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witchofsparkles · 3 days

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Medusa Ghost & Siren Soap. This was the first Ghoap fic i wrote... It has mcd, so be warned. I still like this one, if you love a little sadness too. I'm posting the full fic, putting the ao3 link for you if you like to leave kudos or comments.

Ghost was walking down a hill with a blindfold, blood dripping from a cut on his temple and wetting the black cloth on his eyes. He was trained for situations like this, but the blunt force trauma he got on his head was taking the ground off under his feet. With a stagger, his leg buckled after his last step and he found himself lying on his back on the grass. His breathing was uneven and he most likely had other injuries he couldn't feel because of the adrenaline.

Ghost closed his eyes for a moment, as if his vision wasn't dark before. The next time he opened them, Ghost realized he wasn't on the ground anymore and he had a nice blanket on him. When he noticed he could see properly, Ghost slammed his eyes shut and covered his face with his hand, just to be sure.

Ghost's eyes could literally kill a human. Turn them into stone, into statues. Ghost took the blanket off with his one hand and found his way out touching the walls. He was in a cave, Ghost was sure. The sound of his footsteps were echoing inside and the walls were curvy. And he was alone in there, but knowing there was someone strong enough to carry him, Ghost couldn't take a chance to lie motionless. And he didn't want to turn whoever the helping hand was into stone before at least nod a thank you in their way.

It took Ghost some time to adjust his eyes to the sun but the gentle breeze made him feel better. Then he heard a hum. A song. Ghost felt his muscles tense. The tiny voice in his head that told him to stop was silenced in a second, and Ghost found himself walking towards the source of the humming. He wasn't exactly aware of anything happening, like his logic was prisoned behind bars made of emotions. Sadness. Lust. Submission.

When Ghost came to it again and his mind was let free, he was sitting across someone with forest green wings and the same color, shimmering fish-tail. A siren.

Ghost's eyes were wide open, he knew creatures were real, myths were true and he was a walking proof of it being a Medusa. But it was his first time seeing one. The rumors has it that the sirens would lure the poor men into the sea to drown and eat them, and not one of it told that the sirens were actually beautiful. Ghost was so taken aback that he didn't realize his eyes were uncovered.

"You might wanna close them quick cause I can't sit here like a statue so long with my eyes closed. No pun intended."

Ghost squeezed his eyes shut without thinking. The siren's voice was powerful even though he was only talking. It made Ghost do what he wanted, Ghost knew it was a dangerous thing.

"Stop talking. Answer briefly." Ghost spoke with poison. And the siren answered back just as sweetly. "Yes, sir."

"Why did you take me?"

"Injured."

"Name?"

"Soap."

Ghost scoffed. "Seriously?"

Ghost couldn't see it but he felt Soap rolling his eyes. "What's yours?"

"Ghost." Ghost cuss at himself for answering. He heard Soap returning the mock. "Seriously?"

Ghost didn't back down."Your real name."

"Would you tell your real name to some stranger?"

Ghost talked with certainty. "Simon Riley." Shit. Shit. Shit.

"I didn't expect that. John MacTavish."

Ghost didn't expect that either. His whole life, he answered back to his superiors. No second thoughts. Even if he did have them, he did the questioning part to himself in silence. And now it was ruining his life. "Tell this to anyone and I'm slitting your throat."

Ghost waited for a minute to hear something back from Soap but it was all silence. He peeked behind his fingers to see if he was still there. Soap's head was turned to the sun and his eyes were closed as if he was there to sunbathe. "Still here. No talking."

Ghost was stunned. "Why? Shortly."

He heard Soap sigh. "I don't want to give orders unknowingly. It makes people uncomfortable."

Ghost checked in his brain and found no pressing feeling to give an answer. It made him feel sympathetic towards the siren. He was the one who turned people into stones without warning. He was the one who had to put a blindfold and learn to fight in darkness just so he could use his powers to kill his enemies and not his fellow soldiers when he wasn't paying attention. Ghost understood him. And to his surprise, Ghost didn't gut Soap out for manipulating him and instead he just thanked the man. He heard Soap sighed. "You have a nasty stab wound on your right side. Be careful sleeping." And Ghost knew that he was gonna be. And he knew he was gonna actually sleep, against his will. "Stop this. You're manipulating me."

"I don't want to." Soap's voice was sad and Ghost hated to be that person but Soap was making him do things he didn't want to. "I don't care. Stop talking."

𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘊𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴.

Ghost went back to the cave and left Soap sitting on a rock and looking like he was out from an old painting of sirens. It was an unreal sight. The setting sun reflecting from the scales of his tail and broad wings casting shadows down the ground.

Dangerous. Ethereal.

He lied down on his left side and closed his eyes again. The stab wound was throbbing with pain but he was a soldier, it wasn't his first time getting injured on a mission. But against this, he slept through the night for the first time in his life.

Soap stayed at the top of the rock the whole night. He would be making a mess with his voice again if he had any anger or fright in him. A curse he got from his father, a curse he didn't deserve. He was born like this, and Soap was sure he didn't ask God to make him this way before his soul was sent down to the earth.

Bound to water. Bound to die alone.

Bound to be killed by someone with an earplug, whose relative he drowned when he was younger. Maybe with a knife to his heart or a gun to his head. Because he was aware of his sins, against his late mother's "it's not a sin if you didn't know you committed" sayings. Soap carried deaths on his shoulders when he didn't leave shore which no one came. His voice carried the bullet to the wast oceans.

A sniper.

Soap didn't talk again. And Ghost didn't open his eyes but neither of them leave. It would be easier if Ghost left. Ghost knew it. But he didn't. He couldn't, for some unknown reason. And Soap knew he could enchant Ghost to go away. To go back. But with an unspoken joint decision, they stayed. Soap would tap on Ghost's shoulder to indicate something, instead of using his voice. And with a blindfold, Ghost would touch to feel. Mostly the objects, sometimes Soap's fingers when he was handing the object. They went like that for some time. Ghost wasn't talking too much too, he wasnt a man of many words to start with but sometimes he felt the need to fill the silence. He told stories of his battles. The war he was fighting. He fought. His family. His dad and even a hint of what he done. The Roba, very briefly, just with a name. His wounds. His eyes.

Soap was always listening. Even though Ghost never saw it. But when Ghost was sleeping and nightmares came to haunt him, Soap would ease his worries with a whisper. And when Soap was sleeping, Ghost would watch him silently. He saw a face with half open lips to snore lightly, and closed eyes. But he assumed Soap's eyes were blue. He was a sea creature, of course his eyes were blue. And he wanted to see them up close. Ghost didn't really consider his own eyes as curse, never really hated them because it was how he managed to escape his dad. His old house was like a Britih museum when he left. But now, not be able to look at Soap's eyes was eating him alive.

"What color are your eyes?" Ghost heard his voice as a whisper but knew Soap heard and was looking at him. He didn't have an answer. Or rather, didn't answer.

"You can talk." Soap took a sharp breath. He wasn't talking for so long, his voice was hoarse and his throat hurt when spoke. "Blue."

Ghost knew it. He couldn't hold himself back from a tiny smile. A little tug of the corner of his lip. Soap saw it but didn't comment on it.

"What's yours?"

"Guess."

Soap didn't make a sound. Ghost found it odd first but then relaxed instantly. Happily, to his surprise. "I didn’t reply right away."

Ghost heard Soap's footsteps approaching. "Put some authority in your voice. Order me something."

Ghost didn't see it but Soap was biting on his lip. "Give me that knife on your west."

"In your dreams."

"Shit."

"Is that possible?"

Soap's voice was still hoarse but Ghost suspected it was because he was holding back tears. There was something broken behind it. "Mom always told me if I spend enough time with someone, my voice would lose its effect. I never stayed with someone. I didn't know."

Ghost didn't know whether to cry or laugh.

"Two fish in a tank..." Soap cut him with a frown. "What?"

"Well, if you tell me to shut up after this and I won't, we can be sure."

Soap burst in laugh at that and Ghost swore he was enchanted. It was Ghost's first time to make someone laugh. Soap saw the change on Ghost's face. "What?"

"I usually make people scream in fright and make them sob. This is new."

"And this is dark. I'm happy that I can finally talk and laugh without worrying if someone dropped dead."

"This is not dark?"

"Let's say we're colorblind."

Ghost smiled at that. He loved to hear Soap's laugh. Maybe it was the final stage of siren-manipulation before death and he woke up on the otherside after Soap gnawed him to his bones but he didn't care. Ghost was happy there. With or without talking or seeing. He was actually happy.

But it didn't take long. It never took long.

The relationship between them was different now. Ghost loved to hear Soap's laugh so he was making jokes sometimes. And he didn't know, but Soap was watching his face's every move to catch every little detail. Tugging of his lip because of an old and healed cut, nose scrunch.

Soap adored the nose scrunch.

But it all shattered down when heavy footsteps fall on the ground, yellings coming from the top of the hills. The hills Ghost came from.

His past caught up to him once again. Ghost screamed at Soap to get into water. It was the safest for him. And for Ghost. He knew he couldn't fight when his mind was on Soap and if he was dead or alive. Soap obeyed and disappeared under water. Ghost squatted behind the entry of the cave with his old weapon. A voice he didn't recognize called to him.

"Ghost! I know you're here. Come with us if you want to live." They didn't threaten him with Soap. Most likely they didn't know about him. Good. "Identify yourself!" Ghost's gun was ready, the safety was off.

"You don't know your owner? You don't know who made you?" It made Ghost froze on the spot. His last mission was against Roba's remnants. But he made sure every one of them was dead before leaving there.

"There's always someone left of us, Ghost. You're one of us." Ghost turned his head to the water. He didn't see but he could feel Soap's presence. Ghost turned back and unfold the fabric from his eyes. That shore was gonna turn into a garden gnome store soon.

After that it was all about blood and stone. If his knife and gun couldn't reach, his eyes could. Ghost left a bloody mess behind, but the owners of the blood on the ground were nowhere to be seen. If you didn't count the statues that can't bleed. Who was gonna say otherwise?

Ghost walked to the sea with closed eyes. He heard a splatter. Soap's head was above water and he could see the ground. He took a look at the mess and turned to Ghost. "You okay?" Ghost nodded. He was fine. It wasn't a different day. If anything, his time with Soap was different from the usual. The calm was not for him. He got used to it in his time at there. But now, when everything was unusually calm, panic squeezed his heart. Everything went silent for a second and Ghost instantly knew something was wrong.

"Soap?" Then he heard wings and felt the wind coming from them. Before he could say anything, he heard Soap's scream.

The next thing Ghost knew, he was on his back like the first day Soap found him but half of his body was under water now. Ghost got up and ran back to the ground with his eyes closed. Soap's scream was cut in half after a shooting sound with a grunt. Ghost knew what he was gonna see.

"Soap!" Ghost's hands found the one Roba that hadn't die yet and snapped his neck like a stick. His hands found Soap next. He knew blood. He was born in it. Bathe in it. Ghost knew what blood felt like under his hands, tip of his fingers, on his palms.

"Soap?" Nothing. Soap's heart was beating like a bird's wings under his hand.

"Johnny!"

"What a lovely way to wake up." Ghost heard him whisper. He found the wound. Soap was shot on the chest. Ghost's hands were shaking so much that he couldn't press on the wound.

"Just breath. Breath and I will wake you up like that for the rest of your life."

Ghost lifted his head and looked around frantically. He had to find a way to stop the bleeding. He could feel Soap's heart slowing down. He wanted to rip the world open with his bare hands. To punch a hole on the ground and strangle The Demon. To shot down The Angels. To kill God.

Ghost shut his eyes again. "Johnny..."

Soap didn't let him finish. He put his hand on Ghost's. They both knew it wasn't going to happen.

"Ghost. Look at me."

Ghost refused to do so. He wasn't going to.

"Simon."

Simon fought against it with everything.

"Si. Open your eyes. I want them to be the last thing I saw."

A gut wrenching sound escaped Simon's lips. He fought back. God knew he fought back. But Johnny used his last strength to made Simon do what he wanted.

Simon obeyed.

With tears streaming down his face, Simon opened his eyes and Johnny welcomed him with ocean blue eyes. His body started to turn into stone but there was a smile on Johnny's lips. He cupped Simon's face with his hand.

"Oh, I wouldn't guess. Two colors. Pretty. I will never forget them for the rest of my life."

With a last, sad giggle, Johnny turned into stone with a smile. Simon sat on the ground with a smiling and crying statue on his legs. He held the hands of it and touched the face. Tried to wipe the tears away, tried to kiss the lips. Wanted to cover the wound on its chest.

Couldn't do any.

He cried. He wept. He wailed. He bargained with God. Told him to take him instead. Wasn't he the one that was the sinner? The murderer? The killer? Didn't he take the lifes of innocents because his superiors wanted him to? Wasn't he the one that didn't deserve to live?

Then he got up. He took Johnny off the ground. Carried him to the rock Johnny would sit normally. When he was still breathing. A siren who would lure people with his voice.

He put him under the sun and over the ocean. Johnny loved these two, and Simon made sure he could watch them. Then went back to the cave. It was theirs. There wasn't anything to deny. It was his, and their, home. He didn't think about leaving. Simon made it a routine to wake up and sit with Johnny like always.

He knew he didn't deserve to live with all the blood on his hands. Not after Johnny died trying to save him.

He was eager to be punished. If his punishment was to left behind, to be left abandoned with a wish he couldn't dare to make.

He was eager to be punished.

So every morning, Simon sat next to Johnny and he protected Simon from the sun and wind under his wings. He spoke to him, talked about anything and everything he couldn't.

Simon didn't need him to answer.

Just listen.

#fanfic #fanfiction #ghostsoap #soapghost #fiction #ghoap #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ao3 link #ao3feed #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #ao3

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flamboyant-king · 2 years

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Magfest was fun! Walked around as Cammy, made a lot of “merch,” talked to a bunch of cool dudes, traded wares, met new friends and finally met old ones, got a jello shot from a Raccacoonie cosplayer, ate so much awful food, learned of new games, and got inspired.

I made so many buttons of cammypus and other funny creatures, folded 50+ origami boxes for the perler bead crafters, and drew on any paper I can find. It was nice and now I have no money.

#magfest #i may not have partied played video games all day or whatever but fun is diff for everyone #my fun is just seeing everyone having a good time. All the colors and being surrounded by folks who enjoy the same things i do #also i got to meet an online friend of over a decade. We played games and watched anime and did what friends would do #true friendship. But now. I gotta uhh fix the things i eat because we ate nothing but carbs #i have gained five pounds. I am squishie. But iv been inspired to try and fail because hey not everyone wins on their first try #we got a free hamster plushie for a game dev company whose game HAMSTERDAMflopped #im sure making so many pkushies hey anticipated a hit. But we cant have it all #and it inspired me to just believe we’ll have a hit and do our best. And if it flops. We can try again with something else or improving #on what we had. Thank you funny hamster plush named pim. Support their new game WILDMENDER #failure isnt the end of the world. And sometimes we’ll lose time money or effort on something that wont succeed #but thats jsut a step towards actual success #so heres hoping we get the balls to table at a convention and sell silly little trinkets we made #akso i want a button maker now #shoutout to zack viet and matt. I appreicate yall talking to me and your smallest support. Anything is everything.#watched everything everywhefe all at once. All that combined is tingling my brain towards thoughts

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leaderwonim · 2 months

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❀﹐𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖

pairing: park sunghoon x fem!reader

synopsis: in which married couple park sunghoon and park y/n are on their way to court to divorce when they suddenly get into a car crash, losing their memories entirely. over time, they start to fall inlove with each other all over again.

genre: angst, exes to lovers + strangers to lovers (ynhoon are soulmates your honor!!) fluff

“You are the most immature person I have ever met!” You shout, “I should’ve never married you in the first place!”

“Finally, something we can both agree on.” Sunghoon seethes, and you just know the taxi driver is uncomfortable by the way he’s awkwardly looking in the car mirror.

The both of you crossed your arms stubbornly, huffing like little children who just threw a tantrum.

The only reason why you and Sunghoon were getting a divorce in the first place was because he was so busy at his office, inheriting the CEO position from his father just months earlier.

You felt lonely, and it really didn’t help that Sunghoon didn’t give you any reassurance because he was too tired.

“Aish, why is this red light taking so long?” Sunghoon angrily mumbles underneath his breath.

“Well maybe it’s your negative energy.”

“Can you be mature once in your life?” Sunghoon snaps back.

The taxi driver, very annoyed with the both of you, continues driving when the light turns green.

Then all of a sudden, a car rams through the intersection, crashing directly into the taxi.

You scream, and Sunghoon instantly puts his arms around your frame, shielding you.

Then, all goes black.

For a second, you could see the day that you and Sunghoon got married.

It was a Sunday, at the beautiful church nearby Sunghoon’s parents house, and you were wearing what Sunghoon called the most beautiful dress he’d ever seen. It was plain white, but long and so beautifully designed that it didn’t need any other colors.

When you arrived at the altar, Sunghoon had bursted into tears. Some of his friends, Jake, who had traveled all the way from Australia to attend, patted the boy on back as comfort.

That day was nonetheless the happiest day of your life. You don’t know if Sunghoon feels the same, and looking back, it feels like such a shame that you’re throwing it all down the drain.

❀﹐

BLEEP. BLEEP.

Your body jolts awake, head practically killing you with the amount of ache it produced as you tried to sit up.

“Patient is up!” The nurse says before walking into your room with a tray. “Good morning, are you feeling okay?”

You raise your hands to touch your head, which was bandaged by some soft tissue material.

“Where am I?” You say, looking around the room. You spot a unknown man groggily getting up, and for a second, you can’t help but notice how handsome he was.

That was besides the point, though.

“You’re in the hospital.” The nurse says, smiling softly. “Do you remember the events leading up to this?”

“I.. I don’t remember anything, actually.”

The nurse still smiles at you reassuringly. “It’s alright lovebug, it seems as though you two have lost your memories.”

“Us two?” You question.

“Yes.” She points to the guy on the other bed right next to you who just looked like he woke up from death. He too looked badly injured like you, having a broken hand and bandage around his head. “Park Sunghoon-ssi was in the same car as you and got injured as well.”

Park Sunghoon. Why did that name sound so familiar?

“Well since you're both awake," she said, relief evident in her voice. "You've been in an accident. Do you remember anything Sunghoon-ssi?”

Sunghoon shook his head slowly. "No... I don't remember anything."

The nurse nodded, sympathy in her eyes. “It's not uncommon for victims to lose their memories after a traumatic accident. Memory loss can be temporary. Just focus on resting for now.”

The nurse leaves the room, leaving you and Sunghoon alone.

“She said we were in the same car together,” you say slowly. “But I really can’t remember what you are to me.”

Sunghoon shrugs. “Me either. All I remember vividly is my parents. You must’ve been an acquaintance of mine, then.”

You nod, stretching your limbs. “You got more injured than me.”

He lets out an airy chuckle, lifting his broken arm which was in a cast into the air. “Yep, broken arm.”

You want to remember so badly what had happened leading up to all of this. What were you doing? Where were you going, and why were you with this Park Sunghoon guy in the first place?

“What did you get for breakfast?”

Sunghoon breaks the silence between the two of you, and you slowly look down at the tray in front of your bed.

“Uh, the nurse got me tiramisu and oatmeal.”

“Tiramisu?” Sunghoon’s mood automatically brightens up. “Can we please switch sweets? I really love tiramisu.”

You laugh at his childlike behavior, but nod anyway. “I’ll bring it to you Sunghoon, wait.”

You don’t know why, but it feels so right saying his name. Sunghoon must’ve felt the same way, because he swore his mouth went dry at you calling out his name.

You carefully make your way out your hospital bed, making sure not to accidentally detach any monitors that were attached to you. Grabbing the tiramisu cup, you make your way over to Sunghoon, who’s already shaking in excitement.

Then you make your way back, opening the lid of your oatmeal bowl.

“I may not know what happened in the accident,” Sunghoon says. “But I know this tiramisu is so fucking good.”

You shake your head, laughing at his words. “Yah Sunghoon, you think we were best friends before all of this?”

“Maybe.” He mutters, the mascarpone cheese of the tiramisu leaving a mark on the side of his lips.

“Well our humor is alike.” You say. “Would explain why we were in the same car together. Maybe we were going out to lunch.”

The rest of the day was spent with Sunghoon and you cracking jokes then and there, the awkwardness of the two of you being strangers quickly faded.

❀﹐

The next day, you were given tiramisu once again while Sunghoon was given cookies.

You descended from your bed, once again, and gave the tiramisu cup to Sunghoon while you grabbed his bag of cookies.

“You know what’s funny?” You say, biting into the warm chocolate chip cookie.

“What?” He says, although it’s muffled from the amount of tiramisu he’s stuffed into his mouth.

“Yah, you gotta stop doing that, it’s gross.”

Sunghoon sticks his tongue out at you, which makes you giggle.

“We’re both Parks, isn’t that funny?”

“Huh,” Sunghoon looks up at the ceiling, thinking for a brief second. “Park Sunghoon and Park Y/N. That is funny.”

Maybe both of your humors are broken because you hit your head too hard during the crash, but even though you were at the hospital, you’re glad you have someone like Sunghoon to keep you company.

“Do you want to watch the stars with me tonight at the balcony?” You ask the boy, who nods softly.

“I’d love to, actually.”

And that’s what the two of you did. By the time it hit 10pm, you two tiptoed out to the balcony, making sure to not let any of the night nurses see you.

“Whoaaa, it’s beautiful.” Sunghoon says, letting his broken arm lean against the railing. “Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

You smile, leaning your head on Sunghoon’s shoulder.

“Sunghoon.” You say, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not sure what we were before the accident,” you stop for a second. “But I’m glad we knew each other.”

Sunghoon turns his head to look down at your face, his expression morphed into a genuine smile. “I’m glad we knew each other too Y/N.”

That night, you slept the most compared to the other nights at the hospital. In your dreams, you see Sunghoon—only instead of being at the hospital bed right beside you, he’s in the kitchen, wearing a black suit.

“You look nice today.”

“Thank you baby.” Sunghoon leans down to give you a kiss on the lips. “Is that tiramisu?”

You nod, your eyes full of love. “Of course, you’ve been working so hard so I decided to make your favorite.”

He wraps his arms around your waist, letting the two of you swing back and forth slowly. “Thank you my love, I seriously don’t know what I would do without you.”

You woke up in a cold sweat, the dream feeling all too real.

“What’s wrong?” Sunghoon says, and you swore your heart almost leaped out of your chest, not expecting the brunette boy to be awake.

“It’s 2am, why are you even awake?” You say croakily, hands coming to rub your tired eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He shrugs. “Hey, I had a really weird dream just now.”

“Me too.” You say, “you were in it.”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t further question it. “You were a lawyer in my dream, you just graduated from Seoul University. We bought a house, and you told me you wanted to continue with your career.”

At least his dream was somewhat normal, you think. I can’t just tell him I dreamt of us being together and being all lovey dovey. He’d be thrown into a coma!

“Ah, mine was similar.”

Nice save Y/N.

Sunghoon suddenly gets up from his bed, deciding to sit at the dining table the nurses had brought out for the two of you yesterday night.

“Come sit with me.”

You slowly creep out of your bed, sitting on the empty seat next to Sunghoon.

Suddenly, you’re hit with a sudden pounding headache.

“You’re the worst, Sunghoon!” You scream on the top of your lungs, “I hate you! I hate you!”

“Stop screaming!” He grabs your arms gently, eyes directly looking into yours. “Y/N-ah, stop it.”

“So I’m Y/N to you now?” Your voice breaks. “No more baby or love? Am I just another person to you Sunghoon?”

“Of course not, why would you say that?” He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking in a deep inhale. “Let’s just talk about this calmly, okay?”

“What’s there to talk about? You are never home, you’re always cooped up in your office! We might as well get a divorce!”

Sunghoon’s hold on your shoulder makes you snap out of your daze.

“Hey, you okay?” He says concernedly, “you were breathing heavily.”

“What?” You gasp. “Yeah—yeah, I’m okay. I just think I had a flashback.”

“Really? What was it?”

You don’t want to tell Sunghoon that it was the two of you fighting. Why did you even mention divorcing in the flashback? Were you and Sunghoon something more than just friends?

“Just the crash.” You say. You want to tell him the truth, you really do, but you’re not sure if these were hallucinations from how hard your head was hit during the trauma or if they were actual flashbacks.

“Well, I’m here.” Sunghoon whispers reassuringly. “I’ll always be here. We survived a car crash together anyway, we’re kinda bonded to each other.”

You laugh, smacking him on his shoulder softly. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.”

❀﹐

“Do you remember what your passion was before all of this?” Sunghoon asks, peeling his orange with his injured hand.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” you say, “l think I really would’ve liked becoming a mother. I love kids, the thought of them makes me happy.”

“I think you would be a great mother.” Sunghoon says quietly. “Even though we don’t know each other much, I can tell you’re loving.”

You look down at your lap, trying to suppress the bright smile forming at the corner of your lips.

“Thanks Hoonie.”

“Hoonie?”

Your eyes widened. “I’m sorry! Did I make you uncomfortable? I should’ve not—”

“It’s okay Y/N,” he chuckles. “It’s fine. I like it.”

You can’t help but laugh along with him. “Okay.”

The next few days go by quickly, with you and Sunghoon already warming up to each other.

You were both comfortable enough to speak your thoughts freely around one another, no matter how silly or ridiculous some of them seemed.

When the nurses brought you two breakfast, Sunghoon almost dropped his fork in shock.

“They gave me tiramisu.” He says, eyes glistening with joy. “They finally gave me tiramisu.”

“I don’t know why you’re so excited.” You snicker jokingly. “You’ve been eating my tiramisu this entire week.”

He turns around to look at your tray, which had a bag of snickerdoodle cookies on it.

With shaking limbs, he makes his way over, handing the tiramisu cup to you and swapping it with your cookies.

“I thought you hated snickerdoodle cookies, Hoon?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed.

“I do.” He admits. “But you’ve given me your tiramisu all week, I wanted you to have mine this time.”

Your heart swells at that, and you point your spoon at him accusingly.

“Yah, is this because you want my chocolate pudding at dinner?” You joke.

“Pffft, what? Nooo.” He quickly defends himself. “But if you’re willing to share—”

“Shut up Park Sunghoon!”

“Yes ma’am!”

❀﹐

You don’t know why, but you’re starting to feel giddy whenever you talk with Sunghoon.

Your palms does this thing where it sweats profusely, and your tongue feels like dried sandpaper.

There’s no way you like Park Sunghoon, right? You’ve barely known the guy for two weeks, so why was the heart racing at the thought of him?

“I’ve convinced the nurses to get us two bottles of coca cola,” Sunghoon says, practically jumping up and down as he entered the room.

“Really? Out of all the drinks you could’ve persuaded them to get us, you got us coke.”

“Don’t diss Coca Cola like that!” Sunghoon says, crossing his arms.

Just like Sunghoon had said, the nurse approaches the two of you an hour later, 2 bottles of coca cola in her hands. She hands one to Sunghoon, then to you.

"Enjoy." She says, smile reaching her eyes.

Sunghoon's eyes light up when he opens the bottle and takes a sip. "Ah, for some reason, this feels so nostalgic."

A little memory pops up in his head, one of him playing at the park with his mom and younger sister.

"Sunghoon-oppa! Mom says she brought us coca cola!" The young girl, Yeji, says. "C'mon! Come with me!"

The young Park Sunghoon lets his younger sister take his hand, running towards their mom who was on the other side of the park.

"What's wrong Sunghoon-ssi?" You ask, noticing how his thick eyebrows were furrowed and his grip on the bottle had tightened.

"Huh?"

"You zoned out for a bit."

He chuckles nervously, glancing around the room. "Sorry, I think I just had a flashback." He says. "Park Yeji."

"Who?"

"My younger sister." He explains. "I could see her clearly. I wonder where she is right now."

You too wondered where your family was. Maybe they were too busy to come visit you. You could briefly remember having a younger brother. Jungwon. Yang Jungwon.

"Cheers." He says, mood changing quickly. His canines shined brightly as he smiled, making him look all too gorgeous in your eyes. "To the car crash, for bringing me and Park Y/N together."

You giggle, raising your bottle in the air. "Cheers to the car crash, for bonding me with this weird guy named Sunghoon."

"Yah!"

❀﹐

"Is it weird?"

"Hm?"

It's 11pm, and you and Sunghoon face each other as you're both laying on opposite ends of the room.

"That we've known each other for only a few weeks and I already feel like I've known you for an entire lifetime?"

You smile at his words, shaking your head. "No, I feel the same way Hoonie."

"Would it be stupid to say out loud how much I want to kiss you right now?"

Your mouth almost drops at his boldness, but you quickly shake your head.

Sunghoon takes your silence as approval, sitting up to come over to your side.

He brushes the hair away from your face, leaning in to close the gap between your lips.

When the both of you pull away, you automatically lean in again, the feel of his lips on yours felt so right.

"I love you Sunghoon." You say as you cup his cheeks. "I don't want to fight anymore."

"I know," he whispers. "I love you. Cause even though we were both going down, we were going down together."

"I hate you." You say, a smile playing on your face. "I hate you for being the only person who I can't stay mad at."

"And I love you," he says. "For being there for me, always."

"Sunghoon."

"Hm?"

"I love you."

He smiles down at you, uninjured hand coming to hold yours. "I love you too."

❀﹐

"What?" You say flabbergasted.

The next morning was the date of both yours and Sunghoon's discharge, and both your families decided to come visit.

"You two were married." Your father explains, a bewildered expression on his face. "How could you not know? Was the Park Y/N not obvious?"

"I thought that was just my last name!" You say, defending yourself.

"Your last name is Yang, noona." Your little brother speaks up. It was Jungwon, the same boy you kept seeing in your flashbacks, only this time, his face looks more clear and matured. "It was before you married Sunghoon-hyung."

"You're telling me we got married and divorced?" Sunghoon says, stuttering over his own words.

"Yes son," Sunghoon's mother explains. "Well, not quite exactly. We don't know why you guys wanted to divorce, you kind of shut yourselves out when you were arguing. You didn't officially divorce yet, you got into an accident on the way to court."

That made so much sense now. The flashbacks of arguments between you and Sunghoon, the makeups after the arguments, the cute moments, everything. It started to all click in your head.

"You still share houses and everything, the lawyers had to put your case on hold because you were both hospitalized." Jungwon says. "We were here to pick you up separately, in case you weren't comfortable staying with each other."

"It's fine." You and Sunghoon both say at the same time.

"Are you sure honey?" Sunghoon's mom asks concernedly.

"Yes mom, I'm sure."

The drive home was awkward, you both drove in different cars but to the home you had bought before the accident happened.

"Noona," Jungwon calls out to you. Your parents are still in the car, looking at the scene in front of them.

"Yes Jungwon?"

"Listen, I may not know a lot about love," he says, "but I know what you and Sunghoon-hyung have is real. I could still see somewhere in his eyes that he remembers parts of you and he still loves you whether or not his memories came back or not. I could tell you love him too. I don't know why the two of you decided to divorce but I know you called me crying hysterically because of it. I just think you two needed to talk it out, without the lawyers, without the paperwork. You two are the two most stubborn people I know, but also the two most loving people I know, you wouldn't just leave each other like that."

You want to cry at your younger brother's words, tears already leaking from your eyes. "Thank you Won."

You reach your arms out to hug him, a hug that he instantly melts into. "I love you noona."

"I love you too."

❀﹐

"This isn't what we expected, huh?" Sunghoon says, leaning his head on the marble island in the middle of your kitchen. "This whole time I thought you were my best friend, turns out you were my soon to be ex-wife."

You laugh quietly at the irony of the whole situation. "Whatever we were in the past is in the past Hoon."

He nods. "I can't believe we were going to divorce."

"I can't believe it either."

"You know what my mom told me in the car?" Sunghoon sits up straight to look at you. "The reason I have a broken arm and you don't was because during the crash, I put my arms around yours to protect you. Isn't that funny? Even though we hated each other at that moment, my first instinct was to protect you."

You stay still at that, his words sinking into your brain.

"It's like the universe wanted us to be together." You say quietly.

"Hey Y/N?"

You turn around to face Sunghoon. "Yeah?"

"I'm glad I married you."

Even though you and Sunghoon aren't sure where you stand in terms of relationship, all you know is that you love him, and that is enough for the both of you.

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rieamena · 22 days

Text

totally (not) beating the allegations

best friend!takuma ino headcanons

contains... best friends to lovers, mutual pining, casual confession of love, kisses (platonic), kisses (romantic), modern au, high school to university au, living together-ish, fem intended reader, pet names (baby, babe, love, sexy, handsome, beautiful, sweetie, the list goes on and on), lots of physical touch, nicknames (you call takuma, kuma.), reader has a mother and a father, y'all are basically dating just without the label...

word count: 2.3k (this wasn't supposed to be long. i told myself 0.8k maximum...)

riea's comments: all sixteen people living in takuma city RISE UP! i miss my husband of 35 years so much, come back to me loml :(( something to munch on while y'all wait for the next full throttle chapter. also not too much on me if this is a drabble and not hcs idk the difference :))

first off... i just wanna say that i KNOW I KNOW that ino is one of the funniest people in the jjk cast idc idc!!! if he had more screentime (and if the situation wasnt dire) my boy would be crackin some jokes!!!!

you've been friends with takuma for around 7 years, your first meeting happening in tenth grade, when your teacher paired you two up for an interview project. when time came to actually record the interviews, it was hard to edit out you two laughing uncontrollably every fifteen seconds or so

i mean, you two just had so much in common!!! same favorite color, same favorite franchise, same favorite tv show, same favorite video game; it was like yall were the same person. there was just one thing you both disagreed on: whether hex code #286061 was blue or green

your argument ended up being the last ten minutes of the final video you submitted...

without a doubt, after that, you two became inseparable. in school, people would take notice of your closeness. when one of you were absent, teachers would jokingly ask "where's the other one?"

there was not a single thing you didn't do together, homework, go to the gym, gossip, eavesdrop, etc etc. so of course, you ended up applying to the same universities and when it came time for college acceptance season...

takuma invited you over, forcing you to bring your mailed letters from the eight universities. sprawling out over his lap, you took in the all too familiar sight of his room. you've been in his room more times than you've been in your own (and vice versa!)

i mean ino's been over to your place so many times that he calls your parents mom and dad. and you've been over to his house so much that takuma's mom practically jumped for joy every time you burst through the front doors with a "guess who's home!!!" so it was completely normal that you guys knew the ins and outs of each other's rooms, right?

"kuma, baby," you started with a sigh, reveling in your best friend's repetitive motions. running his hand through your hair, ino looked down at you, eyes showing that he was listening. "i'm scared, what if we don't–"

"ah-ah-ah! no negativity here!" he cut you off, pushing you off his lap and grabbing the letters you left on his desk. "listen here beautiful," takuma says, bringing a hand to your cheek, his heart swelling when you subconsciously leaned into it, "we're gonna take each other's letters, and open them," he handed you a white envelope, the logo of both of yours dream university on it, "starting with, kyōmei."

taking a well needed deep breath, you nodded. "okay," you and ino began to open the envelopes at the same time, only looking at each other when you saw the status. "accepted or rejected in 3...2...1..."

"ACCEPTED"

cue the mandatory silence before the screaming. "holy shit. you got in." "you got in." "WE GOT IN!!! WE'RE GOING TO KYŌMEI!!!!" you two practically flew off the bed, jumping up and down in celebration. peppering his face in kisses, you nuzzled your face into takuma's neck. "i'm so proud of us! i mean, kyōmei," you pulled away from his neck, shaking his shoulders harshly, "the kyōmei?!!!"

anyways, soon enough, you both realized that you'd have to move away, resulting in a seven hour search for apartments near the university's campus. and just as takuma was about to give up, you found a listing for units 19A and 19B, right in the heart of the city and just a five minute walk from kyōmei

and with that, it was moving day, well, days is more like it considering that the whole process took like ten days... finding cute furniture is really hard! and moving all of it is even harder!! and don't even get me started on the appliances! although, you and takuma found a way around it

like what do both of you need a microwave for? and there isn't a reason to have two dishwashers, there wasn't even a reason to have one! y'all kept your fridges though... who was gonna be banging on the other's door in the middle of the night for some cold water??

with time, it came for the highly anticipated freshman formal, an welcome event hosted by kyōmei itself, and of course, you had to go. so here you were, staring at your figure in the mirror as your best friend's large hand rubbed your shoulder, the other zipping up your black dress. "all done!" he breathed, taking a step away so that you could see for yourself. "i look so cute~" you giggled, hearing the clack of your heels as you twirled. "you do!" he paused, looking you up and down, "when did you get that dress?"

"your mom gave it to me a couple days ago! where'd you get that tux? i don't think i've seen it before," you walked over and straightened takuma's suit, as he laughed in response, "your mom gave it to me..."

"this was planned."

"this was definitely planned."

"we should send a picture in the family group chat!"

"we should!!! but, hair first!"

notice how i said family group chat, singular, not plural. and that's because there's a gc for both of your families! it's name was a mix between "ino" and your last name, since, in all seriousness, your families were close

so here you were, sitting pretty on takuma's lap as you focused on straightening the front pieces of his hair, because that's what best friends do!

"okayyyy sexyyyy," you squealed, moving out of the way so that takuma could see himself in your vanity mirror, "damnn, i look hot!" he smiled as he checked himself out, his hand firmly on your waist (to make sure that you wouldn't fall, of course!). "i knew i was fine but, did i always look this fine?" he asked, looking up at you with his big dark brown eyes, a playful smirk evident on his face. "yes, takuma. you're the sexiest man ever. just a bit of eyeliner on you and we'll be on our way, okay?"

turning back to your station, you grabbed some brown and black pencils before starting to lightly draw over ino's outer eye corner, "do men as sexy as me really need eyeliner?" a look from you was all he needed to know to shut up and close his eyes

and oh, how he loved being so close to you. not just emotionally but physically as well. like, not every duo can say that they barge into the other's apartment to steal snacks! and speaking of snacks... let me just say, there's a whole cabinet in his kitchen reserved for your favorite foods and! he keeps your favorite ice cream flavor stocked in his freezer

you, on the other hand, have a little space where you hide takuma's favorite anything. chips, gummies, takeout menus, you name it, you have it. because your best friend is oh-so-optimistic, it can be harder for him when he's just not having the best of days. which is why when you go your (not so) separate ways at the end of the day, you pack up a basket for him. ribbons in his favorite color, his top 15 favorite snacks from that one time y'all bought one of everything in a nearby convenience store and ranked them, takeout on the way, horror flicks he's been wanting on dvd because he said "its cooler that way", and a handwritten letter from you, for my kuma, scribbled on the envelope

dropping off the basket at his door and retreating back to your place, you'd press your ear against the wall separating your units, physically feeling your heart break when you heard sniffles. that was all you needed to practically fly over to his, a few boxes of tissues in hand. because that's what best friends do!

and don't even get me started on how many belongings y'all have at the other's place... like that one time takuma walked into your apartment announcing his presence, only to be met with silence. let me set up the scene for you. you are taking a relaxing shower when you hear a knock on the door followed by four more and then three more. "come in!" you called out, unbeknownst to you, ino's voice was closer than you thought

"already in here..., anyways. is my shampoo in there?"

"the one with the purple cap?"

"yeah, thanks babe!"

"wait, can you get me my towel?"

or that time when you causally opened the door to his unit (because it was basically yours too) and greeted him with a simple pat on his head before skipping off to find those jeans you thrifted

slight cohabitation aside, the university life was definitely... something. it was clear and obvious that you two were close, a blind man could see it. but close is a really really really vague word, and it's surely not the word that describes the way the two of you act. in this friendship, terms of endearment drop like rain from clouds. every. other. sentence. contains a "babe" or "baby" or "sweetheart" or "darling" WE GET IT OKAY...

and it seems like if y'all go a single day without touching each other, a bomb will fall from the sky and earth would blow up. his hands are constantly on you, his favorite places (when in public) being your shoulders and arms, and when at home it was without a doubt your waist and thighs. just imagine how difficult it must be for people speak to you both on campus when his arm is slung around you and your hand is holding onto his side. the rumors practically created themselves....

and when i say people were shocked, i mean they were SHOCKED when y'all were like "haha, no, we're not dating!!! we're best friends!" everyone was thinking: yeah best friends who FUCK. best friends who are IN LOVE WITH EACH OTHER. y'all became the campus' it couple without being a couple. how does that happen??!??

however... there were a couple of people who were particularly excited to hear that you both were single. a few girls approached you one day while in the general area, asking if it was true that you and ino weren't dating. "we aren't... why?" one of the girls shifted on her feet, clearly nervous. "well... could you um... give this to him for me?!" she bowed, presenting a pretty pink envelope. you froze, staring at the item before giggling. "i see what this is about! don't worry! i'll make sure this gets to him safely!" long story short, that letter was never delivered

and on ino's side, he had some classmates pestering him about you. asking for your favorite show, candy, date style, everything under the sun. "guys, guys! she doesn't even want a boyfriend right now!" takuma shouted, even though two days prior you were complaining about how spending too much time with him was scaring all the hotties away

but let's get into the real stuff... the realization of love

for takuma, there wasn't a "wow, i'm in love with her" moment. what he does know though is that he started feeling something different for you a few months before college admission season. to him, the world was always bright with you by his side but now... it was so much brighter. it was like looking directly into the sun; it hurt but he couldn't look away, he doesn't want to look away. you're the best thing to ever happen to him, and the mere thought of ruining what you have just for some feeling—no matter how intense—isn't... right to him

and you figured it out after a dream you had one night back in high school. you dreamt of being in takuma's arms, the ones you snuck glances at when he wasn't paying attention to you. in not dream world, all you had to do was ask and he'd gladly envelop you but the vibes in this dream were different. there was tension. and it was thick. his beanie was off and thrown somewhere on the bed, your bed. looking back at him, your breath caught in your throat, "hey pretty," he slurred, drunk off tiredness. ino's called you beautiful more times than you can count; he made sure to do it at least once a week, so why... just why did this time make your stomach heat up and your heart race? you woke up with a flushed face, queasy feeling in your gut, and a deep understanding. it wasn't just platonic love anymore

"hey," you started, eyes trained on the movie in front of you, but your mind was focused on something else, "y'know how everyone thinks we're dating?" ino nodded as you reached over to grab the bowl of popcorn. "i've been thinking... maybe they're onto something..."

takuma's gulp could be heard from miles away, "wh-what are you trying to say?"

"what are we? seriously. because i can't sit here and pretend like i don't wish we were something more."

"something more like...?"

"now's not the time to be oblivious! don't you get it?! i'm—"

"i'm in love with you,"

it was like time stood still as you looked at your best friend. his face was lit by the tv screen a couple feet away, his hair was a mess, and slightly prominent dark circles were under his eyes, but... he's never looked more beautiful to you. "have been. for a long time. we've basically been dating for like four years already. four more and then we'll get married?" he flashed his signature smile

"oh, shut up," he brought your face millimeters away from his, whispering "make me." before kissing you deeply, not on your cheek, or your forehead, or your shoulders, but on your lips this time. and all the times after that too

because that's what best friends lovers do, right?

jjk taglist

@blendingcaramal @gzchaos @theamazingrain @woah-girlz @voloslobotomyservice

@kyozvy @obessionofagrl @bubybubsters @sugurusbaobei @raindropsonrwses

@c-moon20-12 @saltynanobeanie @theamazingrain @synthiiiiis @ghostlyluminarycloud

@poopyyy @supernatrualqueen @bxrbie-jadeee @laitifly @discipleofthem

@cheesecake95 @strawberry-cherrypie @makeshiftproject @magiamad0ka @ncitygreen

@stillnotherapy @oniondrip @cloudy-yyy @definitely-not-leena @kidd3ath

@atigerandabear @russianremy @ohnoitsamistakee18 @ivy-vivii @ourfinalisation

@1ndee @yourhornysister @ancientimes

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foldingfittedsheets · 3 months

Text

No one made any distinction to me when I was growing up when a word wasn’t English. Andale was just another way to be told “hurry up,” and I was certain other parents told their kids, “Watch your cabesa,” when getting into the car. I laughed myself sick the first time I saw Dragon Ball Z because a ladies name was Chi Chi and I only knew that meant boobs.

All my moms family was brown and I desperately wished I was too. I wanted beautiful black hair like my mom and dark skin that didn’t burn. I didn’t like when people asked my mother if she was my nanny when they saw us together. I didn’t like that people told me I looked like my dad. They just meant I was pale.

I’d proudly announce to people that I was Mexican and become furious when they gaped or disbelieved me. My dads side has no cultural roots. When questioned my dad shrugs and says, “English maybe? I dunno.” I just wanted to be Mexican growing up. Alas, I’m only a quarter descendant of an immigrant family who vehemently didn’t want to be Mexican.

My great grandmother announced that we were American now, not Mexican. She embraced American culture as much as possible, while never learning English. My nana was put into school and punished anytime she spoke Spanish. She got caught halfway between both languages. Forced to spend her childhood raising her younger siblings she never learned to cook tamales with her mother and her friends.

When she had her own children she didn’t teach them Spanish. She used it to gossip with her own friends about them on the phone and resisted teaching them more than to come running when she shouted “Araña!” to kill a spider for her.

Thus came my mom, with her brown skin and dark hair, adrift from her culture but treated as lesser by her adopted one. My great grandmother would rejoice to see me as her descendant, white, ignorant of Spanish, the perfect American she wanted her family to be.

When I was born my nana shouted, “What’s that red on her?” only to realize it was my hair. She delighted in her palest grandchild, telling me often I was her favorite.

I’m used to the disbelief now when I tell people I’m Mexican. I can laugh and show pictures of my mom. My friend from work joked to me that I’m always coming out of the closet, over and over, because both my minority statuses aren’t as visible as her black skin.

I was recently lamenting this to a white southern friend the same one I cast psychic damage on during a DnD day. “I wish I could feel more connected to my culture, but I’d be such a fraud pretending my life is the same as other Hispanic people.”

“Skin color doesn’t matter,” he announced blithely to the choked outrage of our Indian friend in the kitchen, “You’re just as Mexican!”

I regarded him in astonishment and said, “I think skin color matters a lot. I am Mexican, but I don’t have the same cultural roots or experiences of people who are perceived as Mexican. My family didn’t pass the cultural heritage down. I think a lot of immigrant kids feel this way but it’s different for me.”

He rambled about how I’m just as valid and I quietly disregarded his advice. I could try to reconnect with my roots, but I know I’d just be another white girl pushing into a POC space.

Instead I make tamales by myself, sweating over the steaming corn husks, and I snap at people who make racist jokes about my family to me, feeling safe because my skin is the same color as theirs.

#ramblies #culture

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tododeku-or-bust · 7 months

Note

wait sorry, what does muhammad ali have to do with drafting? /genq

I assume you're referring to my addition on this post? All right!

Well first, famed (and to many, infamous) boxer Muhammad Ali wasn't technically a draft dodger. He was a Conscientious Objector on the grounds of his religion (he was in the Nation of Islam at the time). They just didn't accept his objection.

But Muhammad Ali was very, very known for being confident and outspoken in his beliefs and in himself. And the main political reason he gave for not wanting to go to war was that he "had no quarrel with the Vietcong". He was arrested in 1967 for refusing to go, and White America swore he was a coward, an uppity n*gger, and every foul word in the book (for being unwilling to entertain and/or die for them).

Essentially, he recognized and pointed out that to go to war with Vietnam, war with other people of color, for a country that refused to respect his own people's basic civil and human rights was stupid. He has no issues with Vietnam. He had issues at home! If he went to war and died, he'd be dying for furthering the interests of Western Imperialism and white supremacy via a genocide. If he went to war and committed said genocide, lived and returned, he'd return to the very same white people who sent him to fight treating him like he was subhuman.

It happens in every war; Revolutionary War, Civil War, World War I, World War II. To this day, we are learning of and pushing contributions of Black soldiers and platoons that got ZERO credit in comparison to their white counterparts. Silently sent to the back in history, treated like garbage upon their return, and expected to risk their lives for a country that hates them.

Why would anyone want to fight for that? Why would I want to commit a genocide? Why would I risk my life to commit violence the world over for a country that hates me and disenfranchises my people?

Anyway, so he was arrested and convicted for refusing to go to Vietnam, his boxing titles stripped, (also deadnamed! For they refused to call him his chosen name of Muhammad Ali, but Cassius Clay!) and again, white america had nothing but vitriolic hate for this man. But he stood on it, and eventually the conviction was overturned.

Also, because he was willing to say what needed to be said as a famous face to the world, his words had an effect worldwide. Y'all know how y'all want your celebs to say something? He did! And he risked it and lost it all! So that's why I brought up Muhammad Ali. Famous Black man who wasn't just a boxer and entertainer, but an activist who did the right damn thing in the moment, and will be remembered by history as doing such.

Happy Black History Month, and Free Palestine!

#the link to a good article is in the response #ask #anon #black history month #black activists #muhammad ali #free palestine #palestine #racism #white supremacy

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luvyeni · 5 days

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⠀ ( drabble ) let's get married ̨ ! ୨୧ 一 박성훈 ՞

husband!sunghoon ・ reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ g ・ smut ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ cw ・ ‎ ‎ ‎unprotected sex, breeding kink, name calling ( slut , ‎whore ) ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ wc ・ ‎0.7k ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎| ‎ ‎click to library

request. can we get something about husband sunghoon 🙂‍↕️

「 ୨୧ authors note 」 i hope you like it !

“Can we have the bride and groom only on the floor please?” the other guest moved to the side , leaving you and sunghoon on the floor. “Can I have this dance mrs.park.” He held out his hand , you smiled taking his hand. “yes you can mr.park.”

music slowly playing in the background; he pulled you closer to him , moving side to side slowly dancing; the crowd looking at you in awe , the newly married couple, so excited to start their new lives together as husband and wife. they see sunghoon leaning in, and they swoon as he presses a kiss on your cheek.

“I love you baby.” he said, you smiled. “I love you too.” you said , everyone unable to hear everything you say— sunghoon likes that. “You know that dress is stunning, baby.” he said , taking in your beauty. “but I don't think white is the appropriate color.” you look at him confused. “What do you mean?” you asked , not too quick to get offended. “white stands for purity, and we both know you are the farthest from pure.”

he smiled at your shocked face. “Sunghoon!” you said. “people are watching.” he chuckled. “Of course they are, but they can't hear me, can they?” He bit back. “they can't hear me tell you how I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of the hotel.” he kissed your cheek again , smiling to keep up appearance. “They don't know I'm gonna make you take my cock so many times that you're begging for me to stop.” your face was flushed. “h-hoonie.”

Soon the song was over and everyone was clapping and cheering for the both of you , but you could care less about cheers; the only thing you want is sunghoon in between your legs. “songs over baby.” he said, everyone joining you back on the floor , he stepped back , your mother coming over, interrupting you, he winked at you before his mother did the same, whisking him away, leaving you wanting him more— god you wanted this reception to be over.

“that's more like it.” sunghoon stripped you out of your dress, revealing your red lingerie that you were surprising him with. “red , my favorite color.” he said, pushing you down on the bed. “a color fit for a nasty girl like you.” He got rid of his pants , his cock desperate to be inside you. “couldn't even wait for the wedding to be over before you were throwing yourself on me again.”

That was true , the moment you got him back in your clutches during the party , you were all over him, practically begging him to touch you; take you to the bathroom— hell anything, but he denied you, forcing you to wait until now , but even now he's teasing you. “So desperate to be filled with my cock.” he slotted himself in between your legs, running his cock up and down your slit. “pl-please h-hoon.”

he held your legs open, slamming into you. “slid right fucking in.” he cursed , holding your waist down as he fucked into you. “That's my good whore.” he moaned. “so fucking wet.” your skin slapping together, you whimpered as his hands tangled up in your hand , tugging on it. “you got this wet just from a few words I said on the dance floor?” you dumbly nodded. “y-yes.”

“fuck you want me to breed you?” he growled. “make you a mother right here?” his thrust brutal , his hands squeezing your waist. “fu-fuck sunghoon , please!” you squealed. “please cum inside me.” you held his bicep. “please.”

he felt his orgasm impending; reaching down to rub your clit. “fuck , I want you to cum first.” he groaned. “cum all over my cock -fuck- so I can fill this little pussy up with my seed.” you gasped , nails digging into his skin as you came. “fuck , you're clenching too tight -shit- can't hold it.” his hips stuttered, his cock twitch as ropes of his cum shot into your waiting womb. “shit.”

his hair sticking to his forehead as he kissed you. “fuck im glad I made you my wife.” you laughed. “and if you're lucky the mother of your children.” he smirked , moving his hips, thrusting inside you. “su-sunghoon.”

“well then maybe we need to go again to make sure it sticks.”

©️LUVYENI

#kpop x reader #kpop smut #enhypen x reader #enhypen scenarios #enhypen imagines #enhypen x female reader #enhypen smut #enhypen hard headcanons #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen hard hours #enhypen drabbles #park sunghoon fanfic #park sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon hard hours #park sunghoon smut #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon scenarios #sunghoon smut

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delightfultheoristfox · 1 month

Text

Never had a thing

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

I have no clue how this works the thought process was like: since I'm stuck in the worst writing block of my life why don't I start crossposting on Tumblr so it kind of feels like I've accomplished something while the truth is that I haven't been able to complete a WIP in two months? 🫠 I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3. 18+

Word count: 10k CW: smutty!!! jealous Simon Riley BECAUSE I honestly crave that. Soft Simon Riley because I crave that as well.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. “Someone in Konni’s got your name” he’d said. “We don’t wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.”

He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didn’t get a move on. For that, he’d hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasn’t in Manchester.

Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was – living away from people, giving them the same treatment they’ve always given him.

Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didn’t even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things – a rank he didn’t hold, a flat that wasn’t his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.

The SAS wasn’t offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger – he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.

Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasn’t picky – after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.

A few days into his exile, he’d entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didn’t care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.

However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch one’s attention. He’d stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.

DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.

At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.

He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement – no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?

He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.

Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasn’t expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for children’s toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.

The obnoxiously happy voice he’d heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.

It was a splash of colors Simon wasn’t even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.

You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.

Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didn’t blame you – he wasn’t the most trustworthy-looking lad. While he’d ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.

“Only a few weeks.” He’d said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. “I’ll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.”

And to his utter surprise, you’d accepted. He thought it was much too naïve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.

He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand – especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you – well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.

You didn’t question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes you’d knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. He’d eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.

Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door he’d left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruise’s mug – Top Gun.

Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in and he’d already gathered how brilliant you were. You didn’t need to ask questions to connect the dots.

Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.

So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.

Dinner leftovers on the second rack. He’d tick off the sentence to let you know he’d read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.

Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. He’d write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.

I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when he’d headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.

And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.

Out for a few days. That’s how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.

Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. You’d mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.

He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldn’t coincide.

Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule you’d both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.

Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being – trying to get to know him.

Zero Dark Thirty.

“Is it true you use callsigns?”

“Yes.”

“You have one?”

“Yes.”

“What is it, then?”

“Classified.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Negative.”

The hurt locker.

“You ever defused a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“No shit – oh my God. How was it?”

“Dangerous.”

“Why thank you for the chat.”

“No problem.”

“When did it happen? Like, what was the situa-”

“Classified.”

You made a face and mocked his accent. “Classified.”

Apocalypse now.

“You are a bit like Kurtz.”

He gave you a look. “Mental?”

You huffed. “No. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.”

Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.

He murmured, then. “The horror, the horror.”

And you laughed.

He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.

Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like he’d initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he could’ve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.

Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.

Until two years became three, and then four.

Until he just kind of… stayed.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon’s day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.

He’s risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.

You’re lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because you’re already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.

All too well, because it’s his.

And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It could’ve been a laundry mishap; you could’ve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesn’t even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesn’t anymore.

It's clearly yours, now.

He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound must’ve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.

"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.

Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you aren’t a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.

You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofa’s cushions. "Wanna join me?"

Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isn’t in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesn’t care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and he’s already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.

He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.

You’ve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.

You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps he’d wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because he’s never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.

That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.

Simon doesn’t know much about things like that. He isn’t daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents aren’t his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.

At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers weren’t all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if he’d seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. He’d find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.

He’d figured that the only way to ensure you’d avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldn’t simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.

He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when he’d given them to you, how you’d clutched them to your chest as if he’d just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.

Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isn’t about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust he’s placed in you.

You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"

“Peachy.” He grumbles dryly.

Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.

You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him – even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.

What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.

Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.

"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."

He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isn’t a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.

“Why are you being particularly friendly today?” He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.

He isn’t complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who can’t seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.

Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if he’s just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows you’ll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.

You are particularly cheery.

"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."

That.

That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.

He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his – the kind that could cut through steel.

“A date?” He grumbles. “Who’s the bloke?”

In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didn’t have the reflexes of a sniper, you’d have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh – bloody used to it.

You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. It’s painfully clear how you can’t be bothered to stand.

You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.

Simon scoffs.

Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features – brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.

After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture you’re showing.

The man is… somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldn’t appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldn’t return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldn’t buy you socks so you’d stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldn’t let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be “too flashy” - as if one on its own isn’t obnoxious enough.

He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. It’s an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.

"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.”

Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.

“Looks like a knob.” He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. “Looks old. Tory, probably.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.

"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.

His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.

You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.

Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"

Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."

You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.

Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"

Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how you’re about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.

A little too naïve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, you’d get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.

His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.”

You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and you’re a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giant’s warmth.

However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.

It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Riley’s. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isn’t it.

"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when we’ll have dinner."

He scoffs.

“You’re gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?” A condescending pat on your ankle. “Sounds really romantic.”

His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.

The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.

"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.

Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.

"He looks like he’d vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."

“A tiny bit?” He snorts. “Lad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.”

You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that he’s shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.

"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."

He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts he’ll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. “Christ. Didn’t need that in my mind.”

In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you don’t notice how he’s somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you aren’t one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that you’ve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.

The selfless angel that you are.

You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isn’t written on the colorful paint of the walls.

"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."

Your eyes touch his. There’s a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.

"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."

He mutters under his breath. “Right.”

Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks you’re too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind aren’t enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.

He hates that you don’t seem to understand it. Hates that you require other people’s approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.

He hates that despite how sharp you are, you’re slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And it’s Simon fucking Riley who’s saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isn’t that you can’t discern signs and tells, you aren’t stupid by any means, but it’s painfully obvious how you just can’t fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, you’d always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.

In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.

Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"

Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isn’t exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.

“He’ll love them, you muppet.” He deadpans.

You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.

Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks he’s bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.

His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.

He could tell you to drop it. He could.

But you’re a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.

And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill he’s never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isn’t going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.

Simon’s eyes rake over your body – your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.

Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.

Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"

He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket – his patience wearing thin.

He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. “Peachy.”

His humor this time isn’t successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simon’s defense, he hasn’t used it to make you crack one at all.

You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how you’re already miles away – overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.

Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.

"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.”

A low scoff slips past his lips.

He is anything but peachy, he’d give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat – his flat.

He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.

“Just thinkin’ about work is all.” He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soap’s Scottish lilt calling him a “pining sod.”

Oh, but you’re an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.

In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him). His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair – all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.

"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.

His fingers aren’t as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.

“Work,” he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, he’s fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.

While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.

As in, touched you, touched you.

He’s averse to that, to anything that isn’t a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isn’t.

His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldn’t touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.

It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.

His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. It’s leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether you’d whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.

So many ifs he wants to put to the test.

He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell you’re absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.

Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own – the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.

How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.

As if he’d ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is “Stop” and he’ll take back his arm – cut it off for good measure.

Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.

Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"

Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.

Not now.

His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.

“Reckon work can wait,” he rasps.

Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core – a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.

You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches – even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like you’ve finally turned off your thoughts.

Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows you’re confused; he is too. Because it’s wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies – four years of shared everything is involved.

But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.

Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that you’re just as affected as he is.

Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.

“Lift your leg up for me,” he rasps.

Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too – someone as desperate as you look right now.

After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.

Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes you’d disappear with a text, saying you’d be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why – mostly, because he thought it wasn’t his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, you’d take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasn’t too keen on the idea.

After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.

There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.

“Fuck.” You hiss, tilting your head back.

You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.

“Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. “Barely touched you.”

He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But he’s just as desperate as you are, isn’t he? He’s craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.

He’s no better than you are, currently.

So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.

You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.

But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.

Maybe he’s gone too far, he thinks. Maybe you’re realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.

However, it’s then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only – sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards – is wanted.

Not tolerated. Not required. Wanted. Needed.

He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that can’t be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated – by him, and him only.

Why is he doing this.

What does it mean.

Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday.

Is it because he's frustrated at work and you’re simply there, lying on a silver platter.

So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, you’re still thinking.

He doesn’t allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.

His first if is answered, then. Your eyes don’t roll back like he’d expected.

Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks you’re wearing.

Simon takes in the sight of you – all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.

He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.

“Keep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.

Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofa’s cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.

He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt – the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.

You look ruined. And he loves that – the effect he has on you, the fact that he’s the one to have you like this.

He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesn’t do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream.

And he finds it, then – to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. He’s looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.

His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves he’s located. He doesn’t want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain – questions. Or better, one question.

He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan – muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.

“D’you think you’ll need to go on that date on Friday?” he rasps and rolls his thumb again.

His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.

You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his finger’s promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.

You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"

“No,” he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.

He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.

You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. He’s knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.

He’s shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.

“Gonna cancel it, then?”

It’s bliss. You look like an angel.

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."

Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else – two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.

He’s never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.

Simon would give you the moon if you asked.

He’s powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned – right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.

That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, he’d see no wrong in it – because what can you taint when you’re the purest thing he’s ever touched.

Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, he’d feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isn’t a spot on you he doesn’t wish to worship.

Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.

He can’t take his eyes away from you – you have him absolutely entranced.

“s too much.” He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain

“It ain’t.” He manages to grunt as if it's an order.

And you’re a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as they’re yours – they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.

“Simon,” your voice is so wrecked when you beg. “Please - fuck.”

And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. “’m tryin’.”

He drags his fingers deep down where yours can’t reach, where he’s found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where you’re not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.

And the way that string of “Yes” leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.

Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans – bone-deep ingrained insecurity you can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t force you, though – he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.

Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and he’d recognize those signs anywhere.

“Cum f’ me,” he orders. “C’mon, love. Give it to me.”

It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.

And fuck, aren’t you a goddamn sight.

Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.

He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself – not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.

However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what he’s doing.

You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesn’t want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.

Your breath comes out in puffs. He’s not faring any better on that note.

"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."

He’s gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.

Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “Alrigh’?”

You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated – much more self-aware than before.

His fingers are still inside of you and you’re already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that you’re not regretting it – because he sure as hell isn’t.

"Peachy.” Is your reply.

Oh, how the tables have turned. Joke’s on him, he’s fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.

He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs, unable to discern whether he’s talking to you or to himself, “Messy girl.”

He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.

Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, “Open.”

He knows he’s already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if he’s going to lose you after this, if you’re going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then he’s going to make the most of it.

Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.

But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

Each time he thinks you can’t look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.

He hums lowly in approval, and there’s something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.

When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or he’ll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.

“How d’you taste, dove?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.

The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.

Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasn’t a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, you’ve guessed it already.

"Not as sweet as I thought."

His lips twitch.

“No?” he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him – must be a blue moon tonight. “I think you taste pretty sweet.”

This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one – in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesn’t believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoever’s up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap he’s been put through.

And he asks for nothing, but you.

His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that he’s just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.

You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."

He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.

For him.

His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.

“C’mere.”

You do.

He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought he’d be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.

Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way he’s always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and they’re so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.

Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupid’s bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.

Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.

But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.

The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.

He doesn’t recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed – whether you did it, or if he’s taken the matter into his own hands.

However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, what’s separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.

He pulls away and – to his pleasure – he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.

“No.”

He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that you’ve done something wrong.

He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.

Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.

He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.

Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.

“Keep the shirt on.” He breathes against your skin, “I wanna fuck my name into you.”

And he does just that.

It’s effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. He’s famished; there isn’t a single surface along the path he follows where he hasn’t placed you – if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.

Until he has you on that bed, the one he should’ve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.

You look wonderful on it.

But you’re even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap – your back facing the reflection.

He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch – sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.

Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.

You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you – sinking on it easy and slow.

You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.

Simon’s not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like you’d been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air – and oh, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself – rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.

Simon’s hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.

Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint – not when he has you like this.

“Look at you,” he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.

He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.

He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole.

“Look at that.” His voice is equally as raspy as it’s enraptured. “Perfect.”

Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.

When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He won’t keep you like that for long, don’t worry. He’ll take good care of you, like he always has.

But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.

Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and you’re too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.

The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss – lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.

In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.

And you’re so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know he’s never had a thing. You know that whatever he’s held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.

“I’m yours,” you whisper in his ear.

And so, Simon surrenders. He’s at your mercy, you have his trust and whatever’s left of his heart – and he knows you won’t break either.

He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own – a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.

Because he’s never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #jealous simon riley #ghost x reader

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kalims · 8 months

Text

kiss your best friend | diasomnia

kiss your best friend and see how they react!

parts. one , two , three , four , five , six , seven

characters. malleus, lilia, sebek, silver

content. gender neutral reader as usual, mentions of murder by lilia's cooking, someone faints lol

note. finally last part after ten years /j

malleus

goes absolutely silent but his surprise is definitely there -> eyes widen, brows raise on a miniscule scale. you'd think the guy would be all lowkey about his joy but five seconds later and there are comical sparkles surrounding his face.

I mean. you had to formally confirm that you two were friends before, and you had off-handedly linked his name and best friend in the same sentence a few months later (he was bursting for like a week.) and now all that?

thrown away, nu-uh. you two are NOT friends no more, he doesn’t have a single care in the world. he's throwing the friends label off a cliff with his foot and skipping off with joy cause you just got upgraded to the next ruler of briar valley wink wonk.

or perhaps you'd like being referred to as his consort? he can always make the people refer to you as both.

if you're wondering why he's so silent all of a sudden; malleus: already thinking of how he'd decorate the castle when you move in with him. maybe... he can break down the wall to link your two bedrooms together—wait no he'd very much like to share the same room instead..

"child of man, do you prefer violet or green?"

"uh... green...?"

"excellent choice, you have my gratitude."

the thing you should be asking is 'why' because it's either the main color theme of your wedding or the gem he'd engrave on your ring (he's very happy it's green though, since it'd be a constant reminder of him.. oh he knows! he should get his a color of your eyes too—)

someone stop him.

lilia

spiderman kisses spiderman kisses spiderman kisses spiderman kisses

more knowledgeable than malleus about the level up of relationships so he doesn't jump from best friends to newlyweds immediately. actually he doesn't even need a label, if you're going around kissing him he's just gonna act like you two are a married couple without a confirmation on your status'

"darling, could you hand me the sugar?"

"lilia, I hope you know that you're supposed to use salt for the sauce not sugar." <- *passes the right bottle*

ignoring lilia's attempts on lives he acts pretty normal.

ahem, besides the fact that your first kiss on him has made him come to the conclusion that he can now incorporate kisses in your daily routine since you've already done it, so apparently that means he can too.

kiss him once, he kisses you thrice I guess. it's either the occasional jumpscare from the ceiling since he felt like reminding you of his love through a pack or the times you blink and feel a sensation against your lips without seeing anything cause his affection can be silent as it is loud you suppose.

pov student you were speaking to who definitely saw that but you didn't midst your blink: 😨—

"lilia are we dating."

"i suppose it would make us more official like you humans like, so of course~"

he just accepts it without any complaints, just announce you're spouses and he'll accept that too probably.

#chill

silver

if we have spiderman kisses surely we can have the sleeping beauty kiss?

sleeping beauty kisses sleeping beauty kisses sleeping beauty kisses sleeping beauty kisses

I reckon he would be a pretty light sleeper though the quantity of his sleep is more often than not so even though he accidentally passes out a lot he's really easy to wake. trained to be vigilant and all, courtesy of his murderous father (well, murderous through food?)

he knows the weight of certain things. a blanket draped over him, the feeling of something squirming on his shoulder—a squirrel, most likely. something on his head, a bird or some other critter. but this?

a light press on his lips, gone as quickly as it came. that, he isn't sure of. the animals don't tend to linger around his face so the unknown origin of it has curiosity opening his eyes.

and boy, he is trying to find every reason to not believe that you didn't peck him.

perhaps they touched it? he furrows his brows lightly, attempting hard at trying to avoid your gaze because he feels guilty at his first assumption, you're his best friend! you wouldn't do such a thing..

"did you touch my lips?"

"nah, is it fine that I kissed you?"

"..."

*passes out*

is he dreaming?

sebek

in what scenario will sebek even let you near him? hmmm.. I suppose being 'best friends' (he calls you self proclaimed, and that you guys aren't that close but still rages over someone and hits them with an essay why you're so much better than their insults) makes you more tolerable around to be closer.

totally not the fact that he might have a crush on you, which can't be right cause he can't be capable of having feelings for a *gasp* human!

scandalous. he knows.

raises a brow when you do anything but be discrete with your intentions of shuffling closer but he doesn't really double back, okay. he's getting a little concerned now when you continue getting closer, he takes a step back not because you're near or anything but this behavior is... just strange.

you're in his face already and before he can question (loudly) what in the seven's name you're doing before you just casually peck him on the lips?

WHAT IN TARNATION!

stiffens up immediately, his face looks like it's holding in a yell. maybe that's why it's getting so red? he's just standing there with shoulders so tense he looks like he's trying to seem big.

"..." WHAT JUST HAPPENED. DID THIS HUMAN JUST.. NO, WE ARE MERELY BEST FRIENDS—are we even friends.. NO! THIS IS THE MOST INAPPROPRIATE ACT TO COMMIT. THIS HUMAN NEEDS TO KNOW BOUNDARIES. I mean he enjoyed that and all—I mean what..

"why are you so quiet."

if only you knew.

#ㅤ◜◡◝ . . signed !#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland headcanons #twst fluff #malleus draconia x reader #malleus x reader #lilia vanrouge x reader #lilia x reader #silver x reader #twst silver x reader #sebek zigvolt x reader #sebek x reader #x gn reader

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kosije · 10 months

Text

c/w ★ ׂ duke!miguel x fem!afab reader. smut. all smut. miguel tries to exercise restraint. spoiler alert: he fails. sins in silk extra <3

duke!miguel o'hara: who enjoys taking you in the most compromising of places.

he'll fuck you in the garden, behind the tall bushes of flowers taunting you on how loud you're getting.

"oh princess, i don't think it would fool anyone if they heard the flowers calling my name. if you can't bite your tongue, even the k-kingdom next door will hear of this."

"heavens," he groans. "i bet you'd like that, huh? want everyone to know how you have the best fucking cunt, yeah?" he all but moans into the back of your neck. "too bad it's all for me."

he'll excuse himself from the table just to eat you out inside the kitchen storage room, away from your father, his colleagues, and the cooks.

messily making out with your puffy pussy, moaning into your mound when your hand pulls on his hair. "m' baby needs 't don't she?" he slurs like a drunk man. his large hands wrap around, digging into the meat of your thighs only to pull himself in deeper. you're having trouble keeping your voice down, but thankfully the kitchen is a mess of noise and masks your low mewls and his groans completely.

he sneaks back to the table while you to your chambers, but you don't miss his cheeky "oh, im afraid i've already eaten dessert."

his favorite place, however, is the place he took you for the first time. he takes his time in those moments. working you up, till you almost break, then taking you apart only to put you back together over and over again.

slowly licks up your neck, with your legs fold in front of you, he pistons himself in and out of you. your antsy hands drop from your thighs to his back, up to his neck, and down into the sheets, crying out at how deep he fucks you—at how much you can see how he's been needing you. how he's been missing you.

it's in the way he kisses and worships your body, the way he whimpers whenever he's inside you, how he looks at you, even while around so many people at your father's party. how big they got when they saw you, how wrinkled the sides were when he smiled. in the way he holds you after he's fucked you—tight and warm. how he nuzzles into your neck, kissing your shoulder, completely flush to you.

but you're no better. calling out for him whenever you touch yourself, wearing his favorite color every time he comes around, with matching panties. how you wrap your hands over his arms, kissing the meat of them. how you hide little gifts, sonnets you've worked, sweets you've baked, intimates you've worn. and the way when he writes you back, "thanking you," you feel like you could die.

it's easy to secretly write about him. gush to yourself about your scandalous love with "mr. frown," you write for hours. tuck them safely into the hole inside your closet that you made when you were younger. you write all the days you don't see him, and when you do you always have to mention something from them.

"i wish time would stop when we are together, so we can see what forever feels like."

"i need you more and more every time we part. you take a piece of me with you i desperately need back. that spins and leaps inside of you when you see him again.

"if only you'd stay tonight, then my room wouldn't feel so empty."

when you tell him this, with that sparkly look in your eyes, he pauses. looking you over.

"it won't be good for us, princess."

"why is that?"

"i won't—i won't be able to control myself, just not safe for us."

"you don't know that," you all but plead. "you have to at least be curious, of what can happen if we try?"

he understands what you're referring to because those same thoughts bounce around his mind whenever he's alone, missing you. those pestering "what if's," that keep him up, keep him wondering. the ones that eat at his resolve.

so even though it's risky, and is no good for him at all, he sinks back into your bed. kisses the back of your neck, nosing your baby hairs, and whispers a weak, "i can never say no to you"

and for a night, you two don't have to spend it missing something.

#( ☆ ) smuts #( ☆ ) fluff #( ☆ ) spiderman: atsv #miguel o’hara headcanon #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara #miguel x reader #miguel smut #spiderman across the spiderverse smut #spiderman across the spiderverse #duke!ohara #sins in silk

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mydear-corinthian · 21 days

Text

not you, please

synopsis - wherein the reader was kidnapped by the unsub that hotch and the team were investigating.

pairing - aaron hotchner x reader / aaron hotchner x wife!reader

warnings - ANGST w/ comfort, reader being kidnapped and tortured, blood, typical criminal minds talk/content, use of aaron and hotch separately

notes - a tad long (w.c <2300), gif & picture isn't mine, divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

main masterlist | criminal minds masterlist

"Where is she?" Hotch's deep and frustrating voice echoed throughout the interrogation room. He was alone, wanting to talk to the now-caught criminal, wanting the offender to know your whereabouts.

It's been two days since you went missing. You were just doing your usual grocery for the week not until you went to the parking lot and you felt a damped cloth covering your mouth and nose. You accidentally inhale the chemicals on it making your muscles and bones tired, and your eyes shut down completely.

When you woke up, you felt a cold metallic wrap-feeling around your wrists. Your hands were hung up while you stood; your body felt weaker than ever. As you looked down on your body, bruises and fresh scars painted all over your stomach and legs. You want to cry. Cry for the pain. Cry because you know that you won't be able to see your husband again.

Hotch came home after a long tiring work. He gently hung his suit coat on the rack as he called your name. Once he did, Hotch didn't hear an answer. He thought that you were asleep since it was already midnight. Hotch went upstairs to your shared room and knocked softly before entering. His eyes widened at the sight: the bed was empty. Hotch quickly ran downstairs, searching every room there is inside the house. Hell, he even checked the backyard.

You weren't there.

Hotch immediately grabbed his phone, dialing your number. Unfortunately, it went directly to voicemail making his heart drop.

Hi, this is (Y/n)! I'm afraid I cannot be on the phone right now. Just leave a message and I'll reply as soon as I can.

Your voice helped him a bit but it's the fact that it's just a voicemail. He cannot help but think where were you?

That's when he remembered.

Earlier in his shift, he recalled how the team got a new case. Four women were tortured and murdered with the same hair and eye color as yours.

"No, that's not possible.." Not you, please.." he thought to himself.

Hotch grabbed his car keys and drove to the BAU office right away. When he entered the office, he ran immediately and went inside the elevator. Hotch called everyone: Reid, Garcia, Morgan, J.J, Prentiss, and Rossi.

"I need you all to be here. It's an emergency." Hotch stated and dropped the call after.

After five minutes, everyone was in the conference room, standing up and looking at Hotch.

"What happened?" Morgan was the first to ask.

"(Y/n) was abducted. I suspect this morning." Hotch replied, trying to keep his composure. He may appear normal or he's showing no feelings at all but deep down, his mind is punching him with all the possibilities on where are you and what happened. Are you okay? Do you have any injuries? Or worse, are you still alive?

He knows that people who go missing die within the first 24 hours since they went missing. For the first time, Hotch disregard the statistics. He won't accept any of it.

"I am sure it has to do with the case we had this morning. (Y/n) has the same characteristics as the victims. (y/h/c) hair, (y/e/c)." Hotch added.

"Oh my god.." Garcia commented, covering her mouth in shock.

"We'll help you, Hotch," J.J. said, her eyes showing a trickle of sadness.

Everyone in the BAU loved you. They were shocked knowing that both of you were dating despite your different personalities. Whenever there was a tough case, you would give them homemade cookies— especially Emily since you know how much she loves them— and you usually wait for Aaron to finish his paperworks in his office and you chat with Spencer. Listening to all the statistics and facts that he gives. You were the one who helped J.J. during her pregnancy, you gifted her how many boxes of diapers and other baby items during her bridal shower. You learned how to make Italian dishes with Rossi and Aaron loved every single dish of them. Derek and Penelope kept on asking for dating tips and even going out and parties with them. For them, you're a part of the BAU now. You're their family.

"I'll trace her phone. To see where her last location was." Garcia immediately started, leaving the room, and went to her computer lair.

"I'll talk to the neighbors to see if they saw her." Emily and Derek said.

"I'll go and try to mark a location up," Spencer said, standing up and going to the other room.

Rossi walked towards the scared and worried Hotch, patting him on the back, "We'll find her, Aaron."

"Look who's awake! Took you long enough," the unsub laughed, there was a small knife in his hand.

"Let me go!" you panted, your arms wiggling against the cold and handcuffs. Tears were starting to form in your eyes.

The unsub was getting closer to you until you felt his hot breath on your neck, whispering things that you wish you could not hear. With all of your strength, you kicked his stomach making him tumble backward.

"You're a fighter, aren't you?" he laughed.

His knife trailed down to your thighs, caressing it before stabbing you. You let out a scream as you felt it pinch to your skin.

"Please— stop!" you begged.

"You know, the last person who was there in your place died," he said. "If you don't want to end up like her then behave!"

You didn't protest, you want to live. Your mouth let out a series of whimpers and sobs. The unsub laughed, showing no remorse or guilt for what he had just done he enjoyed it.

Another man came inside whatever room you were in. He wasn't in shape, unlike the man who tortured you. There you know what is happening.

Two unsubs.

One is highly intelligent; the one who plans all the murders. The other one is physically strong but has no brains. The stronger man works for the other guy.

You learned it from your husband. You let him debrief heavy cases and also Aaron gives you some tips and tricks whenever you're in a dangerous situation— which he hopes won't happen but it's better to be cautious and be prepared.

"Good job finding her, Eric. I'll go somewhere to buy more tools for this lady over here." the smarter unsub said.

Eric nodded in response, facing back to you as he smiled diabolically with a small cutter in his hands.

When his duo left, all you felt was pain when the cutter went back again to your skin, cutting you slowly. Your vision started to get woozy. You lost your balance before your whole vision started going back.

It's finally been 24 hours since you went missing.

Aaron was mentally and emotionally dissolved. He and the whole team were in the conference room, looking at Garcia on the small screen of the laptop, hoping to get an address or a name.

Please, Garcia.. Please

"I got an address!" Penelope shouted, making everyone including Aaron stand up.

"Where?" Aaron asked immediately, his foot tapping anxiously.

"So, I searched stores who had customers previously bought knives, ropes, cutters, and all those horrifying items," she responded. Aaron's heart sank when she mentioned those items. Torture items. "—There were a lot of people who bought it—welcome to America— but this is what I suspiciously found. I reviewed this store's CCTV footage and I kept on seeing the same man coming inside the store twice a week for almost a month who brought the same items: rope, butcher's knives, small cutters, staplers, shovels, and some.. handcuffs... What's weird is that he doesn't look like the person who is physically fit to do gardening, carpentry, digging stuff and all."

"Can you identify the man, baby girl?"

"I already did. The name is Fred Silverstone. He's 5'7 tall, white, he owns a grey Adventure pickup. He's still inside the store! The address is Building 2 Kennedy Store just by Palm Street."

As soon as the team received the address, all of them went to their SUVs and drove. Derek and Rossi were with Aaron. He wanted to drive but Rossi was faster than him. Rossi began to drive at a fast speed, trying to catch the possible unsub and you in time.

Once they arrived, Aaron didn't hesitate to run inside the store with a gun in his hand and a bulletproof vest on his chest to protect him.

"John Silverstone, freeze!" Aaron yelled, pointing his gun at him when he finally saw John about to leave the store with a cart full of torture items.

"Raise your hands where I can see them!"

John raised his hands in defeat. Derek grabbed his handcuffs behind his belt and stated the Miranda Rights with anger.

Hotch didn't waste his time to interrogate John. He tried screaming at him. Yell at him. Yet John didn't say a word to where are your whereabouts. Unfortunately, the man didn't speak for almost 16 hours. He was quiet. He was smart.

"Oh, you're not talking? Then let's talk about your wife. She's the stressor, right? You kidnap women with the same features as your wife because she left you. And when she tried to leave you, you killed her? Isn't that right?"

"Shut up!" John yelled. "You know, Agent.. your wife.. she's pretty." the sound of your name being mentioned lit up flames to his whole body. Jesus, he wants to punch that man right now.

"You know what I did to my wife? I strangled her before slowly but satisfactorily cutting her from head to toe in that fucking basement of her home. Who knows! Your wife will be like that in a few minutes." he laughed manically.

Hotch's anger rose even higher. A lump in his throat was starting to form. When the unsub finally gave a clue to your location, Garcia searched the house of John's ex-wife and sent the location immediately.

"You're gonna rot in prison, Silverstone." Hotch lowly said before leaving the room.

The team went to their respective SUVs, driving immediately. Hotch's mind was killing him—all the thoughts of you being wounded, in pain, or even seeing your lifeless body.

As soon as the team arrived, Hotch ordered everyone. Prentiss was on his left while Morgan was on his right. Morgan kicked the door harshly as the three ran towards the basement.

Once you heard footsteps and Aaron's voice, your body relaxed a little.

He's here now.

But before you could shout his name out, your body was grabbed by the remaining unsub. He locked your head with his forearm while he placed a small knife near your neck. You can feel how cold the knife was.

"FBI! Nicholas, put the knife down." Aaron said.

Aaron looked at you with fear and anxiety, all he needed was for you to come back to him safely.

"No! This is for John! I-I will make John proud by killing her without his help!" Nicholas shouted.

Prentiss was too impatient so she triggered the gun, the bullet hitting the unsub's forehead directly. His body fell, blood pooling down his head.

Your legs gave up once you were now away from his grasp. Your face was pale. You were dehydrated so much. Your injuries look severe. There was a lot of dried blood on your body while some fresh scars were seen on your thighs and stomach.

Aaron ran towards you instantly. He gently grabbed your upper body, scanning for more injuries. Tears were starting to form again in your eyes as you felt his safe touch once again.

"It's okay, honey.. I'm here. You'll be alright. Just stay awake for me, okay?" Aaron caressed your hair while looking at you with his adorable eyes. He may seem still professional but his eyes were starting to water and his voice quivered.

Unfortunately, you were too weak to speak. You only answered him with a nod.

"I need an ambulance now," Morgan called.

You looked at your husband once again. Oh, he looks good. You hate seeing him anxious or sad. How you wish you had the energy to stroke his cheek. But despite that, you felt your energy decrease. Your body starts to feel cold and your head feels light. When you looked at Aaron again, your eyesight was getting blurry. Everything felt light.

"No no, (Y/n) stay awake, please. The ambulance is coming— What is taking them so long!"

You tried. Oh, you tried to stay awake but unfortunately, darkness filled you.

Aaron was outside the operating room for almost 5 hours now. The team left a few hours ago, leaving him alone. He glances at his wristwatch every minute, tapping his foot anxiously as he waits for the doctor to tell him his condition. He finally cried. Tears were now falling how his face, imagining the worse responses once the doctor comes out of the operating room.

The door suddenly opened. A doctor exited the operating room, their scrubs were stained with some blood.

"For (Y/n) Hotchner?"

Aaron stood up immediately as he heard your name.

"She'll be fine," the doctor announced, a sigh of relief washing out on his body. "But she lost a lot of blood and was severely dehydrated. She's lucky to be alive. She will wake up in a few hours, Mr. Hotchner. You may visit her once the nurses will transfer her to a private room within the hour."

"Thank you, Doctor— Oh God— Thank you."

When you woke up, you were met by this bright light. You adjusted your eyes for a bit before opening them fully. You shifted your eyes to your legs and saw your husband sleeping rather uncomfortably. You called out his name softly, hoping that he'd wake up despite how quiet your voice was.

Aaron woke up and then looked at you. For the first time in 2 days, a smile was printed on his face.

"You're awake, " he said gently, standing up and kissing your forehead, stroking your hair with his fingers. "I thought I had lost you."

"I'm okay now, Aaron. I'm safe and you're with me," you reassured him, interlocking your fingers with his.

"I'm so sorry it took us time to find you."

"It's okay, Aaron. It's not your fault."

"I love you, (Y/n) Hotchner."

"I love you too, Aaron Hotchner." you smiled at him, kissing him back when his lips touched yours.

"Now give me some water; I'm thirsty," you said.

#x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds angst #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch angst #aaron hotch x reader #thomas gibson

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samandcolbyownme · 8 months

Text

Summary: Anon request - "could you do a smut based on the reader and colby being good friends, but she secretly likes him, they do the q&a vid where colby admits to being a dom and then something happens with him and the reader after the vid and he like proves what he said?? hope this makes sense"

Warnings: SMUT18+, strong language, dominant!Colby, sub!y/n, mentions of alcohol, dirty questions being asked, flirting, use of pet names - daddy being one of them, rough unprotected sex, choking, oral (both), breeding kink?? Cream pie,, hair pulling, scratching, semi forceful actions, filth

Disclaimer: All of the questions expect for the kinks question are made up, along with the answers. Also sorry in advance if this isn’t my best work.

Word count: 4.4k | not edited

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

"What's up guys. So as you can see, Sam has changed a little bit." He laughs as he motions to you sitting next to him.

You laugh and shake your head. Colby smiles and looks back into the camera, "No, Sam is actually behind the camera today."

Sam peaks around, showing his face extremely close to the camera, "Hello." He stands back up, sitting back down in the chair and Colby claps his hands together, "Well now that Sam got his three seconds of fame, let me explain why y/n is here."

You cross your leg over the other and lean back as he speaks, "I thought it would be fun to do a little Q and A, but not only on my personal channel, but with one of my closest friends, y/n."

Colby turns to look at you, "Y/n. Don't be rude, say hello." He laughs as you gasp, "Oh, gosh. Sorry." You wave, "Hello everybody."

"Thank you." Colby laughs and reaches down, "So.. you all know mine and Sam's drinking question Q and A stuff, so I figured we'd do the same here." He looks over at you, "You know how this works?"

You nod, "If I don't want to answer the question, I have to take a shot?"

"You catch on quick." Colby chuckles and sets a shot glass on the table, "So.. Sam went through our little twitter thread and picked out some good questions to ask us, from you."

"Now." He glances over at you, "I know I said they're for me, but we can accommodate with having y/n here, right?" He looks over at you and you smile, "Sure can."

You liked Colby. Not as long as you knew him for, but you've started to like him way more than a best friend over the last few months.

You were nervous, because you knew his fans are ruthless when it comes time asking questions about whether or not he likes being tied up, and since the questions are also for you today, what are you going to do? Lie?

"Alright." Colby's words snap you from your thoughts, "Let's get started."

"Okay, first question." Sam clears his throat but you cut him off, "Hold on, Sam. Sorry. Colby you have.." you reach over, pulling a piece of fuzz from his purple colored hair, "Fuzz, or something."

You wiggle your fingers as it floats down to the floor and you look up, "Sorry. Continue. That was just bugging the hell out of me."

Colby smiles, "Thank you."

You nod and Sam clears his throat, "Alright. First question. If you could design your own superhero costume, what would it look like?"

You raise your brows, "Wow I thought these were going to be bad." You laugh and Sam quickly follows up, "Just wait."

"Oh." You laugh and shake your head, "My super hero costume would definitely be something like.. oh gosh. I don't know. Like a mix between Wonder Woman's and Black widow? If that's even possible."

Colby nods, "Nice. Nice. Like a black bodysuit type thing with the tiara that wonder woman wears?"

You look at him, "I think so, maybe not having pants, but longer sleeves definitely and maybe a boy shorts type bottom and of course the tiara."

"Sick." Sam says with a nod, "Colby?"

Colby thinks for a few more seconds, "Definitely something like Spider-Man, maybe not a mask, but something I can wear under a button up and just rip it open and save the day." He points, "Definitely more black and a royal blue color."

You smirk, "Instead of the spider, have a big C and B on your chest in cool letters, that would be sick."

"Yeah, yes!" Colby snaps and points to you, "I like it."

You laugh and look back at Sam, "Alright. Next question."

Sam laughs slightly and you close your eyes, "Oh no."

Sam sighs, "What's an embarrassing thing you've done and never told anyone about?"

"If I never told anyone why would I say it here? Right now when there's a camera pointed at me?" You point to the camera on the tripod and laugh.

"For the goodness of this video?" Sam laughs and you shake your head, "I need a shot, Colbs."

He tilts his head, "Really? Will you tell me later?"

You laugh, "Probably not."

He sighs and pours you a shot, "Fine." He smiles as he hands you the glass and you take it, "Oh god. I hate straight vodka."

You wipe your mouth and set the glass down, "Your turn."

Colby sighs, "I think I'm going to have to agree with y/n on this one." He pours himself a shot and takes it.

"You guys are no fun. Get drunk so you answer." Sam groans.

You roll your eyes and Colby laughs, "Next question, dear host Sam."

Sam scrolls on his phone and smirks, "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

You try not to make it obvious, but you look at Colby and he looks at you. You nod, "I mean, I would have to say so, yeah."

"Ohhh. Wanna tell us who you-"

"No." You cut Sam off and laugh, "that wasn't a part of the question."

Colby laughs and you can tell his eyes are still on you. He looks away as you look back at him and he shrugs, "I mean, with the right person maybe? So what, is that a yes?"

"I'd say so." You nod as you look from him to Sam and Sam nods, "Yeah, that works." He hums as he looks for another question, "Okay." He tries to hold back in his laughter, "Colby. This one is specifically for you."

"Oh no." Colby leans forward, resting his chin in his hand, "Hit me."

"Colby. Why do you have a pair of handcuffs in your room?"

Your mouth drops slightly. You knew about them because it's an on going joke between all your friends, but it still never ceases to amaze you.

Colby's eyes go wide and he gasps, "Oohhhkaaay." He laughs, "Why?"

"Yeah Colby. Explain why." Sam says, "What, are they from your god dang arrest or something? Props on a video.. really, what are they for?"

Colby reaches down and grabs the Tito's bottle, "um.. I mean.." he looks over at you, "I mean, no." He looks at Sam, "Definitely wasn't for those."

He untwists the cap then screws it back on, "Alright.." he leans forward as he sets the bottle on the floor, "I use them for personal fun, alright."

You cover your mouth and look at Sam who looks scared, "What the fuck does that mean?"

"That.." Colby laughs, "..would answer the question, though, right?" He looks into the camera, a smirk on his face, "I'm already.. I'm already getting embarrassed." He leans back, fixing his shirt and Sam shakes his head, "No."

"Judge is saying no." You point to Sam and Colby smiles nervously, "What? No?"

"Drink!" Sam yells and Colby goes to pour his shot before he finally spills, "I use them for.. sexual fun. Alright?"

He caps the alcohol and sets it back down. You can feel your cheeks turning red, but with this next question they're red no matter how hard you try to conceal it.

"Name two dirty kinks that you have." Sam raises his brows and Colby's mouth drops, "Oh god."

"Sam." You scoff and he laughs, "It's not me, I'm just reading the question from this person so yell at them."

"You know.." Colby starts, "I think it's only fair if y/n answers first on this one."

"No- don't do that." You laugh and cover your face. Sam laughs, "He's right." You look at Sam, "Of course you're agreeing with him."

You look at Colby with a smile, "Okay, fine." You take a deep breath, "I like.. wax play."

The look on Colby's face changes and he raises his brows, "Oh really?"

"Oh snaaaap!" Sam yells behind the camera. You hold up your hand, "Yeah, yeah, Colby. Your turn."

"Oh fuck.." he looks into the camera, "Sorry.. mom." He laughs slightly and reaches for the bottle of alcohol, "You know what.. I don't wanna answer now."

"No, no. You have to. I did, so you do." You lean back, crossing your leg over the other, "Come on. Let's hear it."

"I already said one. The handcuff thing." He pours the vodka into the glass, "Does that count as one?"

Sam nods and you sigh, "Good so now you only have to say one." You laugh as Colby caps the bottle, "Okay.. um.." he laughs slightly, "I like to be dominant. Alright.. there we go."

His words did something to you.

You squeeze your thighs together and he most definitely noticed that.

Sam erupts from behind the camera, "Whoooaaaaahhh."

You and Colby both laugh at him as he shakes his head, "The beans.. were spilled."

Colby rubs his eye and sighs, "I hate this." You nod, "Me too." He looks over at you, "What's your second kink Miss y/n."

"Oh we're back to that. Great okay." You look down and sigh, "I guess I might as well just.." you slap your hands into your lap and look up at Colby, "I like to be dominated."

"Oh shit." He tilts his head, eyebrows raising as he nods, "Go you."

"Moving on please." You try to deter from your answer, but it's hard when you said it on purpose.

You wanted Colby to know that you wanted him, but you didn't want to fully come out and say it.

Not yet at least, maybe when he's telling you to say it.

"Okay, okay. Moving on from that spice show." Sam laughs, "Next question."

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

"Alright. So that's it for this video, I'm actually surprised that we aren't drunk." Colby looks over at you, "Thanks for coming on and getting down and dirty."

You laugh, "Anytime, guys. This was.. if you look past the embarrassing part, it was kind of fun."

Colby laughs and nods, "Yeah. It was. He looks into the camera, "See you guys in the next one."

Sam cuts the camera off and stand sup to stretch, "That was.. something." He laughs and shakes his head, "You guys are going to be the stars of twitter when this drops."

"Why?" You ask knowing the answer. You just wanted to hear what Sam had to say.

He tilts his head, looking at you dumbfounded. He points to Colby, "Likes to be dominant." He points to you, "Likes to be dominated."

You roll your eyes, "mhm."

Colby laughs, changing the subject, "I'm going to go start editing this." He looks over at you, "You coming with?"

"Yeah, I'll be up then. Just to make sure you don't embarrass me."you tease and he smirks, "I would never."

You smile and look over at Sam a he snorts, "You guys.." he shakes his head and you tilt your head, "You guys.. what?"

"Just keep it down." He mumbles as he walks away. You laugh and look at Colby, "I'll be up." He nods and stands up to grab the camera off the tripod, "See you then."

You watch as he walks away, shaking your head as you think about what happened tonight.

You couldn't believe you were so open about some of the stuff you said.

Wax play?

Like being dominated?

A lot of that had to do with your comfortability level with Colby, if he wasn't there, you probably would have just drank, but at the same time...

You knew exactly what you were doing, and you think it worked.

You get up, making your way up to your room. You change out of your jeans and sweatshirt and put on a pair of shirts and a loose t-shirt.

You take a deep breath before going next door to Colby's room. You knock before slowly opening the door, "Can I come in?"

You watch a now shirtless Colby turn around and he nods, "Of course."

You walk in, closing the door behind you as you walk over to his bed and sit down on the end, "Get a lot done?"

He chuckles, "Just watching it.." his eyes move up your legs, "So see where I can cut it, you know." He looks up at your face and turns back towards the computer.

You lick your lips, smirking as you bring your legs up to sit comfortably on the bed, "Can you cut out my sneeze, please?"

"Why?" Colby asks, turning his chair towards you, "I thought it was adorable."

"I hate how I sneeze." You argue and Colby rolls his eyes playfully, "Well I don't, so." He spins back towards the computer and you can hear Sam ask about the two kinks.

"Oh god." You groan, falling back onto the bed, "Just cut that whole segment out."

Colby pauses the video and you hear him turn towards you, "Now why would we do that?"

You look up at him and sit up, "Because I actually said what mine were." You laugh, obviously nervous, "That's.. embarrassing."

Colby pulls his lips between his teeth and sighs, "You know what I think?"

You look at him, "What do you think?"

"I think.." he leans forward, fingers tapping your knees, "You said it for a reason."

You chew on your cheek, trying to keep your composure, "Uh huh. Okay." You nod, "What if I did?"

"Then I know what I need to do." He moves forward, crawling up the bed as you move back, his body hovering over yours.

You stare to at him for a few seconds before he leans down, roughly attaching his lips to yours.

You hands slide up his chest, laying on the sides of his neck as he reaches down to spread your legs. He nestles his hips between your knees, grudging his bulge against your clothed center.

You whimper out, moving your hips, "Please."

It was like a switch flipped the minute you said you liked being dominated, because he's doing exactly what he said he likes to do.

"Beg." His voice is low and his lips move along your jaw, "Beg for me, baby. Tell me what you want."

You whimper, tilting your head back to give him room as he kisses down your neck, "Please Colby, I need you."

He sits up, your legs over his thighs, "Need me to do what, baby?" He pushes his hands up your thighs, slipping his fingers inside your shorts and pulling them away.

"Take off my shorts." You lift your hips, "Please."

He chuckles lowly and slowly pulls your shorts down. You bring your legs up as he pulls them over your feet and tosses them, "come here."

You get up, on your knees in front of him, "Tell me what to do."

He smirks, fingers moving to pull your shirt up over your head. His eyes scan down over your bare chest, "Move to the floor."

He stands up as you move to the floor, on your knees awaiting your next command.

Colby stands up, undoing his jeans and pushing them down. He sits down, in his boxers, on the edge of the bed, "Come here."

His eyes follow you as you move in between his legs. You look up at him and he reaches down, gripping your chin, "I'm going to take care of you, okay? But first.." he bites his lip, thumb hooking over your bottom row of teeth, "I want to hear you gagging on my dick."

Your breath hitches in your throat as your heart rate picks up, "Yes, daddy." You smirk slightly as you see his eyebrow twitch.

He nods with a small smirk, "Fucking right."

He brushes hair from your face, lifting his hips as you work his boxers down his thighs. His cock springs free and you immediately bring a hand up to wrap around it.

A low groan leaves his throat, lip pulled between his teeth as he locks eyes with you. He nods down, "Go on, sweetheart."

You lick your lips, leaning in to swirl your tongue around the tip. He gasps lowly as you wrap your lips around him, bobbing your head to work at coating him in your spit.

"Fuck, that's it." He moans out quietly. He lays a hand on the back of your head, pushing down, urging you to take him all, even if you can't.

He wanted to hear you.

You push your head down, his cock hitting the back of your throat which causes you to gag around him. He pulls your hair into a makeshift pony with his hands, "That's it."

You bob your head, squeezing your eyes shut as you gag on him a few more times.

Colby moans, pulling your head up. He grips your chin, squeezing as he leans in, "That's my girl." He bucks his hips, "Keep going."

You nod, moving your head back in to take him in fully, gagging around him as your hands move up to grip his thighs.

He moves your head up and down, pulling at your hair as the sound of your saliva squelching around him fills the room, along with the sound of you gagging.

He moans, "Fuck, that's my girl. That's my fucking girl."

He lifts your head, wiping away the spit from your chin with his thumb, "On the bed."

You quickly get up, still breathing rapidly as you get on the bed. He motions with his hand, "Hands and knees, baby."

You roll over onto your stomach from your back and lift yourself up. Your arms holding up your weight as you look over at him.

His eyes scan up and down your body, biting his lip before he holds up a finger. He walks over to his dresser, pulling out the - you guessed it - black fuzzy handcuffs.

Your heart skips a beat as you watch him walk over to you with them, spinning them on his finger like a taunt.

"Do you want these on you?" He tilts his head, holding the cuffs up higher.

You nod, "Yes."

"What did you say?" He bites his lip, trying to fight back his smirk and you swallow, "Yes daddy."

"Atta girl." He winks and moves behind you, reaching down to take your one arm and bring it behind you. You rest your head down onto the bed before bringing your other arm back.

You feel the fuzz against your skin, biting your lip as you hear the click of the cuffs tighten around your wrists.

"You look so fucking hot like this." His hands slide down the small of your back, over the lace of your panties to deliver a smack to each ass cheek at the same time.

You whimper, jolting forward as the sting settles in, "Fuck."

His hands rub the red prints on your skin, "What do you want, baby?" He slips his fingers into the band of your panties, teasing you because he knows exactly what you want - he just wants you to say it.

"Fuck me, I want you to fuck me." You whine, "Please. Please."

"You don't want me to taste you?" He leans down, kissing your lower back, "you don't want me to taste what you've been flaunting around me for all these years?"

His words make your stomach flip, but in the best way.

"Fuck, yes. Yes, Colby." You move your head so you can try to look at him. He chuckles, "Yes, yes Colby what?"

"I want you to taste me." You breathe out, biting your lip as you feel him pulling your panties down over your ass.

He pulls them down to rest at your knees, "fuck, you have such a pretty looking pussy." He brings a hand up, teasingly sliding his fingers up and down your folds.

You whimper, pushing your hips back to meet his fingers more, but he pulls them away, "Mm, baby. You're so eager aren't you?" Colby moves behind you, bending down to kiss the small of your back again.

"Please." You whine, "Colby."

You head him chuckle, "Tell me again, baby. Tell me what you want."

"I want your tongue in me." You say, desperate for his touch, "Please, daddy."

You feel his hands lay on your thighs as his thumbs gently spread your folds open. He leans in, licking a strip up and groaning against you, "So fucking good, baby."

You moan loudly, wrists pulling again the retrains, "Fuck, yes."

Colby's tongue moves up and down a few times before pushing into you. He digs his fingers into your skin as he slides his other hand up to pull your hips back.

You groan loudly, wanting to do badly grip the sheets, "Fuck, fuck. Yes." You pant loudly, wiggling your hips as your eyes roll shut.

Colby pulls away, placing kisses up the back of your thigh as he sits up, "Your pussy is going to feel so fucking good around my dick."

He moves behind you, sliding his hand down to grip the center chain of the cuffs as he slaps the head of his cock against your pussy a few times.

"Tell me you want it." He demands, head of his cock sliding up and down your slick folds.

"I want you. I need you." You push your hips back, nails digging into the palm of your hands, "Please, daddy. I need yo-"

Your words are replaced by a long and loud moan as Colby slowly slides his cock into you, "You keep it up with that daddy shit and I might have to just make it true."

You moan in response, "Please.. daddy."

"Fuck.." he groans as he pushes his hips against you. His hands hold your hips tight as you stretch around him.

"M-move. Please." You whimper out, but Colby doesn't comply. He leans down, kissing your shoulder and you moan as his cock shifts slightly.

"Just give it a minute, baby." He rubs your hip, "You feel so fucking good. I could cum right now."

"C-co-"

He cuts your begging short, "Tell me what you want."

"M-move.." you whimper out quietly, the feeling of him just resting inside of you becoming unbearable.

"Louder."

You whimper, a little louder than the last, "Please move.."

"Mm. Louder baby. I wanna hear you nice and clear." Colby continues to rub your hip.

You move your head, "Colby.. please move."

"Mm. No I need you louder than that, baby." Colby chuckles and you sigh, slightly frustrated, "But Sam.."

"I don't give a fuck about him right now, y/n. I only care about one thing right now and that's hearing you beg for me." He pulls your hips back, causing you to moan at the pressure from his cock.

"oh my god." You moan out, making your voice louder, "Fuck me, daddy. Please move, I need you to fuck me!"

"That's my girl." He pulls out and thrusts back in, "Fuck, keep going baby. I wanna hear you."

You pull your wrists, whining when you can't move them anywhere, "Fuck, yes yes yes."

Colby lays a hand on yours as he thrusts, pulling the metal chain to the cuffs back with each thrusts, "Fucking hell, baby. You're so fucking good."

You moan out, basically screaming his name, "Fuck, Colby! Yes!"

You squeeze his cock, digging your nails into his hand. His thrusts are punishing, building up your orgasm quickly, "Shit, d-daddy!"

You whine, "So fucking close. So fucking.. close."

"Hold it, baby. Wait for me." He leans down, kissing up your back, "Wait for me."

A constant string of moans leaves your lips as your eyes roll back, closing as you try your best not to cum just yet, "Please." You breathe out, "C-Colby."

"Almost there, sweetheart." He whispers in your ear and you nod against the mattress and he groans, "Where do you want me?"

You just whimper in response and he sits up, "Can't hear you, baby. Tell me where you want it."

"Don't stop." You moan out, "Please daddy."

He grips your hips tight, "Fucking hell, you gonna cum for me?"

"Y-yes. Yes yes." You gasp, pushing your hips back as much as you can, "Fuck, cum in me."

His fingertips press into your skin harder, "F-fuck." He moans loud as his thrusts become sloppy, "Shit." He breathes out, voice shaky as you feel his cock twitch inside of you.

You moan, breathing heavy as he gently rests your hips down onto the bed. He undoes the cuffs, rubbing your wrists as soon as they're off, "Are you okay? These didn't hurt you did they?"

"No." You try to shake your head, "No I'm fine, Colbs." You smile as he lays down next to you, gently pressing his lips to yours.

“So.. follow up question..” you look up at him, “Does this mean we’re together now, or?”

“you're my girl, now." He brushes hair from your face, "Thought me moaning out my fucking girl gave that away." He chuckles and you smile with a slight laugh, "Yeah, no you're right."

You sit up, leaning over to kiss him and he lays a hand on your back, smiling within the kiss, "Just be prepared for Sam to bitch in the morning because you were pretty loud."

You lean back, laughing as you push his shoulder, "Only because you told me to."

"Yeah, and you listened very well." He winks and pulls you back down for another kiss, “Next time, we'll take it a little bit slower, and more gentle."

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

Thank you for reading!

Love you all!

Like and reblogs are all greatly appreciated! 🖤

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