#fits queue like a glove

[harrisonarchive]

Huge thanks to Sara at Meet the Beatles for Real for sharing the following recollection from a fan named Char, as published in the fanzine The Write Thing; it took place during the Dark Horse Tour.

“[In Chicago on November 30, 1974] we sat there trying to calm down. [...] Although I didn’t know then who she was, Olivia was there. He kissed her just after they came into the room, and before he sat down. [...] He told about his guitar strap breaking on stage and how when he realized it was letting go, he stuck his foot out to catch the guitar on his shin. All I could think of is that he is the only one I know that would deliberately get hit on the shin. He must have realized what was happening to me, cause he stared into my eyes once more after that, and sure enough, the results were the same. Olivia came over once and asked us if we wanted anything to eat and then right before he left he stood about 3 feet away from us and leaned over the coffee table in front of us to get some matches from Pete and I remember he said, ‘I thought he was crackers,’ but I don’t know who he was talking about. Then I heard him say that he was going to bed, and I looked up to see him with his arm lightly around Olivia’s waist and they said goodnight to everyone. I felt a desperate urge to do something drastic to keep him there, but I suppressed it and just smiled. […] To describe George, I can say that i was really shocked at how thin he is. His face looked just about like I expected, but thinner. His hair was so fluffy and nice, but his eyes were what I really noticed. They were so deep brown! Most people when you look at their eyes you see the white around the color, but when you stare into George’s eyes you just see deep brown and a lot of emotion. It’s really a shame his eyes don’t photograph the way they really look. If they did, I don’t think anyone would have ever noticed Paul’s eyes even as gorgeous as they are.” - The Write Thing, April/May 1976

[thislovintime]

On the set of 33 1/3 Revolutions Per Monkee, November 1968. Peter leaving The Monkees, post 1 of 3.

Tom Snyder: “Why did it all break up?” Micky Dolenz: “Well, Peter Tork quit. That was the main reason.” Davy Jones: “Well, he withdrew, he actually withdrew. He didn’t just quit, there was, there was a reason for it. He was not being artistically satisfied in certain ways. And we were, as I said, Micky and I, had done other things before and so we were used to taking the directions. So when it come down to other people, forgetting that Carole King and Neil Diamond and Harry Nilsson, Neil Sedaka wrote all the tunes — and Mike and Peter also did, but they never got the chance really to put any down in the early days. They decided that they wanted to do more music and Peter was the first one. He withdrew, and said that he would prefer to try it on his own so he could do more of what he likes best, which is music.” MD: “They’d been promised, Mike and Peter had been promised that they would be able to express themselves musically because they were from a musical background. Peter had been in New York, in the Village, come through that scene with the Mamas and Papas and Lovin’ Spoonful. And he’s a genius, the man is a genius at music. As I said, Peter was — and is — a genius in music. And he got very frustrated because he wasn’t able to satisfy himself creatively. And Mike felt the same way." - Tomorrow with Tom Snyder, 1977

"We never thought of replacing him — there’s only one Peter Tork in the world. Who knows, maybe in two or three years’ time he’ll come back?” - Michael Nesmith, Melody Maker, March 1, 1969

"'Of all of us, I was the one who took the most pain,’ Tork said. 'But looking back, I think it was misplaced idealism that caused me that pain, not the actual phenomenon — the thing that Michael Nesmith calls "the artifact." 'As a musician, I feel extremely lucky that we got to make one album, Headquarters, that was exactly the album I hoped to make.’" - The Charlotte Observer, May 31, 1997

“I didn't have a band. I wanted this kind of connection and I didn't get it, so I felt it was up to me to leave." - Peter Tork, The Guardian, April 28, 2011

[bloomingdog]

Price with an ADHD reader

So self indulgent!

John Price who feels self-conscious thinking you like Soap more because of your similar personalities.

Soap and you are a tumultuous pair, feeding off each other’s energy, you’re good friends, you hang out together just the two of you. He’s not jealous, especially not of Johnny, but he does feel a pang of self-consciousness at times, feels bad about not being able to keep up with you sometimes, about not being enough. He wouldn’t share those thoughts with you, more of an inside thing, he feels silly. Of course those doubts melt away as soon as you’re telling him about how your day went, about how much you missed him, about what reminded you of him. All the possible doubts he had leaving as he gets showered with kisses.

John Price who just stands and watches when you get the zoomies.

A sudden burst of energy has you walking up and down the house following John around, jumping from topic to topic to the latest song lyrics or idle dance move stuck in your head. He watches in amusement and tries to engage in your jumping conversation.

John Price who falls asleep during your late night yapping and still responds with nonsense answers while asleep.

“-And yeah apparently emus can’t walk backwards, don’t you think that's weird? How can an animal just not do that?” Your before-bed rant has been going on for longer than usual, inspired by a Wikipedia rabbit hole that still lingers in your phone’s history.

“Does Laswell know?” He mumbles.

“About emus?”

John Price who’s reluctant to lay on top of you if you ask. 

“Please, please, please it’ll feel good!”

“Love, I’d crush you.” He had gotten you a weighted blanket for this exact reason. “Ain’t the blanket enough?”

“No! Because the blanket’s cold and you’re so much better better!” He’s reluctant, your puppy eyes are working overtime getting him to agree, which he does, of course. 

John Price who just sighs and plays along when you ask him to wrestle you.

In your defense, it' was's a good way to get rid of extra energy or help while understimulated. He’s currently got you in the loosest headlock he can manage while you kick and thrash. 

“Are you tired yet?” No answer comes, just more kicking that makes him release you.

As you try to attack him again, John effortlessly picks you up and throws you on the bed, which earns him a fit of giggles followed by an attempt to tackle him that ends you back in bed.

John Price who comforts you if you ever think you’re too much for him.

Big tears are coming down your eyes and wetting your face, you couldn’t pinpoint where all these feelings came from. You’ve got your face against his chest, voice shaking as you explain how you feel.

“I’m just a lot, you know? And I need you all the time and you like being alone and i want to give you space and I try, but I’m too much and-”

“Okay love, c’mon, none of that.” He cut you off after probably the thirtieth ‘and’. “We need what we need, and we work ‘round that all the time, don’t we? You’re not too much, you’re good just the way you are.”

John Price who lets you use him as a human fidget.

You’ve been waiting in this queue for no more than 5 minutes and it’s still getting you impatient, he notices, of course. The rapid looking-around, your foot tapping are all tell-tale signs of it. He extends his hand to you, which you take, and begin fidgeting with his digit and gloves, it keeps you well occupied, concentrated in the repetitive moments as time passes.

John Price who <3

[kdogreads]

Y/n is close with Abby like the mom figure to Gibbs being her dad figure. Gibbs and y/n have only ever had words in passing They are always friendly with a flirt now and then. One day Gibbs uses Abby's cot to get some rest he wakes up to y/n and Abby talking about blind dates.

"Y/n I'm gonna find you a companion in life. Just do one more date"

*y/n sighs* "I'm just not the type of person people are looking for and that's ok"

*as she leaves the lab* "Abs some people are ment to be alone"

Gibbs comes out telling Abby that he will be taking y/n on the next date.

This is such a sweet idea!! I’m sticking it with this request bc I feel like they just fit together so perfectly. I hope that’s okay by both of you 🥹 thank you so much for the love!

Jethro Gibbs x f!reader

TW: alcohol, a smidge of angst (reader thinks she’ll be forever alone), mostly just a heap of fluff

A/N: I’ve never been able to use any of my nerdy lab knowledge in a fic before so sorry if I went a little overboard lmao (I’m a pre-analytical training coordinator and spend my days teaching people to be labbies basically). Thank you so so so much for reading! ❤️

Just before you left for the day, you decided to head down to the lab check in on Abby. It was quality control week, meaning she had to got to run test patients on all of her instruments, confirm the results are what they should be, order biological indicator tests to make sure no foreign bacteria snuck its way in where it shouldn’t have, then do it all over again a dozen or so times to make sure the results match up.

Not that Abby is anything less than capable of completing the quarterly checks, it just gets very tedious, and Abby is not a fan of busy work.

“Hey Abs,” You greeted her sweetly.

“There is no Abby, only QC’s,” She quipped back in her best robot voice.

You only chuckled in response and grabbed a pair of gloves without another word. You started resulting the tests in her queue, a feeble attempt to help the boring task move along faster.

The two of you worked quietly on opposite sides of the lab for another half hour until you moved the last tube into the “finished” tray.

“Wanna grab some dinner?” You questioned, removing your gloves and heading over to the sink to wash your hands.

“No, thanks; already ate,” Abby responded without looking up from her work, “Hey! How did that date go last night? I can’t believe I forgot until now! Tell me everything.”

Abby turned towards you excitedly, her eyes bright and body fidgeting in anticipation. You swear she was more invested in your love life than you were sometimes.

You started to shake your head “no” and Abby let out a loud groan.

“Ugh! I had such a good feeling about this one,” She spoke in disappointment.

“You said that the last time, too, Abs,” You leaned against the counter and crossed your arms lazily, “He asked me to meet his mom. On the first date!”

Abby visibly cringed and put a hand lovingly on your bicep.

“I’m gonna find you a companion, I swear it!”

You let out a sound that’s half laugh, half sigh before you speak, “It’s okay, really. I’m just not the type of person anyone is looking for, and I can’t find the person I’m looking for. It’s just the way it is, Abby.”

She sent you a sympathetic look, squeezing your arm in reassurance. Abby pulled you into a tight hug, like she was trying to will a new love life into you with her bare hands.

You sent her a loving smile when she finally pulled away from you.

“Well, I’m gonna head out. You sure I can’t drag you away for something to eat?”

“No, no. I have too much to get done,” She motions to the empty tubes behind her, “Don’t lose hope, Boss Lady. Your perfect man is out there.”

You headed towards the door before turning around to tell her goodbye, “Some people are just meant to be alone. It’ll be me and the dogs forever,” You smiled slightly, “Goodnight, Abs.”

You made it almost out the door of the NCIS building before you realized you left your purse in the lab. With a huff, you begrudgingly dragged yourself back into the elevator, down to the lab, and right up to the doorway. The surprise of two distinct voices coming from within stopped you in your tracks.

“Gibbs! You can’t sneak up on me like that! I didn’t know you were using the cot.”

“Sorry, Abs. You often set her up on blind dates?”

“Yes! I am determined to find my wonderful boss’ soulmate somewhere in the greater DC area.”

Jethro chuckles.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before now! She’s just your type, Gibbs, and she’s so fun and cryptic just like you and—“

“Abby,” He paused, “Way ahead of you.”

You decided now was your chance. Knocking gently on the doorframe, both of them turned their heads to see who was there.

“Hey Abby; Jethro,” You smiled, trying not to act like you just heard their whole conversation about you, “I just, uh, left my purse.”

Abby looked around and spotted your bag, handing it to you with a cheeky grin on her face. You all stood there in semi-uncomfortable silence for a beat before Gibbs spoke.

“Have any plans tomorrow night, Red?”

You straightened up a bit at his question and the playful nickname. You are just his type.

“Um, no. I don’t. Not yet, anyway.” You tried to keep an even tone, but the nerves and excitement were practically seeping out of your pours.

“My place, 7 o’clock,” Gibbs said in his nonchalant tone, “Casual. Hope you like bourbon.”

He winked at you and walked out of the lab before you could even exhale the breathe you hadn’t known you were holding. You looked at Abby, your eyes wider than ever before.

“Eee! I’m so excited!” Abby squeals and flings her arms around you.

You couldn’t even put any thoughts together. Your heart pounded out of your chest and your hands must’ve been shaking, the adrenaline of the situation just starting to wear off.

“Come on,” Abby said while sliding her jacket off the back of her chair, “I’ll finish up tomorrow. We have to plan your date. With Gibbs!”

You let out a laugh and wrapped an arm over Abby’s shoulders, heading out to grab something to eat.

You nervously sifted through your tops, trying to find something that felt “casual,” as Jethro had requested, but still nice enough for a date.

Oh screw it.

You grabbed a plain olive green hoodie, the big white letters reading NCIS. You figured if he asked for casual, he would get casual.

The drive to Gibbs’ house went quickly. You’d been there once before, when Abby insisted Gibbs needed company one New Year’s Eve. You didn’t end up staying very long, but he left an impression on you. After the visit, Gibbs started stopping to say “hello” in the hallways at work, or bringing a coffee up your office every now and then.

One detail you remembered from your brief visit is the front door was never locked, so you didn’t bother to stop and knock.

Walking through the doorway, your eyes immediately gravitated to the only light on in the house — the one leading down the stairs to the basement. You took this as your sign to invite yourself downstairs.

The stairs creaked slightly as you made your way down, the sounds of sandpaper meeting wood filled your ears.

“You found the place,” Jethro’s strong voice greeted you as you stepped into his workspace.

“How could I forget?” You teased back.

Jethro let out a honey-soaked chuckle and offered you a stool to sit on. He poured you two fingers out of his half-empty bottle of bourbon, then did the same for himself. He tipped his glass to you and you tapped yours against it with a slight clink.

You shut your eyes as the amber liquid burned down your throat. Instinctively, you leaned back against the counter and let out an exhale.

“Long day?” Jethro joked, but you could see the genuine care when you opened your eyes to meet his gaze.

“Long week,” You responded before taking another sip, “Abby’s up to her eyeballs in evidence to examine, plus all this QC crap takes so much time. I just feel bad I can’t help her more. I didn’t realize taking the lead forensics position would take me out of the lab so much.”

Jethro nodded in understanding, one corner of his mouth tilting up slightly as he poured more into your already empty cup.

“Abby’s the best of the best,” He said with confidence, placing a hand reassuringly on your knee, “She’ll get it done.”

You smiled and nodded back at him, placing your hand over his as a silent thank you.

You were surprised when Jethro broke the comfortable silence first.

“You know she thinks the world of you, Red,” He said with a look in his eye, one that almost looked like pride if you had to guess.

You felt your cheeks get hot and you looked down at your shoes, unsure if the liquor or his sweet comment made you blush.

You took another sip before lifting your head back up and responding.

“Same goes for you, Jethro,” You reached out to grab the hand that rested on your knee just moments before, “I think if she had time to write a book about how much she adores you, she would.”

He laughed, a full laugh, glazed in honey and bourbon and it warmed you to your core. You thought that sound could end wars, cause the devil himself to crack a smile. You would have melted right there if he didn’t jolt you out of your trance a moment later.

He took the glass from your hand and whispered a quick, “c’mere.”

He took your hand and led you over to the boat he was building. He showed you a few small hand tools and gave you a quick explanation of their use.

Before long, his hands were resting over yours, your back pressed gently against his chest as he showed you the different sanding techniques he used. Though every inch of his body was pressed against yours, you’d never felt so free, so held and yet, so comfortable.

It was a quiet few minutes before he spoke, his lips inches from your ear.

“You ever done this before?” His breath tickled your neck and sent a shiver down your spine.

“Never,” You breathed, trying your hardest not to just melt into his strong arms.

“You’re a natural then.”

He slowly peeled his hands back from yours, allowing you to keep sanding on your own for a moment. You felt his strong hands slide down your arms, your sides, before settling on your hips.

Your eyelids fluttered, suddenly aware of the effect he had on you. Your movements halted and Jethro raised a hand cautiously to your chin, turning your head to face him.

“This okay?” He questioned gently, a worried look settled into his furrowed brows.

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, turning your whole body to face his, your arms sliding over his broad shoulders to rest at the back of his neck.

“Only if you intend to kiss me, Jethro,” His name danced from your lips in a whisper.

A soft smile spread across his face, the worry melting away in an instant.

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

Before you could comprehend, the hand that was still on your chin drifted to hold you just below your ear, and his lips melted into yours in a sweet, slow kiss.

He tasted of bourbon and something you were sure was just distinctly him.

You leaned further into him as your lips met over and over again. His presence wasn’t demanding, but invasive. You felt Jethro in every inch of your body; his taste, his smell, the way his fingers gripped into your hip like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

The seconds felt like hours before you separated your lips, both of you desperate for oxygen. Your chest heaved slightly as he drew small circles onto your lower back absentmindedly; his forehead leaning down to rest on yours.

“Do you bring all the girls down here and make out like teenagers?” You teased, still slightly out of breathe.

He threw his head back in another honey-glazed laugh. It invaded your sense just as his kiss had.

God, you though, I could listen to that forever.

“No,” He huffed, a wide smile still spread across his face, “Only the special ones.”

“Ohh,” You exaggerated, “So I’m special, then?”

He only growled an Mmmhhmm before his lips pressed into yours once more, this time slightly quicker than the time before.

“Hungry?” He asked simply, prying his lips from yours, a slight groan falling from your lips as he pulled away.

“Starving,” You replied without missing a beat.

He raised an eyebrow and leaned slightly further away from you, letting him see your full expression.

“For food, sweetheart,” He jested, a hint of teasing in his voice.

“I know!” You squeaked, swatting his shoulder playfully in protest.

He chuckled that charming laugh and nodded his head towards the stairs.

“Well, come on then,” He spoke after pressing a quick peck to your lips.

You followed Jethro upstairs where you enjoyed a delicious homemade dinner and spend the rest of the evening basking in each other’s company.

You sighed as you reached the top of the stairs, just outside your office. Since you rarely locked the door, you turned the handle and swung it open. You were surprised to see the light already switched on. A pit formed in your stomach as your eyes scanned the room before—

“Jesus, Abby!” You found her sitting at your desk chair, literally shaking in anticipation, “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” She quickly approached you, taking your bag out of your hand and setting it down in the desk, “Sooo? I’m dying to know! Tell me everything!”

“Ab,” You smiled at her an tilted your head slightly in a playful manner, “A girl should never kiss and tell.”

Abby squealed in excitement and pulled you into a hug, clearly understanding that it went well enough for you to kiss him.

“Please tell me you’re seeing him again. Please, please, please,” She practically begged with her hand folded in front of her.

“Tomorrow, after work,” You smiled as she squealed and pulled you into another excited hug.

“This is the best day ever!” She declared and sat in the comfy chair across from your desk, determined to get all the details from your life-changing first date with Jethro Gibbs.

[youcouldmakealife]

SOTM: Robbie, Playoff Willy, various Scouts; pull yourself up by the jockstrap

For the prompt: A little more of Robbie's time with the Scouts - Cup party, with the Tweedles and Willy, maybe Julius & Erin. Your choice - just more of that.

(I'm not here, but the tumblr queue is! Well. Probably.)

“Now, I know I have no right to talk about maturity,” Robbie says, then promptly ducks the jock that comes flying at him, the rest of his message going undelivered.

“No throwing shit at teammates’ heads during playoffs!” Playoff Willy yells.

“It wouldn’t hit him in the head if he wasn’t so short!” Bender says. “I misjudged!”

“Misjudging is not acceptable during playoffs!” Playoff Willy says. Robbie wants to write a book of his sayings. Like Sun Tzu but for maladjusted athletes who don’t know how to lose. Which is pretty much all pro athletes, in Robbie’s experience, so it might even sell.

Robbie nudges at the limp jock with his socked foot. It looks sad. Defeated, even. “Bro, when was the last time you replaced this?”

Bender looks to Playoff Willy, like he’s waiting for Robbie to get yelled at, though Robbie’s pretty sure Playoff Willy cares a hell of a lot less about feelings than he does about potential head injuries. Or like — anything. The only feelings Playoff Willy cares about are like, motivation. And probably bloodlust.

“Pike has a point,” Playoff Willy says. “That shit is falling apart.”

“But I wore it in!” Bender says. “None of the other ones fit right.”

Robbie pokes it a little further from him. The visitor’s room floor is sketchy as fuck, but he doesn’t think he can do the thing any damage at this point.

The elastic snaps. Well, snaps is a strong word. The elastic’s too damn worn for that, so it’s less a dramatic death and more feebly giving up on the last thread of life remaining.

“Whoops,” Robbie says. Maybe he should have considered that the thing was an antique before he started poking at it.

“Willy, look what he did!” Bender says. “That was my lucky jock!”

“How lucky can it be when we just lost the game?” Playoff Willy growls.

Bender is, thankfully, smart enough to realize that’s a rhetorical question.

“Still up a game, Playoff Willy,” Money says, and Playoff Willy shoots him a glare, but doesn’t say anything.

Robbie’s still impressed that Money’s got the balls to call him Playoff Willy to his face, and even more impressed that Playoff Willy lets him. Everybody knows Money is his favorite, but as the playoffs have gone on, that seems to buy less and less leeway. Money told him from the get-go that the longer the playoff run, the worse Playoff Willy got. Robbie didn’t really believe him, or maybe didn’t want to, but he’s got to say, Playoff Willy during the Conference Finals is a whole different beast than the first round. Emphasis on beast, there. If he mauled someone Robbie wouldn’t even be surprised. Unless they were playing well, he guesses.

Thankfully, Robbie’s been doing okay for himself, shutting down the guys he needs to shut down, so he’s also currently in Playoff Willy’s good books, at least enough that he doesn’t fear mauling.

“I’ve had that for eight years,” Bender moans.

“That’s fucking gross, dude,” Robbie says. “Genuinely. I did you a favor.”

Bender throws a glove at him. Thankfully, it doesn’t appear to have been around for two presidential terms.

“If I have to leave next game because I got nut shot, that’s on you, Pike,” Bender says.

“Bro, if you go onto the ice without a jock Playoff Willy will cup check you himself,” Robbie says.

He winces, but either Playoff Willy didn’t notice the slip, or Robbie’s earned even more grace than he thought.

“He isn’t wrong,” Playoff Willy says. “Normally I wouldn’t, since it’s a chickenshit play, and an auto major, but I don’t think they really care if it’s your own teammate.”

“Refs won’t give a shit,” Scratch says. “Social media probably won’t shut up about how he slept with your wife, though.”

“I can make it look like an accident,” Playoff Willy says. Robbie does not doubt him even a little.

His brow furrows a moment later. “I don’t have a wife,” he says, sounding almost unsure.

That would be kind of suspicious, but Robbie’s learned that’s just how Playoff Willy talks about anything non-hockey related, like first he has to go consult with normal Willy, who’s being held hostage somewhere inside him.

“That could not matter less to idiots on twitter,” Scratch says.

“Last round they said I slept with your wife,” Money says.

“Why did you sleep with my wife?” Playoff Willy asks, then, after checking with kidnapped Willy again, “You’re openly gay.”

“Like I said,” Scratch says. “Could not care less about your actual relationship status. Or sexuality, apparently.”

“Scratch is still mad about it,” Joey says.

“I’m not mad about it,” Scratch says. “I just think people should do basic—“

“I fixed it!” Bender says. “I fixed it, guys! All it needed was a little super glue.”

Robbie has such a bad feeling about this. Bender’s honestly lucky his balls have survived this long: that elastic was literally holding on by a thread.

“You don’t want kids, right?” Robbie asks.

“Oh yeah,” Bender says. “Not quite yet, but Lacey and I are—“

“Oh, give me that fucking thing,” Playoff Willy says.

Super glue isn’t going do shit to save Bender’s jock after Playoff Willy and a pair of scissors get through with it.

“Have some respect for your testicles,” Playoff Willy hisses, and then marches the remains of Bender’s jock to the trash can.

That one's an instant classic. Robbie is adding it to the book of Playoff Willy for sure.

“That’s one for the book of Willy,” Harvard says. Obviously Robbie didn’t need telling, but he does appreciate that it’s becoming a collaborative effort.

“Hah,” Robbie says. “Testicles.”

“Willy,” Harvard agrees.

“What are you two giggling about?” Playoff Willy growls.

“Nothing,” they chorus, ducking their heads so they don’t accidentally meet Playoff Willy’s eyes. That’s a mistake Robbie isn’t making again.

“It was so comfortable,” Bender mumbles. “Like wearing nothing at all.”

“Yeah, buddy, we know,” Scratch says. “That was kind of the problem.”

“So comfy,” Bender whispers.

*

Robbie’s never been to a funeral for a jock before, but he guesses there’s a first time for everything.

“R.I.P.,” Money says. “Like rest in peace. Not like rip. Though that is what you did.”

“Before getting hacked to pieces by a madman,” Scratch says.

“May you find peace and serenity in—“

“What the fuck are you guys doing?” Playoff Willy says.

“Scatter!” Money says, and they all flee. Well, Robbie doesn’t. Not because he doesn’t want to, but he’s fucking exhausted. Plus, he blocked a shot last game, and anything faster than an amble makes his leg throb like a bitch.

“What the fuck were they doing?” Playoff Willy asks.

“Funeral for the jock we murdered,” Robbie says. Well, Robbie’s crime was jockslaughter at most, but that’s not important.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Playoff Willy says, then bows his head, eyes closed. He doesn’t move for a good minute, and Robbie’s shifting uncomfortably, wondering if he's finally snapped just like the jock did, and if getting Money will help or just make it worse.

He startles when Willy speaks, murmuring, “Sorry I killed you.”

Presumably — hopefully — he’s talking to the jock, rather than saying it to Robbie just before he kills him. Robbie reminds himself he’s safe. He blocks shots.

“It was for his safety, and the greater good,” Playoff Willy says. “Thank you for your years of service.”

He opens his eyes then, and Robbie accidentally meets his eye.

Shit. He wasn’t supposed to do that. He doesn’t think he was supposed to see that either.

“I won’t tell anyone about this,” Robbie says.

Playoff Willy’e eyes narrow.

“Because there’s nothing to tell,” Robbie says.

“You’re a quick learner, Lombardi,” Playoff Willy says. “I like that about you.”

“I block shots too,” Robbie says, just to make sure Playoff Willy remembers his utility.

“You block shots too,” Playoff Willy murmurs, then nods to himself.

“Integral part of the team,” Robbie says, then, aware he’s over-selling it, he awkwardly shoots Playoff Willy two thumbs up.

Playoff Willy’s brow furrows, then, after a long consult with the normal Willy tied up in the basement of his brain, he gives Robbie two thumbs up back.

[glorious-spoon]

Thinking about the prompt "no, you’ll get an infection." since I just saw a gifset of our beloved firemen ripping open packages with their teeth. 😄

thank you! have a bit of established-relationship dorks on a very serious rescue mission.

-

"Buck," Eddie says, in the deeply patient tone that means he's refraining from adding, what the fuck is wrong with you. Buck's found that most people have a version of that tone, at least around him. Eddie doesn't employ his all that often; most of the time, Eddie is on board with pretty much anything Buck suggests. Digging around in storm drains for a missing stuffed animal is the limit, apparently.

"I've almost got it," Buck says, twisting slightly to wedge his shoulder against the grate. His fingers just brush the soggy synthetic fur of the small purple stuffed rabbit a few feet down.

"Isn't this how that kid lost his arm in that movie?"

He twists back to stare up at Eddie, who is backlit by the midday sun with the carnival spread out behind him. His hands are on his hips and his expression is half-amused, half-exasperated. "What?"

"Pennywise? Evil clown monster that lives in the sewers and eats children? It's based on a Stephen King novel."

"I repeat," Buck says. "What?"

"Right, I forgot that you don't watch anything other than nature documentaries and whatever Christopher adds to your Netflix queue."

"Bold words for a guy who's memorized every single telenovela from the past twenty years."

Eddie scoffs. "Come on. Who knows what's down there, you're not even wearing gloves, you're going to slice your hand open on some grimy piece of metal and get an infection."

"I'm being careful." Buck turns his head to squint down into the storm drain. It's too dark to see much of anything other than the faintly oily glimmer of water. There are cigarette butts and greasy fast food wrappers floating in it, and it doesn't smell great, but he's definitely dealt with grosser over the course of his career. Besides. He's so close. If he just stretches—

His fingers brush the rabbit's ear again. It topples over into the grimy water with a splash, and Buck swears under his breath. The toy is now half-submerged and several inches out of reach no matter how much he stretches.

"Buck," Eddie says again, softer. "Come on. It's just a stuffed animal."

"That Christopher won."

A sigh. "He's thirteen. I don't think this is going to break his heart, sweetheart."

Buck knows that this is probably objectively true. Chris was gleefully triumphant about winning at balloon darts even after Eddie grumbled about rigged games, but the stuffed rabbit itself seemed like an afterthought. He shoved it into Buck's hands with a quick grin before going off with his friends twenty minutes ago, and Buck is—stupid, probably, for the fact that this is sort of breaking his heart.

He hasn't thought about that giant stuffed bear that they won at the pier, the one that must have washed out to sea along with half of the Los Angeles coastline, in years. He doesn't even know if Christopher remembers it. He was little. And it wasn't exactly the most memorable part of the day. The little stuffed rabbit, which fits in the palm of Buck's hand—and incidentally, between the holes of a storm drain grate—makes a much more convenient souvenir. And it felt kind of—nice, having a sort of redo on that, even if Chris doesn't remember.

But Eddie's right. Short of trying to pry up the grate cover—which he could absolutely do, if he had a halligan handy—there's no way he's going to reach it. He sighs, resting his forehead on the metal frame, then wriggles his arm out of the grate and sits back on his heels, defeated. "Okay, fine. You win."

There's no response. When he turns around, Eddie is nowhere to be seen. Feeling more than a little put-out, Buck straightens up and looks around. It's not that crowded here, but there are enough passers-by that Buck's been getting a few strange looks, which he's been ignoring. The two streets to his left are closed-off for the carnival; to his right is a black-and-white parked across the median with a bored-looking beat cop directing traffic, and a couple of sanitation workers in hi-vis vests. Eddie is talking to one of them, but he glances back like he can tell Buck is watching him.

Buck spreads his hands in question, and Eddie holds up a finger, turning back toward the guy he was just talking to. Buck slumps, then sits down on the curb, staring forlornly at the storm drain.

A moment later, footsteps approach.

"Come on, stop pouting, scoot over," Eddie says as his shadow falls across Buck.

"I'm not pouting," Buck grumbles, but he scoots over.

"Sure you're not," Eddie says agreeably, sitting down next to him. "Here. You think this'll work?"

Buck blinks at him, then looks down at the trash picker Eddie is holding out to him, which has LA - DPW scrawled down one side in Sharpie. "Did you…"

"I mean, I had to give them a whole sob story, so you might as well try it," Eddie says, wrapping his hand around Buck's knee and jostling him gently. Buck takes the picker, then laughs, dropping his forehead to Eddie's shoulder.

"Sob story, huh?"

"Just saying. Probably more sanitary than trying to stick your bare hand down a storm drain."

"I love you," Buck tells him, and he feels Eddie's shoulder shake slightly with laughter before he straightens up.

"Love you too," he says. "Now come on, let's get started on this rescue operation. Though I think our patient is gonna need a thorough hose-down before we can transport him."

Buck snickers into Eddie's shirt. His eyes aren't wet, because that would be dumb. He rubs his cheek against the warm cotton anyway before lifting his head. "You're such a dork."

Eddie grins at him, ruffled and lovely in the afternoon sunlight. "Just trying to follow proper triage protocol here."

"Dork," Buck repeats, but he leans in to steal a brief kiss before they get the rescue operation underway.

[firstprincehornyramblings]

WEEEEEEEEEEE Hello, I hope everyone is having a lovely Sunday. I feel like I haven't done a Sentences Sunday in years! Thrilled to be back, with Sugar Baby Alex, AND a new WIP. Things are under the cut so this isn't the longest post in history.

-

Let's get into it with Sugar Baby Alex first, shall we?:

“Alex, I am not ‘putting you off’, I am thirty-eight years old, I do not have that glorious refractory period you have, anymore,” the blond huffed, “As much as I would love to go again right now, and believe me, I would, it’s impossible. So, surely you can wait until this evening when we can both get hard, hm?” “Damn,” Alex whispered, “That fucking sucks actually, I didn’t know fucking an old dude would have drawbacks. So, like positive is that you can make me cum like never before but negative is that your dick has a tim-MMPHM!” That sentence was cut short by Henry picking up a pillow and pressing it into the brunette’s face, holding it in place for a moment as Alex flailed, “Such a mouth on you, I’m almost certain I liked it better full,” he teased before lifting that pillow, “Don’t make me confirm your sister and friend’s worst fear.” “Oh baby,” Alex laughed, smiling so wide now that he was free of the pillow, “Killing me with a pillow is so intimate though, that’s incredibly sexy of you.” “Shut up, Alex!” “Make me!”

AND new WIP time, Doctor Alex :)

What Henry was not expecting was for the door to open and the most beautiful man he’d ever seen in his life to walk in. He was fairytale prince level tall dark and handsome. Even in the scrubs, his physic was broad and built, and the long-sleeved shirt under his scrub top fit tight around wide biceps. He had coal colored, luxurious curls, high cheeks, and obscene lashes over gorgeous brown eyes. His jawline was sharp, covered in a few days’ worth of stubble. Miles of tanned skin, the same dark hair on his forearms, large hands that he was currently slipping into gloves. The few inches of exposed wrist from slightly pulled up sleeves made Henry feel like he was seeing something pornographic. But anything to keep himself from locking eyes on those incredibly soft looking lips. “Hi, I’m Alex, it’s nice to meet you.” Ah, Henry remembered reading something about Alexander the Great being the son of Zeus. Yes, a demigod, right here in Oxford, that made sense. No, wait, that accent- “You’re American?” Henry blurted out before he could stop himself. If asked, he would blame it on this man’s, well- everything. “Yeah, sorry,” Alex laughed, “Always forget that catches ya'll off guard, I’m from Texas. I’m going into clinical medicine, but I’d like to travel, work with the Red Cross and do outreach things; help with natural disasters and pandemics. It’ll be easier for me to break into that if I do the rest of medical school and residency in Europe.” “Oh.” “But that’s not why you’re here, hm, Mr. Fox? May I touch you?” the brunette asked stepping closer to the exam table Henry was sitting on. “Please. Erm, I mean, uhm, yes please, go ahead.”

-

🏷️(no pressure tags darlings)

@taste-thewaste @onthewaytosomewhere @henrysfox

@mikibwrites @eusuntgratie

@softboynick @catdadacd @sheepywritesfics

@henryspearl

@basil-bird @caressthosecheekbones

@henfox @anti-homophobia-cheese @redlipstickandglitter

@thesleepyskipper @tailsbeth-writes @thighzp @lfg1986-2

+ literally anyone else I'm tired and forgot. (Im queueing this at 2am) or anyone who sees this and wants to tag me, I love reading yall's stuff. <3

[multiwreckedmess]

February Filth Fest - Day 11

Pairing: Seonghwa x fem!Reader Prompt: Impregnation WC: 2.2k Summary: Married for two years you’ve decided to leave having a child up to fate. Seonghwa wants to give fate a bit of a tip in its favor. TW/CW: FLUFFY. HEAVY pregnancy talk. Unprotected penetration, creampie, nicknames (dear, honey, darling, wife) Seonghwa is obsessed with knocking you up tbh. A lil bit angsty at the end but Seonghwa is real sweet so it’s ok.

“You look so sexy like this,” Seonghwa squeezes you into a tight back hug, planting a kiss on your cheek. Bent over the sink, yellow rubber gloved, face blasted with steam, contrary to his statement you felt perhaps the least sexy you could’ve ever felt.  “My darling wife, my sweet wife, my wife who is working far too hard.” He sways with you locked to him, making it nigh impossible to place the rinsed plate into the dishwasher. “If i don’t do it now you’ll go on a cleaning fit later, dear.” You give him a pointed glare, trying to wiggle your shoulders loose. “Then let me have a cleaning fit later, i want you now.” The clicks and pops of his vocal chords are crisp in your ear as he growls, grabbing a handful of your ass along with the statement to drive home the point. “Okay well, can you at least bring me to the bedroom first?” You ask incredulously. “You’re the one still hovering at the sink with those nasty gloves on.” “So you wouldn’t fuck me with cleaning gloves on?” “That’s not the point, you said-” “Nonono, Park Seonghwa. Now who is the obstacle to fucking?” “We aren’t fucking we’re practicing. Remember?” You cringe. “I hate that so much I’m pretty sure that just dried out my cooch.” “Woman!” Seonghwa slams his fist into the counter next to you. “Stop being so obstinate so I can bring you to the bedroom and pump you full of semen like the lord intended!” He scowls, huffing angrily for a moment before both of you crack into large smiles and laughter.

The two of you strip down separately, haphazardly tossing clothes into the hamper until you’re only in your underwear and shirts. It’s comfortable. Quiet. Routine. You pat your face dry of toner and slip into bed next to your husband. Seonghwa was still obsessed with the titles two years later. Husband and wife which he desperately wanted to be father and mother. He’d made it no secret through your courtship that he wanted a family and yet here you were two years into marriage with no children to speak of. He’d equally made it clear that it was up to you when you wanted to start the process, never pressuring or giving a timeline. “It might stress your uterus,” he half-joked. It was only recently that you’d had your implant removed and not replaced. Your internal requirements had been met, your relationship was stable, your jobs were stable, and your housing was stable. If fate dictated now was the time, it was the time, and you left it at that.

Seonghwa was more eager, researching when your most fertile days would be, making sure you were happy and relaxed and well fucked for the whole week surrounding those peak times. And who were you to refuse your gorgeous husband doting on you for a whole week?

“Do you wanna put something on?” “Sure, I think I found a 2 hour long video doc abou-” Seonghwa cut you off, “excellent, 2 hours I’m in. As long as it isn’t one like that one you put on about the internet killer?” He bristles. “Oh no, NO. It’s about queue lines at Disney parks-” “Perfect choice my lovely perfect wife,” he kisses your cheek. “No more serial killer documentaries while I’m trying to get you in the mood.” It’s hard not to laugh at the horrific moment, turned comedic with time. The two of you suppress a giggle as you slot together beneath the sheets. Spooning, the rise and fall of his chest soothes your daily worries. Each pulse is a hypnotic metronome. Your breath slows to match his as you lay there, letting yourself zone out to the dulcet tones of the voiceover artist narrating the documentary. Seonghwa slots his hand in the valley between your breasts. He’d started doing this after you’d mentioned you hated it when they’d crush together and leave your cleavage sweaty. It had started as a small joke but it had become a ritual. Slowly over the thin cotton sleep shirt he thumbed your nipple, casually stroking over the hardening bud. Each swipe tingling, sending a cascade of sparks down your spine and into your core. It was in the name of slowly winding you up, working you into a state of desire. It was honestly your favorite part. Seonghwa loved it too, breast soft and heavy in his hand, feeling the pulse in your neck accelerate as you got more and more worked up. Your not so subtle scootches of your ass back into his crotch, inviting him for more. Waiting until you were pliant to roll you onto your back, discarding your shirts to hold each other more closely. Slowly Seonghwa left open-mouthed kisses in a trail from your neck to your nipple, circling and sucking the tender, swollen area. “They’ll get bigger when I’m pregnant,” you squeeze his shoulders as his tongue circles your areola. “Swollen. And tender. I can help you wash and dry and lotion them.” You roll your eyes and smile, “yeah so helpful Hwa. I’m sure a big burden.” He sucks harshly, eliciting a yelp of pain and sigh of pleasure. “It’s help, take it or leave it.” Sneaking your leg around to his side you slot him between your legs, “I’ll take. I’ll take it.” “Yeah you will,” he rubs his bulge against your pelvis, lining it up with your slit and thrusting, indirectly stimulating your clit. You gasp and giggle, swatting his arm. “You’re so stupid oh my god!” Seonghwa leans over, nose to nose, “but you love me though.” He teases with a sing-song lilt. “Ugh, I do. I do love you.” You grind against him faster, his lips returning to your nipple, hand keeping your other one preoccupied. He feels your rutting grow more desperate until you wrap your arms around his ribs and squeeze him to you, tensing with your first orgasm. Tenderly he kisses your neck. Slipping a finger between your skin and the elastic he asks, “can we take these off” softly. He knows the answer is yes because it always is yes but he always checks to be sure. It’s such a small gesture and yet so important to you still after the years had passed. Lifting your hips to help him slide your underwear out of the way the two of you are finally naked, huddled under the covers. Two of his fingers, long and delicate, slide between your walls. Your lips purse and brows furrow, even though the stretch is only slight. The aim is not another orgasm, just prepping for what’s to come. Still as he curls his fingers upwards it feels nice. He can reach just that little bit deeper, angle himself just a little bit better than you can. Your hips join his slow strokes, heels pressed to the mattress. Messy bun slipping out, letting your hair pile and splay on the pillow Seonghwa likes this version of you the best. When you finally allow yourself to enjoy the moment, brain quieting for even the few minutes together. He’s the only one who gets to see you like this and for that he feels blessed. His wife. Lips to yours he slides his fingers from you, enjoying your gasp against his mouth. Teasing your slit with the head of his cock he smiles as you whine for him. Seonghwa had insisted missionary and its variants were optimal for encouraging sperm retention, reserving any positions where you were on top for “off-peak” days where it didn’t matter as much. Not that you minded anything about missionary. While vanilla as a position, it allowed you to hold onto him closely, feeling warm and loved and protected underneath him. The first stretch is the worst. Tangled in lust and pain despite the prep he still stretches you. Brows furrowed you breathe slowly, pushing up to slide more of him in/ “You okay? Need more-” Seonghwa tentatively retreats. You groan and gasp and grapple his low back, “no, just keep-ugh-I can do it.” He looks worried, “if you’re sure.” He presses into the friction, your tight heat clenching down around him until he’s finally settled fully inside of you.

“Fuck-Hwa- you’re so thick. Fuck.” You grimace. The sting of the stretch you’re used to but always surprises you. No matter how many times you take him it seems your cunt forgets. He’s still as stone inside of you, nuzzling your neck, thumb ghosting over your nipple, letting you work your hips in a circle, slowly relaxing around him. “You’re just too tight. So tiny. No matter how many times I fuck you.”  He bites his lip as you manage just a little more inside of you, the little bit he was too nervous to fill you with despite knowing you can take it. He can’t help himself, even though you tell him he can go rougher and that he can make it hurt. He doesn’t want to. Leaning to the side just a little more, rocking your hips up, he reaches into your bedside table and pulls out a small vibrator.  “Let me help you.” The toy whirrs to life, fitting snuggly between your bodies. Back arching your walls flutter, working him earnestly. “Hwa-oh shit-” you tug your husbands torso to you. Muscles rippling the closeness stabilizes you. He feels so real, and warm, and sturdy. The overwhelming need to touch, to feel him completely, each little flex and breath.

Seonghwa moves slowly at first. Pulling out just to the tip to slam back into you. The pull of your warm cunt driving him forward again. He loses himself to the rhythm of your whispered moans and sweet affirmations. Your orgasm slicking your walls and easing his thrusts he grabs the underside of your thigh and pushes it back to your shoulder to pound down into you.

Tearing the vibrator from between you and tossing it to the side, Seonghwa presses his forehead to you, sweat traveling the sides of his face. Grunting and panting like animals in heat you no longer worry about how you sound or who might hear. Making noise simply isn't and option you can control anymore. The head just kissing your cervix, pressing into your guts. you shiver and shake and scream with each thrust, nails driving into his biceps. Seonghwa can feel himself getting closer to the edge, driving deeply he spills inside of you, grunting and sighing. Forcing himself to stay inside, head pressed to your cervix as you milk him, making sure each spurt of release reaches its destination.

Lowering your hips making sure to stay inside you pull him back down to you, chests pressed in a sticky warm embrace. You hum, content to be just a little squished beneath him, letting the refractory pulses of his cock still in your walls. He leaves gentle open-mouthed kisses at the crux of your shoulder and neck where he’s landed, breathing hard and heavy. “You think it’ll work?” You whisper in his ear. “No idea.” He kisses your cheek, “if it doesn’t we’ll keep trying.” Suddenly your chest is tense, tears welling. “I just think…I think you’ll be a really good dad.” You try to control your emotions. It feels silly to cry now, not after having been railed within an inch of your life. No, you should’ve cried during, if you were going to cry. Not in the afterglow. “I just want to make you a dad someday.” He hears your voice waiver. Seonghwa is not stupid, the two of you are far too close for you to think anything would slip by him. “Honey, it’s fine, you will. You will.” Groaning he pulls from you, pressing both of your legs into your center, balling you up on yourself. Another small superstition, keeping his cum inside of you for as long as possible, letting gravity aid the process. He grabs the baby wipes, kept nearby on his bedside, gently cleaning himself and then you. Careful to only wipe the areas surrounding. Another small gesture you’d grown accustomed to. A tear slips out, rolling sideways on your cheek, sticking in your ear. “Oh honey. Oh my sweet wife.” Seonghwa kisses your shin, your shoulders, your cheek. “You’re going to be such a good mother. No matter how we do it.” His hand slides between your thigh and your stomach, hand splaying protectively, laying down on his side next to you. “Will you still think I'm pretty when I’m swollen and throwing up every morning?” You smile, a sob slipping out. Seonghwa laughs, squeezing your stomach. “Fucking gorgeous. Especially when your pussy and tits are swollen, getting for our child.” “Fucking nerd,” you sniff. “You love me.” “I know.”

He watches your chest rise and fall, managing the time you’re on your back. He knows eventually you’ll need to get up to use the bathroom but for now he just wants to sit with you and listen to your breathing. No matter what trials may come you’ll always have this moment of peace, together.

As a person who has had a partner for many many years my mission was to make this sort of more realistic? Ish? Did it work? It was sort of nice to write something really fluffy.

[improvised-finish]

Glamtober But It's November - #1 - On The Road

The deserts and unsheltered roads of Tural call for something with a bit more breathing room...

Glam details:

Head - Summer Sunset Bandana - Bark Brown

Body - Dalmascan Draped Top - Turquoise Green/Undyed

Hands - Ala Mhigan Fingerless Gloves of Aiming - Bark Brown

Legs - Ala Mhigan Skirt of Aiming - Bark Brown

Feet - Expeditioner's Thighboots - Dark Brown/Sunset Orange

Wearable by: Physical Ranged DPS

Prompt List

So I saw this go around all last month while I was very burned out on XIV (between XIV Write and working my gift for the Swap, I just needed a break), and I thought, "Man, that really looked like fun. I should just do the prompts anyway later." And then over the last week or so, I got together a list of all the outfits to fit each prompt, so I started finding locations and fiddling with poses this weekend, and here we are!

I'll probably queue a couple of these a day unless I catch up with the date in November, at which point I'll just keep it to one. I have about a week's worth currently in the can, and I'm sure I'll find more time to keep chugging along soon.

I'll include the gear and the dyes underneath the picture, if a piece is known to have two slots and one is unused I'll try to note that, but there might be some ones I miss. In the spirit of the event, I've tried to make sure all the glams are feasible with only in game items, so you could hypothetically use these for a given job/jobs. To that end, I've also added the jobs that this gear is for. Since Lehon'a is a DNC & GNB main, those are going to be most of them, but there should be some variety with gatherers, level 1 glams, and a few odd jobs. The only caveat is that there might be hats which Hrothgar technically can't wear, but in those cases the hat can simply be ignored.

[lemoncrushh]

Cubicle // 11) Start of Something Good

STORY PAGE

Word Count: 3103

Monday // Harry

When I got to work, I already had a stack of stuff on my desk with post-it notes attached from Nina. I rolled my eyes as I shrugged out of my jacket, hanging it on the back of the chair. Then I made my way to the break room.

I was disappointed not to find Roni in there, but I knew it was still early. I'd been so anxious to see her again, I'd hardly slept and by five AM, I'd finally just decided to get the day started. After preparing my tea, I sat at the table, hoping Roni would walk in any minute. I saw both Alice and Travis with whom I'd chatted for a bit, and even Gerard made an appearance. But never the face I wanted to see. I considered just going to her side of the office and strolling to her desk, but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to do it. Nerves perhaps? But what was I nervous about? I'd slept with the woman two nights in a row, for fuck's sake.

After twenty minutes, I deduced that she wasn't coming so I walked back to my desk to start on the pile of work. I was halfway through a report, staring at the computer screen when I heard a light tap behind me. I swiveled my chair around to see Roni standing at the edge of my cubicle, a coffee mug in her hand.

"Hi, Harry," she muttered shyly.

"Hi," I grinned.

God, she looked beautiful. She had her hair pulled back from her face, pretty little tendrils falling on either side. She wore a pink and black polka-dotted jumper that fit her like a glove, yet showed no skin, and a black skirt. It was probably the most conservative ensemble I'd seen her wear, though she still looked completely sexy.

"How are you?" she inquired as she stepped closer to me.

"I'm great now," I replied, leaning back in my chair.

She beamed at me, her hands gripping her cup. "Good." Then with a lick of her lips she continued. "I'd hoped to run into you this morning, but I got held up with Greta."

"Oh," I raised my eyebrows. So that's what happened.

"Yeah," she grimaced, leaning against my desk. "As soon as I got out of the car she hounded me about crap that needed done for the sales team. She chatted about it all the way and insisted we get it done first thing. So I only just now got a chance to get my morning coffee."

She brought her cup to her lips, taking a sip. I suddenly felt like a complete prat for not going to her desk earlier.

"I was wondering," I admitted. "I waited for you."

"You did?"

The way she looked at me just then, like she was disappointed that she'd missed me, or worse, made me wait, took all I had in me not to take her into my arms. She looked sweet and vulnerable, and I wanted to hold her and kiss her.

"Yes," I nodded, trying not to give too much away.

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

Alright, here's the thing. This woman does something to me. She exudes this sexiness like no other woman I've met before. I'm constantly finding myself wanting to reach my hands out and touch her, pull her into my lap and fuck her like there's no tomorrow. But another part of me is starting to feel something else. I can't quite put my finger on it, probably because I've never felt these emotions before. It's like...I care about her. I care about what she's doing and how she's feeling. It's driving me crazy, to be honest.

I wasn't lying when I'd texted her last night to tell her I'd thought about her all day. That wasn't some cheap line. I'd thought about her all fucking day. She was all I'd thought about. I'd probably gotten a total of three hours' sleep after I'd gotten home. Even after jerking off, imagining her sweet mouth on my cock, I'd tossed and turned until I finally got up and took a cold shower. She was on my mind whilst I ate breakfast, when I went to the gym, and even when I stood in the queue at the cafe. I'd wanted to call her, and even came close a couple times as I pulled my phone out of my pocket, immediately scrolling to her name. But I didn't press it.

Now, hearing her apologise to me...for what? For not being in the break room as early as I had been? For being busy whilst I sat at the table, resolved to making idle chit chat with co-workers to whom I barely speak otherwise? Waiting for her gorgeous body to walk through the door? It was almost more than I could bear.

"Harry..." Roni spoke again, almost causing me to physically shake the thoughts from my head. She set her mug down on the desk and stepped even closer to me. Her hand met mine resting on the edge of the desk, her fingers grazing over it. "I had a wonderful time with you this weekend."

I looked directly at her then, her beautiful eyes sparkling. Her voice had been just barely above a whisper, but I'd understood every word. I grinned at her, silent for a moment. Although her lips didn't quite smile back, the expression on her face did.

"I did too, Roni," I said.

I turned my hand over so that hers fell into mine. I caressed the back of it with my thumb, not taking my gaze off of her.

"Hey, Harry, have you finished —" I heard a voice begin.

As soon as I looked to my left, I felt Roni's hand leave mine. Nina stood by my cubicle partition, a folder tucked under her arm and her lips pursed. She's not an unattractive woman, but at that moment she might as well have been Satan.

"Yes, Nina?" I asked, my tone underlined with contempt.

"Have you finished the report for Woolery yet?"

"I gave you that one on Friday," I spat.

I didn't mean to be so harsh with her, but this was the third time in the past week that she'd asked me about something that I'd already done. Not to mention the fact that she'd interrupted my time with Roni.

"There's some revisions that need to be made," Nina retorted. "I put it on your desk this morning."

"What?" I sighed, lifting the stack of papers. Underneath two other reports was the one to which she was referring. "Well, why didn't you put it on the top if you needed it done first?"

"I need them all done first," she huffed.

I turned my chair around and glared at her. It wasn't even ten in the morning yet, and she was already getting under my skin. I heard Roni try to stifle a giggle behind me.

"I'll get to it as soon as I can," I told Nina, my jaw set.

"Thank you," she said before turning around and walking away.

"That woman needs to take a chill pill," Roni piped up.

"Tell me about it," I smirked.

"Unfortunately," she added, "I have to get back to work, so I'll let you get to yours."

"Okay."

"See ya, Harry." As Roni turned around I noticed the back of her stockings had a little line with tiny black bows going down. I immediately imagined running my hands up them and under her skirt.

"Oh, by the way," she said when she reached the edge of my cubicle, "I'm free for lunch if you are."

"Absolutely," I grinned. "Noon?"

"Perfect. Bye."

She waved at me with the tips of her fingers before turning away once again. Like always, I watched her go, her ass shifting underneath her skirt. Only this time, I could add more to my mental image.

Roni

He'd waited for me. Oh, I could just die! When Greta chatted my ear off as soon as I got to work this morning, I knew I was in trouble. She's my supervisor, so there's no way I could tell her to put a sock in it. For an hour and a half, I helped her with a project, my head beginning to pound from lack of caffeine. I knew I'd missed my chance to run into Harry, so when Greta was finally satisfied, I quickly grabbed my cup of coffee from the break room and made my way toward Harry's cubicle.

To hear him admit that he'd waited for me, wondering where I was just about crushed my heart, but at the same time lifted me on a cloud much higher than nine. I could tell by his tone that he was a bit relieved to know that I had been busy working and hadn't stood him up, although we hadn't exactly made plans to meet. Neither of us want to reveal too much just yet, but I think we both know there's something between us. The way he turned his hand over to catch mine told me a lot, and if Nina hadn't interrupted when she did...well, let's just say I might have kissed him at his desk.

Office romance is a tricky subject. I know this from experience. My ex, Roland, and I used to work together. It was the reason why I'd asked Harry if he'd ever dated anyone from work before. It was a little bit different situation, however, because it was at a factory. Roland was a maintenance worker, and I was a receptionist. We had already been dating when I started there. I rarely saw him unless he happened to come into the office. Still, in the end it proved to be a sticky situation after our break-up, and I finally started looking for another job.

I'm not going to be presumptuous about Harry and me. We've gone on two dates and had amazing sex. We flirt at work. It's too soon to think we'll turn into anything more than a fling. But even with that, you have to be careful. And I like Harry too much to risk doing something stupid.

When I got back to my desk, Gerard Holcomb was looking around as though he'd lost something.

"Can I help you?" I asked him, not bothering to hide the annoyance in my voice.

"Ah, Miss Graver," he announced, turning around. "Did you happen to print that price list for me yet?"

"You can't print that yourself?" I raised my eyebrows, perturbed.

"I thought you were making edits to it. Remember, we talked about it Friday?"

I sighed and sat down in my chair. "Sorry, Gerard. I got busy."

Gerard eyed me for a moment before speaking again. He made my skin crawl.

"Can I have it before lunch?"

"Sure," I replied.

He tapped the end of his pen against my desk before leaving my cubicle, without so much as a thank you. He really is a knob head.

I worked on Gerard's precious price list for a total of ten minutes. It wasn't hard for me to do what he'd wanted, I just didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I could get it done so quickly. Just because he's the top salesman doesn't mean I'm going to drop everything to tend to his needs. I have an entire sales team for which I work. And none of them as of yet have asked me to do something that they could easily get done themselves.

After I finished a report for another salesman, printed and binded it, I walked to his desk to hand it to him. With a courteous thank you from him, I stopped by Gerard's desk and handed him his price list.

"Looks good, Miss Graver," he muttered, taking it from me. Still no thank you. I gritted my teeth.

"You know, I have a first name," I told him.

He glared at me as though I'd slapped him.

"Sorry, I tend to refer to most people by their last names. But if you prefer, I'll call you Veronica."

Once hearing my name fall from his lips, I started to have second thoughts. Instead, I nodded. "Thank you."

As I headed back to my desk, I realised it was almost noon. I smiled to myself at the obvious pleasure I took in anticipating my lunch with Harry. I was quite giddy and even had a little hop in my step. I checked a few quick emails before grabbing my handbag. Just as I turned the corner, I almost collided with Gerard.

"Miss...I mean, Veronica," he said. "I wanted to apologise for earlier. I was rude."

"Oh," I waved my hand, "no worries."

"You did a good job on the price list, and I want to thank you."

My eyes widened at his statement. "Oh. Okay. You're welcome."

"Let me take you to lunch," he added.

"Oh..." I mouthed. "Thanks...but I already have plans."

"Oh." Gerard genuinely looked taken aback. I wondered how many times he'd been turned down before.

Just then I saw Harry out of the corner of my eye walking down the hallway towards me. I smiled at him and waved, turning my attention back to Gerard for only a second.

"Maybe next time," I said sweetly.

I didn't wait for his response as I brushed past him to meet Harry.

"Ready?" I asked him.

"You bet," he replied.

We walked together out to the parking lot where he opened the car door for me. When he walked around to his side and got behind the wheel, he faced me.

"He didn't seem too pleased," remarked Harry.

"Who?"

"Holcomb. I know he doesn't care for me, but his eyes were throwing daggers just now."

I chuckled as I leaned back in my seat. "He'd just asked me to lunch."

"You're joking," said Harry. "And you turned him down to be with me?"

"Who else?"

Harry smirked as he put the car in reverse. "Or maybe it's just for the free food."

"You never said you were paying," I quipped.

I watched Harry's dimple dip deeper as his smile grew wider.

"This is true," he agreed. "But I am anyway."

Harry

I almost wished Roni had seen the look on Gerard's face as she'd waved and then walked up to me. It was quite comical. He looked like someone had just told him to solve a horrendous mathematical equation. He looked from her to me, and back to her again as though he couldn't make sense of it. As I let her walk ahead of me, I took one last gander back at him, his eyes narrowed in disgust. Let him be angry. I'm sure he's wanted to get Roni into bed since her first day, too. Lucky for me, she thinks he's scum.

"So did you get all of your reports completed for Nina?" Roni asked me as we shared an organic pizza.

"Almost," I rolled my eyes. "I have one left I think. But it wouldn't surprise me if there are more on my desk when I get back."

"I don't get it," said Roni. "She's the administrative assistant, isn't she? Isn't that her job?"

I shrugged as I wiped my mouth with a napkin. "Yeah. But I'm sort of her assistant. So she drops it on me when things need correcting."

"Ah," Roni nodded. "Like how I'm Greta's assistant."

"Exactly."

I watched Roni as she chewed her pizza, looking at the wall behind me. Her face said she was pondering something, and when she took a sip of her water, she finally spoke.

"One day..." she said. "One day I will no longer be anyone's assistant."

Her declaration sounded like a line from a movie, but I didn't laugh. I felt a pang in my chest from her words and the look on her face. She seemed so hopeful. It was the purest and most beautiful thing I'd ever witnessed.

"What?" she grinned shyly when she caught me staring.

I merely shook my head. If I told her what I was thinking she'd probably laugh or think it was corny. She looked so pretty sitting across from me, her lipstick half gone from eating, her cheeks rosy from possibly feeling slightly embarrassed about her statement. I wanted to hold her. I wanted to touch her face and brush my mouth against hers.

After I paid for the lunch, we drove back to the office. I pulled into the parking spot, but didn't turn off the engine. I stared straight ahead, not sure what to say, or if I needed to say anything. My palms were sweaty, and I quickly wiped them on my trousers, wishing to God my heart would stop beating as fast as it was. Finally, Roni broke the silence.

"Can I say something?" she asked.

"Of course," I replied, turning my head to face her. Jesus, yes, please say something!

Roni adjusted herself in her seat, leaning on her side, her sexy smile spread across her face.

"I really enjoy being with you," she confessed.

I couldn't stop myself from grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. "Really?"

"Mmm hmm," she nodded. "I know it hasn't been that long, Harry, but I feel like...well...there's something here...between us."

"Me too," I blinked.

Roni did that fucking lip bite thing that drives me crazy.

"Good," she said, putting her hand on my thigh. I watched as she slid it up my leg dangerously before leaning closer. "So are you gonna kiss me now, or what?"

I gave a low chuckle as I reach over and touched her cheek, just like I'd wanted to at the restaurant. When my lips met hers, the same excitement and surge of electricity bolted through me as they had all the other times I'd kissed her. But there was also something else. A sort of unspoken understanding - a tenderness that I hadn't felt before.

As we walked into the building together, I put my arm around her. I wondered if she would flinch or back away, but she didn't. She greeted Greta and thanked me for lunch as she dropped her bag on her desk. Then she turned to me and grabbed my hands, squeezing them.

"Call me later, okay?" she whispered.

I nodded as I squeezed her hands back, then headed toward my cubicle. It wasn't until I sat in my chair that it hit me. Bloody hell! I'm falling for this girl.

MASTERLIST | KO-FI | FEEDBACK

[flamehairedwritings]

Stray: Chapter Three

Characters: Lt. Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Female Reader 

Rating: E, 18+ ONLY

Words: 6.2k

Summary: Ghost has a fine time making you admit you need want him.

A/N: Chapter Three of Six. A chapter posted every Monday!

Entire Story Tags: hurt/comfort, angst, enemies are lovers, porn with plot, they're not nice people, but are they

Chapter Tags:  Angst, simon says some not nice things again, simon literally says, angst, dub-con, just to be safe, mdom, rough, nipple play, slight edging, hold the orgasm, multiple orgasms, throat holding, slight choking, slight overstimulation, biting, marking, gloves on, one spank, slight fight for dominance, a little switchy, reader gets one over on Simon, dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampie

Read on AO3

Stray Masterlist

Please don’t copy or steal my work, and please don’t post it on any other sites. I do not consent to my work being used for AI purposes.

─

Chapter Three - Club 31 High

“The shit people wear these days.”

“I don’t know, I think you’d look lovely in tassels.”

“Fuck off, Gaz.”

He hears Gaz chuckle in his earpiece, making him sigh as he adjusts his grip on his rifle, continuing to gaze through the scope at the street below.

More like back-alley, actually.

A short queue of masked people are waiting to be let through a rusting metal door, a big bloke with shades on even though it’s fucking night taking their names and checking them by speaking into a walkie.

“I think he’s more of a leather man.”

“Shut up, Soap.”

“Look at that handsome fucker there, arse out an’ all. There’s your look.”

“Can we keep the channels quiet, for fucks sake, there might─”

Ghost breaks off as a figure enters the field of his scope, striding down the alley, heels echoing.

He knows those heels.

And he’s never lucky enough for things to just be fucking coincidences.

“Ghost? What’s goin’ on?”

He exhales a long, exasperated breath as he follows the figure, thin-strapped black dress with thigh-high split touching the ground, the square, low cut neckline pushing the figure’s tits in and up tantalisingly, the silky black, wavy wig reaching down to the waist.

The mask that’s resting on top of it is the final giveaway.

Why can’t it just be a fucking coincidence.

“Ghost?” Gaz prompts.

“There's been a complication,” Ghost grits out.

The complication in question strides past the queue, and smiles at the bouncer who smiles and nods familiarly.

And when the door is opened for you, you look up, find him up on the roof, smile, and pull the half-skull mask down over your face.

And then you pass through the door.

“Fuck,” Ghost hisses, lifting his head and swiftly getting to his feet.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Keep your eyes and ears out, boys. I’m goin’ in.”

─

Deep purple and blue lights flash quickly, and music blares. He can barely fucking see or hear. But thankfully he’s fitting right in, every single person here masked up and in either some kind of uniform, fancy suit or dress, or barely anything. Anyone and everyone is welcome here, as long as your name’s on the list.

His certainly hadn’t been, but they’d scoped out a back entrance earlier in the day, through the cellar, and he’d only had to evade a couple of bar staff before he’d found his way here.

‘Here’ is Club 31 High, as exclusive as they got, and probably fucking gorgeous to other people. Marble columns and floors, plush red seats and curtains, chandeliers, it seems more suited to opera and orchestras than the sultry, Deep House music that’s thumping throughout the chambers. People grind and rock against each other, off their faces on drugs or alcohol. He has to move around the edge of the rooms, passing people kissing, sucking cocks, fingering, and fully fucking in the darker corners.

Anything goes here, as long as your name’s on the list.

He scans each briefly illuminated face, trying to find yours, or, really, the mask you seem to think would be so fucking funny to wear. Some people grab at him along the way, trying to pull him onto the dance floors, or rub against him, caressing him. He passes by swiftly, trying to get through quickly without drawing too much attention. He’s spotted some bouncers here and there, and there’s got to be cameras everywhere, though how they can pick anything up is a wonder.

Gritting his teeth, he heads into another chamber, this one bigger, the ceiling higher. It’s even louder and darker in here, and, moving down the steps into it, he wishes he’d brought his fucking headset. It wouldn’t look so fucking weird to wear it here.

He scans the crowd, but it’s nearly fucking impossible, people are dancing too much and the lights are flashing too much and─

A hand slides across his lower back, around his side, and someone stands in front of him, both hands resting on his vest. He’s about to step away, disappear into the crowd, when his eyes lock with yours.

“Hello, Simon,” you say with a smile, though he lip-reads it rather than hears it.

How can anyone fucking hear in here.

As if hearing his thoughts, you slide your hands up, wrapping your arms around his neck, and only have to rise up a little higher due to the heels to rest your lips against his ear.

Even then he can only just hear you.

“I knew I'd get you out dancing one day.”

“The fuck are you doing here?” he shouts into your ear.

“Having a girl’s night. And we were told strictly no boyfriends, so shoo.”

Stepping back, you release him, smile lingering, and turn, melting into the crowd.

“Fuck sake…” he hisses, following after you swiftly.

People move out of the way, too far gone to be annoyed at being shoved. His eyes are fixed on the back of your head, and then, when you stop suddenly, he nearly collides with you as you turn to him. Raising your hands and arms above your head, you sway your hips, and he rolls his jaw.

“Let’s fucking go,” he shouts, knowing you can lip-read, too, though no one would have a hard time understanding him.

Your blood-red smile widens.

Turning around, he thinks you’re about to set off again when you actually take a step back.

And then you lean back against him, settle your hands on the back of his neck, and grind your ass back against his cock.

Raising his eyes to the pitch-black ceiling, he pushes out a harsh breath.

For fuck’s sake.

You don’t stop, rolling your hips, arching your back, able to find the beat of the noise and make it seem like music to him.

His fingers flex at his sides.

No, no, no.

Shoving you away, gritting his teeth, he watches as you turn to him, lips lifted in a wide smile.

A game, always a fucking game.

He can see you’re about to move again, disappear and have him searching like a fucking dog, and he won’t have that.

His hand darting out, he grips your upper arm and moves first instead, pulling you through the crowd. You don’t hit at him and if you’re shouting, he can’t hear it. Though you’re just as likely to not want to make a scene as him.

At the edge of the room, he spots someone heading out of a door into this room and heads to it, pulling you through it into a small, circular chamber. A marble table is at the centre, with dozens of white roses in a large vase resting on top of it, and as the door swings shut behind you, it does a fantastic job of muffling a large portion of the music. Not enough, though, and it’s still too public here. He pulls you towards another door, marvelling at how you still haven’t said a word, and pushes it open. There’s a long corridor, doors on the left, a mirror that stretches all the way down on it on the right. How anyone could see themselves in it is a mystery, though, as the lights are so dimmed you could barely see your own face.

Pushing the first door open, using the handle, he finds it’s a bathroom, a small, really fucking fancy one.

Perfect, but not this one. He pulls you down the corridor, right to the end, and you still don’t say a word, heels echoing.

Those fucking heels.

Reaching the final door, he pushes it open, finds it empty, and then pushes you in, releasing your arm. He steps through after, locking the door behind himself. It muffles all sound of the outside, he thinks most likely by design, these bathrooms not just for pissing and shitting, but fucking too.

And what a bathroom to fuck in. The toilet is to his left, the grandest he’s ever seen, made from the same marble as the floor and walls, a thick red rug is in the centre of the room, in front along the far wall is a plush red loveseat, and to his right, a marble counter stretches across the short wall along with a mirror, with a sink cut into it and what must be designer products in the corner. The light’s not as dim as it was out in the corridor, but it’s still low.

What he wouldn’t give for some clear fucking strip lighting.

His attention returning to you, he watches you, your hands behind your back, that fucking smile still in place.

Hang on, hands behind your back…

“Come here. Hands where I can see them.” He moves forward, and you raise your hands, empty, as you lift your chin and inhale a breath.

He thinks he might see your lips part before he bends down, but that’s probably just from taking the breath.

He can’t help his gaze from briefly dropping to your heels. Yeah, they’re the ones.

Leather, platform, thick straps, heavy gold buckles at the ankles.

He remembers the cold feel of them against his shoulders. 

Shoving the memory away, he starts to roughly pat and feel at your legs, searching for weapons.

He hears you exhale a laugh, widening your legs obediently when he taps a hand from one to the other. “Oh, Simon, they take weapons at the door, they’re in the lovely cloakroom.”

“All of them?” His hand moves up the thigh where there isn’t the split, and he pauses when he feels steel against his gloves. Lifting his head, he arches an eyebrow at you, watches your smile widen, and then slides his fingers under the holster and pulls sharply, ripping the knife from your thigh. He tosses it behind him, making a mental note of where he thinks it lands. Moving his hands to the other thigh, then out onto the silk material of the dress, he slides his hands up your hips, over your stomach, around your back, and then to your waist.

It’s now your turn to arch an eyebrow as his hands near your chest, swiping between and under your tits.

“Do you really think I could conceal anything else in this?”

“Wouldn’t put it past you. Turn around.”

He makes you before you can, gripping your shoulder and spinning you to face the mirror. The sudden action makes you have to press your hands down onto the counter to steady yourself. Your lips twitch as he slides his hands up your hips and across your back. It’s cut low, though, to the middle of your shoulder blades, so it doesn’t take him long.

A hand moves up your bare skin, up the back of your neck, under the hair, feeling along the scalp of the wig.

You hum gently, closing your eyes as your lips twitch again, and his hand quickly leaves.

It goes instead to your mask, which he slides off, and inspects the inside.

“Really fucking funny, wearing this.”

You meet his gaze in the mirror. “Admit it, it turns you on.”

His lips press together, and he tosses the mask onto the counter. “What’re you doin’ here.”

“Well, I was very much enjoying myself, and then you just grabbed me like a brute and pulled me in her─”

“Stray.”

“Simon.”

You tilt your head, a smile lifting your lips as you gaze at him in the reflection.

He, though, is stone-still.

“It’s not fuckin’ funny anymore, Stray.”

Your eyebrows raise and your lips part in faux-surprise. “Oh, is this about what happened at the warehouse with Angelo?”

He hates the way you say the name, nearly purring it.

“You nearly had me and the boys killed.”

“But none of you did die, did you─”

“I said nearly.” The bark of his voice has you silencing yourself. 

For a very brief moment.

“So, what, I’ve betrayed you, have I, Simon?” You snort. “That’s your own fault.”

He still hasn’t moved.

“Did you think I was going to hurt you. When we were there.”

Silence.

You’re looking at him in the reflection, mouth in a thin line, and he’s looking at you.

You don’t speak.

His mask and the dim lighting hides the flexing in his jaw.

“Do you think I’m gunna hurt you now?”

He needs to know.

He hopes you don’t fucking realise how much.

Silence stretches on again.

He doesn’t ask again, but you know he won’t move until you do.

You keep looking at him a little longer, though.

You did hurt me. You broke my heart. You betrayed me. And you don’t even know it.

Lifting your chin a little, you give him a light smile. “No. I wouldn’t let you.”

He exhales a breath, something easing in his chest but not enough. “Is that right. You know, you’ve put me in a fucking position here─”

“No, Simon, it’s you who’s put me in a position.”

Your far-too-pleased with yourself smile returns as you press your ass back against him.

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t move. “I’ll finish. You’ve put me in a fucking position where I could, no, should, walk out of here, let you go, let this all be done. Or…” Suddenly, he grips your hip, hard enough that you hiss in a breath. “... I could repay you for what you did at the warehouse.”

You panic for a moment that Soap told him, but, no, the fury in his eyes tells you otherwise.

You know what a grateful Simon looks like.

“Repay me? You’ve just been moaning about how awful it was.”

“Well… You were working so hard to make it up to me, weren’t you.”

“‘Make it up to you’─”

“Grinding on my cock like that. You were practically begging for forgiveness.”

You laugh, your head tipping back slightly.

“Oh, you’re so─”

His hand suddenly darts up, gripping your jaw under your chin, tipping your head back further as he simultaneously takes a step forward, pressing you against the counter.

“No, you don’t get to fucking talk unless I tell you to,” he murmurs against your temple.

If you obey now, right now, then he knows you’re in; in once more in this twisted fucking game he should end but he just fucking can’t.

He watches you in the mirror.

Your eyes slide down to meet his.

And you don’t say a word.

He exhales a breath, dropping his chin a little so his lips are closer to your ear. “I’m gunna ruin you for him. It’ll be my cum leaking out of you, running down your sweet legs as you trot on back to him in those fucking heels.”

Fucking hell.

Your stomach twists deliciously as you gaze at him.

And you risk it. 

“Is that a promise?”

You can’t see him smile as he allows this one insolence. 

“It’s a given, love.”

Raising his other hand, he pulls the material mask over his mouth and then bites at your jaw and kisses down your neck.

You gasp and moan almost with relief as the hand then slides across your stomach until his forearm is against you, and he pulls you back further against him, closing the little space there is.

His vest causes you to have to arch your back though, your ass once more firmly against his cock, and he’s not going to fucking complain.

“Look in the mirror, look at yourself,” he murmurs, your eyes having fallen shut, and he bites at your jaw again as they snap open. “You’re going to watch all of this, and you’re gunna fuckin’ think about it while his cock’s inside you. You’ll be thinking of me and only me when you cum.”

Your breathing has sharpened, but there’s a burning in your eyes, some kind of anger there.

There’s probably a defensive quip for Vitale on your tongue, but you’re still behaving.

“Look at you, bein’ a good girl for me,” he murmurs, and your lips part on a sharp exhale.

He loves when you behave, almost as much as when you don’t.

His hand rises, and he tugs the neckline of the dress down, exposing your tits and making them lift higher. He rolls your nipples between his fingers, and he chuckles lowly as your knees buckle momentarily, a moan escaping you.

“Does he do this for you? He doesn’t strike me as a giver.” He moves his hand from your tits to your mouth, resting two gloved fingers against your lips. “Suck.”

You do, instantly, swirling your tongue as you find his eyes in the mirror.

“Yeah, good girl.” He indulges for a few moments longer, his cock twitching in anticipation and memory, and then he swiftly pulls his fingers away. Moving them back down to your nipples, he circles them with your saliva.

Your back arches as much as it can as you sigh out moans, remembering to keep your eyes open.

He mouths at your cheekbone, not giving you an inch of room. “How does that feel? Speak.”

“Good, so fucking good,” you breathe, trying to rock your hips back against him.

Ghost hums his approval lowly, breathing in the scent of your skin, a hint of fragrance there from whatever you’d put on it. 

“I want you dripping,” he murmurs, twisting, pinching and pulling your nipples, going from one to the other. “I want you aching for my cock until you think you’ve gone mad. I want you begging for me.”

He can feel your pulse through his hand spread across your throat and neck, his fingers gripping at your jaw still. 

It’s faster.

“Good, isn’t it, love. You dripping yet? Is your cunt soaked?”

Your body is on fire, his fingers so fucking good but it’s not enough.

Managing to turn your head closer to him the smallest amount, you try to find his lips, murmuring, nearly pleading, “Mmh, take your gloves off.”

He angles his head away. “They’re stayin on. And did I say you could talk?”

Suddenly his hand leaves your tits and grips the skirt of your dress, tugging it up over your ass roughly. You try not to appear too pleased as he chuckles.

“No knickers? You were wantin’ this, weren’t you? Wantin’ me?”

He brings a hand down on one of your ass cheeks, swiftly and sharply, tearing a soft cry from you.

“Speak.”

You exhale a laugh, unable to help yourself. “Your ego is almost as big as your─”

The grip on your throat tightens a little, for a moment.

“No smart words from you today, just the truth.”

The truth. How frightening.

Still, though, you smile.

“But that was the truth. And your cock is big.”

His lips are against your ear once more, voice low, demanding. “So tell me, then. You came here wanting it, didn’t you?”

You expect him to perhaps spank you again, play with your nipples maybe or caress your skin. But he gives you nothing. It’s maddening.

Licking your velvet-red lips, you exhale a long breath. “... Yes.”

You feel him smile.

“Good girl.”

He plunges two gloved fingers into your pussy.

“Oh, fuck,” you cry out, hands pressing against the counter.

He nips at your earlobe. “I’ll allow that, only because you sound so fucking sweet.”

His fingers move instantly, fucking you slow and deep.

And he barely takes a breath before speaking again.

“How many fingers does he need to stretch you properly? Dainty little things, weren’t they. Does he have to work hard, poor fucker.”

And, yes, the anger’s there again, burning in your eyes, and your teeth are biting into your lower lip.

It’s satisfying to him, as fucking twisted as it is, that you so clearly want to snap and yell at him, but you won’t. For him. Because he said you can’t.

It makes his cock so fucking hard.

He wants to see just how good you’ll be, how much you’ll obey him.

What will be your breaking point.

“Does he cum first, or does he make you first? Countless times, like I can, like I do. Does he know what you sound like when you’re desperate, out of your mind, overstimulated but fucking begging for more?”

He slips a third finger in, still moving them tantalisingly slowly but deeply as moans fall from your lips.

Yet despite giving them to him freely, anger is still clearly blazing in your half-lidded eyes. 

And he can’t get enough.

“Do you moan and grip at him, beg him, hang on to him. Do you look up at him with those pretty fuckin’ eyes, beggin’ with them when your head’s too fuckin’ empty to form words? Do you─”

He catches himself.

Your words from the warehouse have been circling round and round in his mind since you spoke them.

And I love him─

Had that been it. Were you going to say that you love him fucking you.

Or that you love him. End of. Full stop.

He’d never know, and he hadn’t wanted to know.

He still doesn’t want to know.

Exhaling a harsh breath, he slips a fourth finger in.

Every breath you exhale is now a moan, one hand gripping at his forearm, and your other suddenly moves back, cupping the back of his head, your fingers pressing in.

He can feel your walls clenching around him, fluttering, and he groans against your ear.

“You gunna cum already? You been that desperate for me?”

He listens to you moan and mewl for a few moments longer, fingers flexing against your throat, before he orders, “Speak.”

Your legs are nearly trembling. “Yes.”

“Beg me. Ask me to cum.”

“Please, Simon, please can I cum, please, I need to, please─”

“Mmh, not yet. Hold it.”

You make a strained sound, eyes closing tight, and he fucking loves that you’re obeying.

But he doesn’t want to reward you. Not yet.

Lips against your ear once more, he watches you in the mirror. “Did he fuck you later, after we left, after we burned that place to the fucking ground. Did you ride him, did you tell him sweet little things to soothe his fuckin’ ego. Did you hold him─”

“Simon─”

“Did I say you could speak.”

There’s no anger in your eyes now, just… 

Why would you be sad. He doesn’t fucking understand it.

Are you that attached to the fucker?

Whatever reason for it… he fucking hates seeing it.

Softening his grip on your jaw a little, he turns his head slightly, lips pressing against your cheek.

“How does this feel? Does your clit need some attention, is it aching for me? Speak.”

“Yes,” you breathe again, knees bending slightly for a moment as you try to rock your hips.

His hand finally releases your jaw and lowers, and he walks you back half a step to give himself the room to slip his hand down your stomach to the slit of your dress, yanking it up so his fingers can find your clit.

You gasp sharply as he strokes at it, your body jerking slightly as you hang on the precipice of your orgasm.

He watches you in the mirror, your eyes closed, mouth open, chest heaving.

And still you don’t allow yourself to cum.

Opening your eyes, though, you beg him with them.

Fuck…

He presses an almost kiss to your cheek. “Cum for me, love. Go on.”

You cry out as you grip at his head, your back arching, and you cum instantly. Your pussy squeezes at his fingers, gripping them tight, and he grunts against your skin, pressing another nearly-there kiss to it.

“That’s it, good girl, cum all over my glove, give me it all.”

Your body jerks as you moan, and when it finally goes slack, your head leaning back against him, he smiles.

“That was a big one, wasn’t it. You’ve been fuckin’ desperate for that.”

You just try and catch your breath, your fingertips softening on the back of his head. He pushes your head to the side with his own, then drops his lips to your neck. 

“Speak,” he grunts as he bites your shoulder.

You inhale a shuddering breath, swallowing. “… Yes…”

“Good girl.” Pulling his fingers out of you, biting you again when you moan as they leave you, he groans lowly as he wipes his fingers on the ass cheek he’d slapped. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

You hum somewhat weakly in reply.

Not weak enough, though.

You gasp sharply and your hips buck as he starts to stroke your clit again. Your eyes snapping open, you lock your gaze with his.

“You’re gunna cum again for me,” he murmurs against your skin.

Still sensitive, your hips buck again, but he’s stroking so lightly, so gently, though that’s almost making it even better. His other hand slides over your stomach, his forearm holding you against him again, your hips now only able to jerk a little.

The blissful pleasure of your orgasm has only faded slightly, so with each stroke he gives, it rises a little higher… but… and you fucking curse yourself… it’s not enough.

And he knows it.

“Need somethin’ inside you, don’t you,” he says against your ear, still holding your gaze.

You nod, your breathing long, deep and shaking as you try to regulate it.

He exhales a breath. “Not yet. And this time, you’re not gunna take your eyes off yourself.”

Fucking hell…

Dropping your hand from his head, you flatten both palms against the counter and shift your gaze to your own, and he chuckles quietly.

“Good girl.”

His fingers quicken.

Your teeth grit as you try to stifle a sharp gasp.

“No, no, don’t be doing that…” He’s looking at you in the reflection still, head leaning against yours. “… You’re gunna look at yourself and you’re gunna be loud.”

The way he caresses, circles and strokes your clit, the leather of his glove slick against it…

You’re leaning your head into his, hips bucking, and you give in, mewling loud enough to fill the space because you don’t care, it just feels so good.

He’s biting at your shoulder and neck again, too, almost with a sense of frenzy.

And then he starts talking again.

“What does he say when I mark you like this? Do you hide it from him? Do you avoid him?”

Muscles in your jaw jump and flex as you grit your teeth tightly

His eyes flick up to you. “Speak.”

“Yes,” you grit out.

“And what does he say?”

You stare at yourself, eyelids fluttering a little as pleasure sparks through you.

“Speak.”

Your jaw is clenched tight, teeth pushing into each other.

Suddenly, you turn your head closer to his.

“Kiss me.”

“No,” is the instant answer.

He’s punishing you, and you know it. 

It could be worse.

He could have left.

So why hasn’t he.

Why is he here, fucking you.

If you betrayed him, if he hates you that much, why is he here.

Why is he asking these questions.

Why does he care.

Does he care.

You’ll probably never know.

The anger that had been bubbling inside you, simmering in some kind of control, now explodes as you gaze at him.

How could he care.

Your elbow drives into his lower stomach, just under his vest, and then you slam your head back, the back of your head colliding with his nose and jaw.

“Fuck─ What the fuck─” he starts hissing, releasing you automatically.

Spinning, you shove him backwards.

“What─”

You shove him again, silent.

His brow is furrowed, eyes slightly wider. “Love, are you oka─”

You shove him again.

He falls back onto the loveseat with a grunt, and you straddle him instantly, gathering the silky material of the dress around your hips. His eyes narrow slightly in realisation then, his hands going to your thighs, gripping them.

“This what you want, huh─”

“Shut up,” you snap, releasing the skirt of the dress and tugging his belt open. “I don’t want to hear from you anymore.”

His mouth still exposed, you can now see the self-satisfied smirk he gives you. “You want my cock inside you instead, yeah.”

“Shut up.” You pull open the button of his trousers.

“You that desperate for me?”

“Shut up.” You yank the zip down.

“Do you cling at him like this─”

Your hand flies up, gripping his jaw. 

Leaning closer, you hiss, “Shut the fuck up.”

His smirk is now gone, and an anger that nearly matches yours smoulders in his dark eyes.

And then he knocks your arm away, so you punch his shoulder, then grab at his throat, your other hand going for his trousers. He shoves your hand away from his throat so you use both hands to pull his cock out as he fists at your dress, lifting it higher to expose your pussy.

From this angle, he can see it glistening now, wet, open and ready for him.

“Christ…” he hisses through gritted teeth, watching you position his aching, flushed pink tip against your hole.

Watches you sink down on him, his cock disappearing inside you.

He makes a strained sound in the back of his throat, balling your dress up in his gloved fists.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you, Simon,” you breathe, hands now firmly gripping his shoulders.

Fixing your gaze on his eyes, before he can answer you start to move your hips, and you don’t want to be slow, you don’t want to tease, you don’t want to give him any gentle satisfaction at all right now, so you set a hard, firm pace, riding him aggressively.

“I bet your cock was hard the moment you saw me, and the way you came running after me… Who’s the desperate one?” 

His eyes flick up, locking with yours, and your entire body is taut, waiting for him to switch this once more, while also feeling pleasure burst and spark through you.

“I told him about your base and here you still are, fucking me, wanting me wet for you, marking me… like you don’t even care… and what if one of your boys had died─”

Snarling, he shoves your hands off his shoulders, grips them at the wrists and holds them at your sides.

“You’d better watch your mouth.”

You laugh, and you don’t know where it comes from. “Oh, have I hurt your feelings? I didn’t know you had any.”

He’s silent, the only sound his short, harsh breaths as you ride him.

You don’t look away. “Take the mask off.”

“No.”

“Take it off.”

“No─”

“Let me see you.”

He falls silent.

When he moves, it’s swift.

A hand darts up and grips the long hair of the wig, and he yanks, pulling your head back.

You cry out as your back arches, small, delicious bursts of pain sparking along your scalp where the wig is secured.

His other hand runs firmly down between your tits, to your stomach, to your hip, gripping it. It’s possessive, how he does it, and it pisses you off. Knocking his arm away so he releases the hair, you grip his shoulders again, nails digging in, and you lean forward until your forehead nearly presses against his mask, and you wrap your arms tightly around his neck, locking you in that position.

He pushes against your hip, trying to put some distance between you but you won’t let him.

“Look at me,” you hiss, and he does, stilling as your eyes lock on to each others.

And, somehow, neither of you speak.

You just look at each other.

His gaze is hard, jaw tight, and you just ride him as you grip at him. Ride and squeeze your walls around him until…

His lips part on an exhale, no, not an exhale… a moan.

Ghost moans.

The corners of your mouth lift into a breathless smile as you squeeze him again, desire surging through you.

He grits his teeth at the sight of your smile, low grunts coming from the back of his throat, hands now tight on your hips, and you feel something feral snarling and snapping its jaws inside you.

“Come on, come on, come on, come on…” you hear yourself murmuring, squeezing your slick walls around him every time your hips rise.

His mouth is open, fast, quiet breaths escaping him, and you want to kiss him, you want to bite at his lips, you want to have him kiss you fiercely and deeply in the way that shows you he cares, even if it’s just now, even if it’s just for a little while.

Your mouth hovering over his, you don’t, though.

Because he doesn’t kiss you.

Makes no move to.

Gasping as a wave of pleasure suddenly rolls through you, you realise one of his hands has moved, his gloved fingers now somewhat clumsily stroking at your clit.

There’s almost a sweetness to it; that he’s still wanting to give you pleasure, make you feel good despite both your previous words, despite the slight curling of your lip and his hardened eyes.

You hate him.

He probably hates you.

“Cum, cum for me…” you suddenly realise he’s groaning, fingers of his other hand gripping at your thigh, almost desperately.

Gritting your teeth, your nails bite into his shoulders.

You hate him, you hate him, you hate him, you hate him…

“Cum for me,” you hiss, the pace of your hips starting to stutter slightly as your orgasm nears, dangerously close.

He’s staring up at you, unable to stop small moans and grunts from falling from his open mouth.

“Love─”

“Cum in me,” you command, and he inhales a sharp breath, hand darting from your clit to your hip, gripping tight, and then his hips jerk as he cums.

His eyes squeeze shut as he exhales a deep, shuddering breath, and your own fall shut as you moan, feeling his cum deep inside you, and the thought of it, the feel of it, the knowledge that, yes, it will leak out of you exactly as he intended, has you cumming, too.

Your head falls forward, leaning against his, and you hear his short, sharp breaths as you mewl, his hand sliding from your hip to your lower back, fisting your dress there.

Your hips slow to a stop as he breathes hard against your shoulder, and you try to soften yours, your arms staying around him.

The only sound that now fills the room is his breathing, and you just listen to it. Just feel him against you, inside you.

His hand flattens against your back.

His fingertips press in a little.

Gentle.

You pull back, press your hands against his chest and push yourself off of him.

His cock slips out of you unceremoniously, and he grunts as it does, but you’ve already turned away, adjusting your dress and flattening it.

You hear the metal of his belt clanking together as he tucks his cock away, before he zips his trousers up then secures the belt.

Pulling the top of the dress up over your tits, adjusting them, you then smoothe the dress down. Running your hands down the wig, you run your tongue along your lips, feeling the lipstick having collected in some areas. Smoothing and spreading it out with your finger tips, you’re aware of how silent he is behind you.

You hate him.

“This was the last time,” you hear yourself say.

“Sure it was.” 

Why is he still entertaining this, entertaining us.

You’re about to ask that exact question, snap, shout, scream it, when he speaks suddenly.

“You’re scared of Vitale, aren’t you.”

You still, hands paused in needlessly adjusting your dress again, eyes flicking up. Turning to him, you’re expressionless.

“What?”

He’s still sat down, hands resting on his thighs, mask back in place, eyes on you. “I saw it. At the warehouse. Why does he scare you.”

A corner of your mouth lifts a fraction. “Nothing scares me, Simon.”

“I did.”

You pause before you can catch yourself, so you make your mouth lift a little higher. “You didn’t. You startled me, there’s a difference.”

His eyes haven’t left you. “I know what I saw. On all accounts.”

Exhaling a breath, you push your hair over your shoulder. “Think what you like.” Turning away, you head towards the door.

“Stray.” 

His tone has you halting, but you keep your back to him, staring at the door. 

You hear him stand, take a few steps towards you.

“I know you were scared of me. I know that. What I don’t know…” You remain silent. “... What I don’t know is if you were scared for me.”

Silence.

He can’t believe he’s fucking said it.

Not even a proper question, just words, but words that have been rolling round and round in his mind incessantly.

He gazes at your back, that tautness in your shoulders, your waist moving as you breathe, your head slightly tilted down.

Then, you half turn to him… and there’s nothing on your features.

“Why would I be. I’m nothing but a whore, remember.”

A coldness spreads through his chest as he watches you go, his own, fucking regrettable words, in your voice, echoing in his mind.

─

Reblogs and comments make my day in a way I can’t describe.

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged or removed in my future works! (Note: I'll only tag if age is in your bio) Sorry if the tag doesn't work!

Masterlist

Tagged: @sistasarah-sallysaidso, @gifsbysimplysonia, @ryethebrokengae, @poohkie90, @corvusmorte, @captainutsstuff, @ff-huntress

[harrisonarchive]

Photo from Raga Mala.

In 2014, CooperOwen auctioned some of George’s handwritten notes for what appears to have been the then-planned tour film/documentary. (Some footage from the tour can be seen in the documentary Living In The Material World.) These notes — as seen in a preview image of the auction listing — give an interesting insight into George’s view of the tour: “Voice overs (re-write) 16 to 14 I assembled musicians I knew and respected — Andy Newmark drummer Jim Keltner - drummer Willie Weeks - bass Ravi Shankar - the man who brought the sitar and Indian music to the world - with Alla Rakha and 15 great Indian musicians and singers. Perhaps, in a strange way, it was the critics that helped bring the band closer together….. We certainly weren’t that together for the first couple of weeks. The audiences may have come to see and hear George Harrison - an ex Beatle - Instead I was just another musician up on the stage - I suppose that confused some of the audience - but in spite of pressures - internal and external - we tried to continued as planned - tho during the tour Ravi was taken to hospital with an alleged heart attack - which made me realise we don’t control ‘the plan.’ All of us were deeply concerned for Ravi’s health - and the effect his absence would have on the spirit of the tour -"

[lazypanartist]

Ben Reilly x Academic! Punk! Reader HCs

Established relationship

Reader is like a projection of me + a girl I'm interested in 👀 May also lead into another project

---

He's not impressed by much, but you..

Well

When you explain anything mathmatical to him, he looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky

Even if he knows, too

Just

Every little thing you do impresses him

He'll hang over your shoulders and watch you do homework

Nodding along as you balance equations or whatever

(IDK, I failed out of math last semester)

If you have anything with patches, he'll ask you wtf they mean

Like

"What's.. Bikini Kill?"

"Riot Grrl band from the 90s."

"Who are the Dead Kennedys?"

"Another Band."

Please remember he's

1) a clone

2) only recently out from under Ock

3) just got back from the bottom of the bay

And he doesn't know popular bands, either

"Who are the.. Reagan Youth?"

"Band. Anti-facist, founded when Reagan became president."

"Okay."

Might not get all the history references either, but he LOVES that you do

Man loves studs

When you introduce him to any spiked piece of clothing, he decides that he Needs One, Too

Which leads to a mildly confused Peter

"Where'd you get the choker?"

While mans is just chilling on May's couch

"Stole it from Y/n."

"You mean borrowed, right?"

Ben just looks up from what he's doing

"They're only getting it back if they steal it."

Next day you're just like "Hey, Ben, have you seen my choker?"

He hands it back wordlessly

Please get him one of his own

You steal his hoodie and he tries stealing your clothes in retaliation

Queue this becoming a normal occurance

Even if he doesn't really fit into your fit 😂

He at least grabs accessories

Looks at a sticker on the back of a glove

"Who's... Panicking at the Disco?"

"Brandon Urie. Used to actually be a band, now he's kinda the face of it."

"Okay."

[borntoocry]

she won't go away

summary: camilla is a senior with a developed eating disorder she can't push off her. her best friend and crush, Ellie, knows nothing about it. until they skip school and Ellie becomes suspicious.

trigger warning: ED.

word count: 2.3k

I fully expected the clothes on my body to fit like a glove before my first day of senior year. But as I stand in front of the mirror, tugging at the material that won’t pull, I want to scream loud enough to break every glass reflection in the world so I never have to see myself again. This may be extreme, but one would understand if they knew the extremes I went to to lose weight. 

I figured that if I didn’t eat as much as I had and picked up on a running habit, I’d lose the nasty weight I put on junior year. 

“What the hell? That’s impossible,” I groan as I pick at the clothes and pinch my belly. 

“Impossible how good you look?” my mom asks, flooding into the bathroom. 

I immediately rub my hands down my clothes and look at her reflection in the mirror. I try to focus on her as best as I can. “No,” I say. “I don’t. This shirt and these jeans are tight.” 

“Then change out of them,” mom says. 

I like that she can be optimistic, but at the same time it angers me. She’s never been a bigger woman–always skinny and petite with hair that never fails her. I, on the other hand, depend on the way my hair falls on my face or how my clothes sit on my shoulders or stomach or how they hug my waist. She can put on a potato sack and still look flawless. And for that, I don’t always stand by her affirmative words. They may be kind, but they’re tainted. I am her daughter, and for that reason she sees me through a different lens. 

“Mom,” I murmur. 

“What?” 

Can’t you see? I want to ask her. But instead, I say, “They were supposed to fit me.” 

Her eyebrows raise up, silently asking, ‘What do you mean?’ 

“Nevermind,” I say, opting out of the conversation. Maybe if I don’t think about it, I won’t feel the pressure. 

I walk out of the bathroom and into my room. I throw off the top and grab a black shirt from my dresser. Mom follows me in but doesn’t fully enter, she just stands at the door. 

“You shouldn’t feel so insecure, Camila.” 

I hold back my scoff. It’s stupid, though, because I spurt out a smart remark. “Yeah, well I do.” 

“You did lose weight,” she says, “if that’s what you want to hear.” 

I pick a jean skirt and shimmy into it. It slightly sags and I smile at my mom. “Thank you.” 

She continues talking about my health and such but I tune her out. I pull on a thin cardigan, my dirty white sneakers, and my black backpack overly decorated by pins. By the time I’m done, my mom is whistling from the kitchen. I know this because I can hear her scuffling and the whirring of the microwave. 

“Yes!” I shout. 

“Eleanor is here!” 

I roll my eyes at the nickname and peek out the window. She sure is, in her black Jeep. I run down the hall and stop by the kitchen bar. My mom has left me yogurt and fruit. I look up at her and smile. She’s done this every day since I was in first grade. Then, there was more on the plate, but the main dish was the yogurt and fat slices of fruit (besides grapes). 

I pick it up and start for the door, but the soft voice of my mom cuts between my path. 

“You hang out with her a lot, huh?” 

I look at her and laugh. “Yeah, we’re friends,” I say. 

She pulls her lips in and her eyes turn to crescents. The look on her face is one I know all too well–she’s trying to look into me. I may not be lying–well, not really–but my face still warms up and I switch from my right foot to my left. 

I swallow harshly and say, “We’re just friends.” 

She shrugs and picks up her mug of black coffee. She stares over the ceramic, sending a questioning set of eyes my way.

 I take this as a queue to leave. 

I rush to Ellie’s car and hop in, my backpack falling between my legs. It thumps against the floor and a ‘damn’ rushes past her lips. 

“What?” I say. 

“I mean,” she says, rubbing her neck, “it’s barely the first day and your bag is already heavy.” 

“So?” 

“You don’t have to be so prepared.” 

“But I want to be,” I tell her as I pick up an ugly piece of watermelon. 

She lets me enjoy my heavy bag and drives us to school. She picks at my fruit and I let her eat my yogurt with my spoon. We don’t really care about that kind of thing, we’ve been friends since freshman year and she’s never minded. She doesn’t swallow the spoon, either, she just paws at the edge of the spoon. 

By the time we get to the parking lot, it’s ten minutes to the bell. We sit with the engine off for a minute or two and just watch everyone rush in. I don’t really remember much of anything before this summer. If even that. The slight eating disorder has stolen a bit of my memory. 

As if she can read my mind, Ellie asks, “Do you remember freshman year?” 

I shake my head. “No, not besides us meeting. And you know,” I say, looking at her, “the occasional first hang-outs and birthday parties and stuff.” 

She grabs my hand and lifts it to her lips. It shouldn’t catch me by surprise–she does this a lot, the kissing hand stuff–but my heart stutters and I struggle taking a breath.

“Ah, how I miss that.” 

“I know,” I whisper. 

“It was love at first sight,” she says in the same tone. 

What does that mean? I feel the need to ask. She’s staring deep into my eyes and I so desperately want her to be telling the truth but she may well not be. She may be saying this platonically. 

I nod. 

She reaches over the console and kisses my cheek. She lets go of my hand and steps out of the car. I do so as well, dragging my heavy backpack over my shoulders. 

I don’t ask about the comment or the kiss on the cheek. I don’t think it matters why. We’ll be going to college before we know it and most people want to be single then to explore and kiss and fuck who they want. I’m certain she’s all I’ll think about, but I’m not sure I’ll be the one on her mind. 

After fourth period, Ellie rushes up to me before the cafeteria doors and pushes me against a patch of lockers. “Let’s skip,” she says. 

“What?” I ask with a contorted face. “It’s the first day!” 

“So?” 

I look like a puppy the way I frown and shy away from her. “I want–need to show up.” 

Her hands run down my arms and one hooks into my right hand. “Fine,” she whispers, a whine in her tone. “Only for lunch.” 

“Won’t we get in trouble?” 

She sputters like an engine. “No. They don’t care.” 

I raise an eyebrow. 

“C’mon, Mila.” 

I look around and then down at our conjoined hands. “Where?” 

A big smile spreads across her face and she pulls me down the hall. “Somewhere you’ll remember.” 

“Where?” I ask again. 

She turns her head and purses her lips. “Shush and c’mon.” 

“I’m hungry,” I whine. 

“I’ll feed you, don’t worry.” 

She does. On the way to wherever we go, she pulls into a McDonalds and buys a twenty piece and two medium fries. I remember saying I was hungry, but as the food sits in my lap and the greasy smell pours into my nose, I feel ill. I hide it well enough for Ellie to tell, though. She doesn’t know and I want to keep it that way. 

On our way to the location, Ellie jokes about my self control. How I’ve yet to steal fries or begin eating. I laugh but the darkness behind the joke spills out and tries to suffocate me. So I peek my head out the window and let the warm air enter my lungs. 

When we get there, I do remember: a patch of dust and dead grass beside train tracks. It’s after a bunch of business buildings and venues. We found this place when Ellie got her license the summer before junior year. Joel, her adoptive dad, didn’t care where she went, nor how old she was. All he cared about was if she had her license. 

We would come here and eat burgers and fries and milkshakes. That was the year Ellie began smoking weed, and this was the perfect spot to do so. I never smoked, but I’d watch her. 

“I miss when we would sit here and just not say a word,” she says with a joint already in her hand. I want to tell her no, that we have class, but she puts up a good sober act. 

I nod and sit down on the log still lying on the ground from a year ago. I put the food between us and take out my fries. I nibble on one fry while she downs half of them in one go. 

I don’t speak, I let her do all the talking. I’m trying to add up all the calories I’m consuming. I’ve never been the best at math but when it comes to this I’m a fucking expert. 

I think I eat about five fries before Ellie notices. She turns to me while she stubs out her joint and almost hisses. I think about chunking them all in my mouth, but she’s caught me now. 

“You haven’t even had a chicken nugget,” she tells me. She opens the box and pushes it towards me. “I already ate my half.” 

“Oh,” I murmur and nod. “Sorry.” 

She doesn’t acknowledge my apology, but she does acknowledge the biggest elephant in the room. “You’ve lost a lot of weight since summer started,” she says. “Are you okay?” 

I hum. “Of course I am.” 

She sighs and reaches over, grabbing my fries. She places them inside the chicken nugget box and slides them over to her left. She scoots in and grabs my hand, tucking all of my fingers into a fist and caressing my knuckles. 

“You don’t look it,” she murmurs. 

I don’t know if I should take this as a snide or concerned statement. I opt for just shutting up. I know remaining silent doesn’t help my case, but it doesn’t plummet either. I just sit with her thumbs kissing my skin and look at the dirt. 

“I don’t mean this as a rude thing,” she continues. “You just look underfed, not well taken care of. You look whiter than normal and it’s been hot out.” 

I tsk. “Okay,” I moan. “Ellie, I'm more than okay. I just sat inside all summer. You wouldn’t know because you were gone for half the summer.” 

“–And  here for the other half, so I know something’s been up.” 

I don’t like that she’s trying to crack me open. If I wanted her to know about the eating issue, I would have brought it up. But it’s none of her concern, because it’s not even her body. 

“I am fine,” I say sternly. “You don’t have to worry about me.” 

She shoots up and looks over me, trying to intimidate me. She never has but now, I feel like a rock has slid into my throat and won’t go away. “Why aren’t you eating?” 

“I am!” I say, now almost shouting. 

“No,” she says, violently shaking her head. “You aren’t, and I care about you, Mila. So please” –she kneels on the ground in front of me– “tell me what’s going on.” 

I stare at her, my eyes drilling into her own. Gloss covers the surface and I realize my safety might concern her more than I thought. I shift in my seat and I take her hands. “I haven’t been eating, you’re right. I wanted to lose weight and all the working out and cutting out bad stuff wasn’t working. So I just stopped.” 

She leans forward and kisses me. It’s a small peck, but it feels like a bigger gesture than it is. Her face pulls away from mine but I follow her. I kiss her gently, my nose softly rubbing against hers and our breaths panning against one another’s faces. It’s the only breeze that alerts us that we’re here, and this isn’t some dream. 

I speak first. “I’m sorry,” I say. 

She pulls away and kisses both my palms. “No. Don’t apologize for not telling me. I just wish you trusted me enough to tell me this. I want to help you any way I can. I know it’s not something easy to fix, but I’m willing to sit down and help you.” 

I kiss her cheek. I mumble a thank you in her ear and rest my forehead on her shoulder. 

“So,” she chuckles two seconds later, “what are we going to do about this kiss.” 

I shrug and scoot back. “What do you want to do about this kiss?” 

She chuckles and stands up, pulling me with her. She grabs the leftovers and we race to her Jeep. I slide right in and immediately, we make out. It’s heated, and I don’t know if we should keep on doing it. 

I actually think we should wait. I kindly and slowly pull away, a trail of saliva that once linked us falling onto the fat of our lips. 

Ellie takes this as a sign to get going. She turns on her car and drives back to school, where no one but our teachers care for us.

[anonymouspuzzler]

ok back to your regularly scheduled Lobotos. featuring design notes, parenthood speculation, and some primo Crossover Content slash preview of some more shit you're gonna be seeing in this queue real soon

(alt text/image IDs under the cut!)

[Image 1 ID: A design sketch of Loboto standing upright with a neutral expression, wearing only black boxer shorts, missing his prosthetic arm and shower cap. His left arm is sticking straight out in a t-pose. There is a detail shot of his head in profile to the side. Next to him are design notes reading: - about 1 head taller than Sasha/Milla, nearly 2x coach - stick build, but with tummy; legs taper out at ankles - numerous stitches on head, sloppy stitches on arm stump, scar on side (stolen kidney), throw misc injuries (scars, burns etc.) where appropriate - sparse body hair; hair on head is in uneven chunks (growing unevenly around scar tissue) - avoid making feet too long, they're actually pretty tiny - extremely minimal chin; profile should always look slouched at neck/shoulders]

[Image 2 ID: An additional design sketch based on the previous image, showing how the shower cap and prosthetic layer on top of Loboto's body type; the glove on his left arm and a pair of torn-up jeans have been drawn in as well. Next to him are design notes reading: - prosthetic slightly out of proportion with real arm, a little too short - harness tightens at shoulder, possibly buckles for straps underneath, release at end of sleeve where wooden arm starts? (built to stay on tight, not for easy removal; muted pain response minimizes discomfort) - forearm & hand is fully just a pepper grinder with thin claws (leave deliberately unclear how it moves; unconscious TK?) - in close-up make bolts & stitches uneven and sloppy; done one-handed, no finesse, poss. w/non dominant hand - 3 cap patches, far left, small far right, one at top/back; covers most hair & scars - pants should always be a little too short unless implied to be specially tailored; he's too dang tall for fast fashion - all "his" clothes should be worn out, torn up, poorly/not repaired; intact clothes should be visibly stolen slash "borrowed"]

[Image 3 ID: Three drawovers of the Loboto design from the first image, showing him in different sets of clothing, labeled "alt outfit samples". The top option shows him in a baggy t-shirt that hangs off his shoulders and only reaches midway down his stomach, and drawstring-tied shorts that are baggy at the legs, cinched extremely tight at the waist, and barely cover his boxers; this set is labeled "coach". The rightmost option shows him in a bulky turtleneck with the sleeves rolled up, over which is a long sleeveless dress; this set is labeled "sasha & milla". The final, bottom-and-leftmost option shows him in his usual boots and torn-up jeans, as well as a better-fitting turtleneck with only the sleeve on his prosthetic rolled up, and an apron reaching mid-thigh with the Psychonauts logo on the top-left corner; this set is labeled "uniform".]

[Image 4-5 IDs: A two-panel black-and-white comic showcasing Puzz thinking through Loboto design options. A doodle of Puzz, wearing a t-shirt and overalls and looking thoughtful, thinks "I wonder... what IS the best way to stylize Loboto with his eyes closed?" There are three drawings of Loboto's head with his jaw hanging slightly open as he snores. In the first, there are half-moon shapes drawn in his lenses to imply closed eyes, labeled "just shaping the eye part is simple, but do you lose the 'lens' feel...?" The second shows him with his eyes looking completely normal, labeled "is it funnier if his eyes always look open?" The third shows half-moon eyes and the lens frames shaped to match, labeled "you COULD squash and stretch the lenses but that reads like eyebrows..." The second panel, labeled "SOLUTION:" in bold text, shows Loboto lying in bed asleep with his prosthetic removed and left hand draped over his chest, snoring. Rather than any of the previous eye options, he's just wearing a quilted sleep mask over his eyes, with the shape of the lenses visibly bulging underneath.]

[Image 6 ID: A two-panel comic of Loboto and Oleander, asleep next to each other in bed. Loboto is wearing a baggy t-shirt and has his prosthetic off, his left arm behind his head under the pillow, his head tilted to one side. Oleander is to his left, right arm behind him under the pillow, left arm crossed over his chest. The second panel shows Loboto's eye lenses suddenly lighting up with an audible "CLICK.", making Oleander jolt awake.]

[Image 7 ID: A real photo of a sculpted molar on a chain hanging from a big round business sign-frame, which previously made the rounds on Twitter. Drawn on top is Loboto, beaming and holding a nervous Raz over his head, shouting "RAZ GET THE TOOTH".]

[Image 8 ID: A drawing of Loboto reaching up rapturously towards a photo of a calzone. I can't explain this one.]

[Image 9 ID: A drawing of a shirtless Loboto, wearing his shower cap but not his prosthetic, sitting up sleepily in a pile of pillows. He is covered from the waist down by a thick blanket with a wavy pattern.]

[Image 10 ID: A black and white drawing of Loboto, grinning and giving a thumbs-up at the camera with his left hand, and the G-Man from Half-Life, smirking at the camera and holding his left arm at his side, shaking hands. I can't really explain this one either.]

[Image 11 ID (MAJOR PSYCHONAUTS 2 SPOILERS IN DESCRIPTION): A four-panel comic of Loboto. In the first, he is grinning nervously, left hand on his hip and right prosthetic arm gesturing vaguely, saying "Sorry, kid, can't tell ya aaanything 'bout this job"; in the background, roughly where he's gesturing, is a figment of Truman's brain case on a shelf. In the second panel, his grin has grown even more anxious, and he is shrugging up towards a lamp that resembles Gristol's crown, saying "Yeah, just. Nothin' I can say 'bout my boss." The third shows him standing on a representation of the swirling pattern outside the Astralathe, gesturing broadly with a very anxious expression, under an even larger crown-lamp and surrounded by framed posters with various telling images (an egg in a basket, the mobster tooth fairy, Maligula's eyes, a box with an arrow pointing inside, a skull with crossed-out eyes) and text ("SHHHH", "NOT YOUR REAL DAD", "HELP", "VISIT DROWNED GRULOVIA", "THEY HAVE MY KID'S ADDRESS"). Loboto, frantic, screams "LOOK AT ME HERE SAYING NOTHING *OUT LOUD* ABOUT MY BOSS". The final panel shows a confused Raz and frustrated Sasha standing nearby, both in their suits, Sasha smoking a cigarette and saying, "He's giving us nothing". Loboto, collapsed in an anguished heap on the floor, whimpers, "I'm going to die here."]

[Image 12 ID: A black-and-white drawing of Loboto, grinning and giving two thumbs-up, wearing a crop-top t-shirt reading "WORLD'S LEAST-ISH ARRESTED DAD".]

[Image 13 ID: A black-and-white drawing of Loboto leaning out of the window of a beat-up, welded-together franken-car, smiling widely and waving with his prosthetic arm. There is smoke emitting from the back, a vanity plate reading "T33TH80", and bumper stickers reading "HONK IF U HAVE TEETH" and "MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT". Standing behind the car, slouched-over and holding a suitcase in his left hand, is Dart.]

[Image 14 ID: A black-and-white drawing of Loboto speaking into a phone held in his left hand, twirling the cord in one of the fingers of his prosthetic. He says into the receiver, "Heyyy, kiddo, it's dad. Listen, you know cool pre-teen slang, don't you? Can you explain 'cringe' to me real quick? I gotta figure out if I'm being flirted with or insulted or both."]

[Image 15 ID: A sketchy black-and-white drawing of Loboto speaking on a phone, sitting backwards in a wooden chair. The phone cradle is sitting on the floor, and the cord is tangled in the fingers of Loboto's prosthetic, which is hanging over the back of the chair. He glares at the receiver and says, "Look, I know the brain's still in his head, but you didn't *specify* it had to be *removed* in the contract, so I say you owe me that bonus! C'mon, work with me here! My kid wants to go to band camp!" Phoebe, sitting in a beanbag to the left of him listening to a walkman, looks up disdainfully and corrects, "I said I wanted my tracks *on* Bandcamp, dad."]

[Image 16 ID: A black-and-white illustration of Phoebe sitting at a drumset, with Loboto lying on the floor in front of it, reading a dentistry book, head leaning against the bass drum. Phoebe is holding a drumstick in each hand and glaring down at the set, steam coming out of her ears, saying, "Ooough...!! This stupid solo's getting me so steamed!!!" Loboto replies, "Mmm, steam's fine, but no fire, sweetie, all right? Remember the hospital blocked daddy's number."]

[Image 17-18 IDs: A two-panel comic of Loboto and Phoebe. In the first, Loboto is kneeling on the ground hugging Phoebe tightly, shoulders shaking and a tear leaking out of his eye. Phoebe, dangling slightly even with Loboto crouching, grabbing at his arm with one hand, groans, "Daaaaad you're so *embarrassing*." The second panel shows Loboto, now standing with Phoebe hanging limply in his arms and looking back at him with mild irritation, staring dumbfounded at a wrecked, burning car. The speech balloons read: Loboto: "This isn't one of yours is it sweetie" Phoebe: "No one can prove anything" Loboto: "okay it's just daddy's car is still three towns over and we were gonna get a ride home from daddy's boyfriend in this car" Phoebe: "your *what,*"]

[Image 19 ID: A black-and-white illustration of Dr. Habit from Smile for Me and Loboto having an animated conversation. Puzz's anxious yet furious face is barely peeking into frame from the very bottom of the image.]

[Image 20 ID: A black-and-white illustration featuring Loboto and Phoebe alongside Habit, Putunia and Kamal from Smile for Me. Phoebe, grinning mischievously, is using pyrokinesis to light Putunia's boxing glove on fire, to her visible delight. Habit has gone into a panicked crouch at the sight, while Loboto, looking over a jar of teeth, looks over in mild surprise. Kamal is running up holding a fire extinguisher from the other side of the screen, motion-blurred and screaming.]

[icouldntcareless22]

Mrs. Grinch & Mr. Sunshine

A request from @lethallyprotected about sunshine! Jisung x grumpy! Reader. Hope you like it!!!

If you have any requests I will be glad to listen!

Barista! Jisung x Customer! Reader (f)

Acquaintances to lovers, fluff

Words: 1,4k

"Is your father a thief? Because he stole all the world's stars to put them into your eyes!" You stared dead into his eyes, pondering your life choices and most importantly your barista choices. He smiled brightly, too brightly, for the unholy hour you were both forced to wake up and handed you your first cup of the day, filled to the brim with coffee.

"No, but he must be a ring leader with all the clowns I attract" you huffed out, hand already spread out to accept your drink from the lousy brunette. You greedily swallowed a big gulp of it, your eyes flying to his messy hair and crisp apron. He must have gotten up earlier than you and you cried a little inside.

"Ohh Come on! It's Valentine's, princess. Everybody deserves a compliment!" He whined, flashing a big heart shaped grin that fit the holiday to the glove.

You furrowed your brows "Don't call me princess" you bit, annoyance obvious in your tone. You weren't one of the girls that fell with that kind of line.

Rather than princess, witchling fit you better.

He blinked at you innocently and opened his mouth once again "Mrs Grinch then?" He inquired, one eyebrow high but upon seeing your deadpan expression, he exploded with laughter. He literally threw himself on the countertop, almost doubling from laughter on top of it. You huffed a breath, left him some of your change and walked towards the door. "See you later Mrs Grinch!"

You didn't bother looking at him instead you waved a hand over your shoulder as a goodbye and called back "Sure Mr Sunshine"

...

You weren't running.

You were calm.

You were quiet..

You were in your zone...

And so fucking late!

You speed walked to the cafe on your way to class. The morning philosophy class you had to take this semester wouldn't be so bad with a coffee in your hand. Or so you had convinced yourself.

You threw open the gigantic glass doors and rushed to join the queue of the grumpy students trying to get their dose of caffeine. You were just about to reach goe your phone to busy yourself till you reach the counter but a call stopped you.

"Mrs Grinch!" Ryunjin shouted.

You blinked. It sounded familiar...

"Mrs Grinch!" She shouted, this time her gaze locking with yours. You checked if she was looking at someone else around you but when you saw no one giving her the time of day, you raised one brow and pointed at yourself.

She enthusiastically nodded so you hesitantly left the queue and approached her. You stopped in front of her but didn't said anything. So she grinned, pushed the cup towards you and quoted "From Mr. Sunshine" You let out a breath at this. Jisung had his ways, that was certain. You thanked her, but she dismissed you with a wave and a knowing smile and ushered you out.

You tentatively took a sip.

Black, just how you liked it.

And he knew that.

...

This continued for several days and you slowly started to make your appearance, besides the busy mornings, to the afternoon shifts of a certain loud barista.

"Hello Mrs Grinch! I see today you are not in a hurry!" He greeted you cheerily, but you couldn't pay attention at him. You only could stare at his hair.

"You dyed it" you said instead. His lovely chestnut hair was replaced by a bark blue black that was enhancing his features sure, but it also gave him an edge that you weren't used to.

His hands immediately flew to his tresses, giving them a tug. "Does it look bad?" He wondered quietly, almost insecurely. But that couldn't be, loud he may be but insecure he was not. And he had not a single reason to be.

"No. They look good. It's just not.. very you" you concluded as you tapped your chin in your search for the right words.

He smiled slyly. "What is very me?" he questioned, leaning over the counter that always separated you. You stared into his eyes.Shrugged.

"Sunshine core, I guess. Black to go" you changed the flow of the conversation quickly. He whined for a bit but, eventually, he turned around to make your coffee.

"Why you always leave? Can't you stay here for coffee for once?" He asked, still whining cutely to you. You paused your search for money to give him a confused look. Why would you? He saw the question in your eyes and exclaimed "I would be over the beans happy! Get it?" His giggles surrounded you.

You wouldn't be able to focus in there. The music, the chats and...his laughter would, surely, be distracting. So instead of an answer you told him "Keep the change" and walked out of the door.

...

Once more you were in the cafe for leisure rather than need. You had wanted to relax and enjoy a cup in your own pace. You entered and quietness welcomed you. From the melodious jazz music till the airiness from inside the bar brought you a sense of calm.

Until you saw Jisung'a face.

His bright heart shaped smile, that you had used to seeing upon his face, was missing. In fact his lips were turned downwards almost in a pout, but sadder. You roused the cashier slowly. "Who is the Grinch now?" You asked, gently without your usual bite. Today seemed like he could do without it.

He met your eyes a with small smile, that seemed all he could muster at the moment. He turned and started making your coffee, without a single word. So you stood there and watched him. Usually in his haste to turn around again and talk to you, he would rush and make small mistakes, he would curse or laugh the pain away and he would ask about your day. Today was not usually. So you asked instead. "Are you ok Mr. Sunshine?" Low and gently. You were afraid of raising your voice to a normal tone, as if it would shatter a very needed barrier he had build.

He sighed.

The sound came from somewhere deep insiyhis chest. "One of my friends...he had a fight with his girlfriend..and when I took her side, he said a couple of things.. Nothing you should be worried about. I am fine." he concluded, eyes on your cup, on the check out, anywhere but you.

"I see" you hummed. And began gathering your things and your cup from the counter. "I hope you don't worry yourself too much, Jisung. Talk to him. It's not fair to you to be uncomfortable or insecure about something he said in anger and, probably, didn't even mean." You said and left the shop before he could answer.

On your way to your dorm you couldn't get out of your mind the image of Jisung pouting and avoiding your gaze. You stood still for a moment and signed before turning around. You knew just what to do to cheer him up. So you walked to the nearest bakery, bought the freshest and loveliest cheesecake and made a bee line to the coffee shop, where the unhappy barista worked. You opened the enormous doors again, this time more cautiously.

You checked the tables and the stairs, but the boy was nowhere in sight so you approached the counter, fully prepared to leave the cheesecake and leave. But, of course, it was that moment he chose to return to his post.

His eyes widened a tiny bit, but he quickly put a small smile on his face and approached you. "Hello again. Want anything else?" He asked quietly, his eyes fleeting from yours again.

Now or never. You told yourself.

You placed the baked good on the countertop and pushed it lightly towards him. "No. But this is for you. Hope you feel better" you muttered and speeded towards the exit yet again. The fresh air hit you but before you could step further into him and away from the cafe, your name was being called. Or rather you peculiar nickname.

"Mrs Grinch! Y/N!" Jisung called, breath elaborated from his jog.You turned to him, unsure of what to make of this sudden persuasion. You raised a brow and jotted your chin towards him, a silent invitation to speak first.

He looked very pink in this new and natural night, you thought. "So....ummm..I was wondering..if you.. would like to go out sometime." he asked, nervousness taking over. "With me!" He quietly squealed, almost forgetting the most important part.

You looked at him, really looked.

A sweet boy, who knew how you took your coffee, asked how your day was, how you were feeling and what plans did you have.

Were those enough to like him? No.

We're those enough to get you interested in knowing him? Yes.

And you got the feeling that you would come to like him easily. He was sweet, cheery and warm.

Your personal sunshine.

"I would love to go out with you"

♡⁠♡♡