunting as the fabric is shuffled around and wrapped. A tiny mutter.

“You have a fuckin’ horrible habit of complicating things.”

You sleep on, and, if you were conscious enough to realize it, you would have felt the gaze on you for the remainder of the night from the table—watching, barely blinking above the heavy press of eyes.

Silent, if only for the soft breaths taken and no sooner exhaled on long, even, airways.

As if not but a dog that watches the moon under starlight; the gentle sight of snow falling outside of the den.

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