#hes not straight either.....................

[gf2bellamy]

hi lovely you know that part in s6ep19 where Spencer says he can’t sleep and can’t focus on cases and he looks like he just needs a BIG HUG could you please write something about reader comforting him- either as bau agent or as just significant other because no one else will do the comfort justice the way you can okay love you bye

sleep — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship , mention of spencer looking / being exhausted a/n: hi hi !! honestly that ep always makes my heart hurt bc he looked so so so so exhausted :( i hope i did your request justice <3

You should have felt hurt. Or sad. Or at least disappointed. But you didn’t.

Maybe you were too used to this by now—the way Spencer threw himself into work until his body had no choice but to shut down. The way he lost track of time, of himself, of you.

Still, you hadn’t expected to hear it from Penelope.

She had called you after they returned from the case, her voice hesitant, choosing her words carefully. That alone told you enough. Spencer hadn’t stopped by your apartment like he usually did.

No texts. No calls. Nothing.

“He wouldn’t stop working,” she had said. “Hotch had to practically drag him up to his hotel room, and even then, I don’t think he actually slept.”

That was worse than normal.

You knew Spencer had a habit of pushing himself past his limits, but this time, he hadn’t even come to you. And that was what worried you the most.

So you didn’t care if you seemed clingy or overbearing. You didn’t care if he might have wanted space. You weren’t going to let him spiral alone.

Grabbing your jacket, you shoved your arms through the sleeves, barely taking the time to lock the door behind you as you rushed out of your apartment. Fifteen minutes later, you were standing in front of Spencer’s door, your heart hammering against your ribs as you knocked.

There was a long pause. Then, finally, the door creaked open.

The moment you saw him, you had to fight the urge to physically react.

He looked exhausted.

His hair was more disheveled than usual, messy strands sticking up like he’d been running his fingers through it nonstop. The dark circles under his eyes were worse than you’d ever seen them—deep, almost bruised-looking hollows. His usually sharp cheekbones were even more pronounced.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was hoarse, rough like he hadn’t used it in hours.

“Checking up on you,” you said simply.

You stepped inside without giving him the chance to protest, pushing the door closed behind you. Spencer just stood there, watching as you toed off your shoes and shrugged out of your jacket, hanging it neatly on the rack by the door—like this was just any other night, like nothing was wrong.

But something was wrong.

And you weren’t going to let him brush it aside.

“Okay, come on.” You reached for his hand as you pulled him toward his bedroom.

He didn’t resist.

He followed wordlessly, exhaustion weighing down his every step. Inside, you went straight to his closet, flipping through the hangers until you found what you were looking for. One of his favorite sweaters—the soft brown one that you’d seen him wear countless times.

You pulled it from the hanger and turned back to him, pressing it into his hands.

“Put this on,” you murmured.

Spencer stared down at the sweater for a moment before looking at you, his gaze unreadable.

“Who told you?” he asked as he pulled the fabric over his head, the movement slow and tired.

“Penelope.”

“Of course.” He sighed, adjusting the sleeves, his fingers lingering on the hem. Now dressed in the familiar comfort of his sweater, he looked back at you. “Now what?”

You didn’t reply. Instead, you stepped closer, wrapping your arms around him without hesitation.

Spencer froze.

For a moment, he didn’t move—like he wasn’t sure how to react. But you didn’t let go. Your arms stayed firm around his neck, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater as you pressed yourself against him.

With your lips close to his ear, you murmured, “I don’t know what’s bothering you, but I love you, Spence. And I’m here for you.”

That was all it took.

The tension in his body gave way as he exhaled a shaky breath, and then, finally, he hugged you back.

His arms tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, his grip almost desperate. His lips brushed against your shoulder, lingering there.

You were pretty sure you stood there for at least five minutes, wrapped in each other’s warmth, neither of you speaking. You only pulled back when you felt him loosen his grip first.

Leaning back slightly, you placed your hands on his face, your thumbs gently tracing over the sharp planes of his cheekbones, soothing him. His skin was warm beneath your touch.

“You need to sleep,” you murmured, your gaze flickering over the dark circles under his eyes again.

“I can’t,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“You have to try.”

One of your hands drifted up, fingers slipping through his unruly curls, smoothing them down. A slow, comforting motion. He stayed quiet, his tired eyes searching yours like he was trying to memorize the way you looked at him.

After a moment, he finally spoke.

“Will you stay?” His voice was soft, hesitant, almost like he was afraid of the answer.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

“You have to ask?”

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something else, but before he could, you dropped your hand from his hair and turned toward his bed. Pulling back the blankets, you glanced at him expectantly.

“Come on,” you urged.

Spencer hesitated for only a second before stepping forward. He sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face, exhaustion radiating from every movement. You slipped in beside him, settling against the pillows, waiting for him to follow.

And he did.

Without a word, he laid down, turning onto his side so he could face you.

You reached out, your fingers grazing his wrist before sliding down to intertwine with his.

“Close your eyes, Spence,” you whispered.

And, for the first time in days, he did.

Spencer stayed beside you, but sleep still wasn’t coming easily. Even as his body slumped against the bed, his fingers twitched slightly, his breaths uneven. His mind was still running, and you could feel it—like an engine that refused to shut off.

You sighed, adjusting your position. You guided him toward you without a word.

Spencer blinked at you, puzzled, until you tugged on his arm again. “Spence, come here.”

He hesitated for only a second before shifting, laying his head against your shoulder, his body half-draped over yours. His long limbs folded awkwardly at first, like he wasn’t sure how to settle, but then he exhaled, the weight of him sinking into you.

You ran your fingers through his hair, smoothing down the curls. “You’re really bad at this whole relaxing thing, you know that?”

He let out a quiet huff against your shoulder. “Yeah, I’ve been told.”

“I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised. Your brain is like a hamster on a wheel. A very fast, very anxious hamster.”

Spencer made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “That’s… not inaccurate.”

You grinned a little, continuing to comb your fingers through his hair. “Well, tell the hamster to take a break. He’s had a long day.”

Spencer hummed, shifting slightly, pressing his face closer into the crook of your neck. “The hamster is skeptical.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “The hamster needs to trust me.”

He was quiet for a moment, his breathing a little slower now. “I do.” His voice was softer, more tired.

You smiled, rubbing slow circles against his back. “Good.”

It still took a while. He fidgeted, exhaled sharply once or twice, but you just kept holding him, kept whispering small, mindless things—about how tired you were, how unfair it was that he had such nice hair when he barely even tried, how you were absolutely stealing one of his sweaters in the morning.

And finally, finally, his breathing evened out.

His body went still, warm and heavy against yours, his grip on your shirt slackening as he actually drifted off.

You smirked, murmuring softly, “See? Even the hamster gets tired eventually.”

And, for the first time all night, he didn’t respond.

[monzabee]

the nanny - a. hotchner

criminal minds masterlist || part of the nanny series

Summary: there is a mysterious woman visiting hotch’s office... it’s his nanny? 

Pairing: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader

Word Count: 1.1k 

Warnings: nosy profilers, other than that none  

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

“Excuse me, can you point me to the direction of Aaron Hotchner’s office?”  

Thirteen words.  

Thirteen words is exactly what it takes for the BAU to lose their minds over the fact that there is a woman who is visiting their boss.  

“Do you think that’s his girlfriend?” Penelope whispers, failing rather miserably, as they watch you retreat into Hotch’s office.  

Emily’s eyebrows raise at the insinuation, “No way, when was the last time Hotch was even on a date?” 

“Not for at least two years,” Spencer scoffs, earning glaring looks from three of his co-workers. “What?” He asks, innocently shrugging his shoulders.  

“Look at her,” JJ shakes her head, she isn’t she isn’t convinced. “She doesn’t seem like just a random visitor.” 

“Maybe she’s a lawyer,” Derek offers, arms crossed as he leans against the desk. “Or, God forbid, a new profiler.” 

Penelope gasps dramatically, pouting. “Another profiler? In our sacred little family?” 

“I don’t think so.” Emily tilts her head, watching through the glass windows of Hotch’s office. “He doesn’t look like he’s briefing her. He looks… I don’t know. Different.” 

“Different how?” Spencer asks, squinting as if he could analyze the interaction better. 

Before anyone can respond, the blinds to Hotch’s office suddenly snap shut. The team collectively inhales. 

“Oh my God.” Penelope clutches at Derek’s arm. “He never closes the blinds. Never.” 

JJ exhales, shaking her head. “I don’t know what’s crazier. The fact that Hotch might actually be dating someone… or the fact that none of us had any idea.” 

If there is one thing Aaron Hotchner is good at, it would be compartmentalizing. He had to, as a unit chief who wanted to protect his team from all the bureaucratic headache that he had to endure, or as a father who wanted to shield his son from his line of work as much as possible.  

So, it came as no surprise to him to not talk about his nanny—well, not his nanny per se, but rather Jack’s nanny.  

“You’ve caused quite a scene downstairs, you know that, right?” Aaron asks you as he makes his way back to his desk from the small window overlooking the ballpen.  

“I only asked them where to find your office,” you shrug, hands folded primly on your lap — something rather uncharacteristic now that Aaron realizes. “They were very nice, though.” 

Aaron sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They're not used to seeing unfamiliar faces here. Especially in my office.” 

You raise an amused brow. “I figured as much from the way they all gawked at me like I had grown a second head.” 

He exhales, shaking his head. “You should've called. I would've met you downstairs.” 

“And miss the chance to see your team’s collective meltdown?” You smirk, crossing one leg over the other. “No way.” 

Hotch gives you a pointed look, but there's the ghost of a smile threatening to break through his usual stoic expression. “What are you doing here?” 

“I brought you lunch,” you simply shrug, placing the brown paper bag on his desk and leaning back into the chair, “I got you a sandwich from that place you like near the park.” 

Hotch looks at the bag, then back at you, his expression unreadable. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

You roll your eyes. “I know I didn’t have to. But let’s be honest, you were either going to skip lunch entirely or eat some sad excuse for a meal at your desk.” 

Aaron exhales through his nose, the closest thing to amusement you’ve seen from him in days. “I eat just fine.” 

You arch an eyebrow. “Last week, I caught you eating dry cereal straight from the box while reviewing case files.” He opens his mouth to say something in retaliation, but you stop him before he can get a word out, “Do not even dare to say it was late, I left you a whole plate of food out.” 

He gives you a pointed look, but you only grin in response. There’s a beat of silence before he reaches for the bag, opening it to inspect the contents. His lips press together in what you assume is reluctant approval. “Roast beef?” he asks. 

“With extra mustard, just how you like it,” you confirm. “I even got you one of those overpriced iced teas you pretend not to like.” 

He pulls out the bottle, eyes flicking up to you in mild disbelief. “I should consider adding you to my team.” 

“Jack and I have a system,” you reply breezily as you shrug again. “He tells me your weird habits, and I use them against you.” 

That actually earns you a soft chuckle, and for a brief moment, he looks lighter. Less like the hardened unit chief, more like the man who lets his son climb onto his back during bedtime stories. 

But the moment doesn’t last long. His gaze shifts back to you, more serious now. “Was this really just a lunch delivery, or is there something else?” 

Damn profilers. You hesitate, then sigh. “Jack asked me to check on you.” Hotch stills. “He’s fine,” you add quickly, knowing where his mind just went. “He just… he worries. He said you looked ‘extra tired’ this morning, which, considering your usual level of exhaustion, is saying something, and I’d thought I’d check up on you.” 

Aaron closes his eyes briefly before exhaling. “I don’t want him worrying about me.” 

“He’s a kid, Mister Hotchner. He’s going to worry about his dad.” You soften your tone. “And honestly? I get it. You do look extra tired.” 

He looks at you then, really looks at you, as if trying to figure out how you always manage to see right through him. 

“You know,” you say, leaning forward slightly, “you’re allowed to take a break every once in a while. Eat your sandwich. Maybe even come home before Jack falls asleep tonight.” 

Hotch doesn’t answer right away, but eventually, he reaches for the sandwich, unwrapping it with a sigh of resignation. “I’ll try.” 

“Good,” you say with a satisfied nod, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off your skirt. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go face the firing squad out there. I’m assuming Penelope is probably two seconds away from storming in here for answers.” 

Hotch smirks, shaking his head. “You brought this on yourself.” 

“I promised Jack,” you say over your shoulder before heading toward the door. 

And sure enough, the second you step out of the office, six pairs of eyes snap to you, curiosity burning in their expressions. 

You grin. “What? Never seen someone bring their boss lunch before?” 

You can hear the pandemonium that ensues as you make your way towards the exit. 

[witherby]

If the last fic takes place before the Batfam knew about Conners existence, I just wanna see Mouse explain to them that a Superman cosplayer saved them lol

I love that. "Yeah some cosplayer saved my life. 10/10 would let him do it again."

Littlest Wayne: Information Gathering

Masterlist is Here!

"You and Superman need to come straight to the Cave when you return to Earth."

"I miss you, too, babe," Hal smirks, gliding just above the ground on a planet he and Clark are guarding for a major diplomatic conference. "Tryna get the debrief out of the way so we can get me out of by boxer briefs right after?"

"Mouse was in a hostage situation in Metropolis today that was too overcast for them to get out of."

Hal's good mood plummets. He almost shouts for Clark to get his ass over to him so they can immediately head back.

"Are they —"

"Alive, and relatively unharmed considering the severity of the event."

"What does relatively mean in this context, B?" Hal snaps. "Relatively unharmed by vigilante standards or by civilian standards? Are they in the hospital?"

"Some bad bruising to the temple and a low-grade burn on the right arm. They're safe."

Bruce's calm tone and steady cadence helps relax Hal. His shoulders un-tense and he lets out a sigh.

"Alright. But there's more to it, otherwise you wouldn't have contacted me."

Bruce hums in that quiet way he does when he's pleased by Hal's deductive reasoning. It makes him smile and miss him that much more, and he's only been gone two days.

"They were rescued by a new Meta. Called himself Superman."

"Look at you, crackin' jokes on an official League line. Never thought I'd see the day!"

"..."

"You're not joking. There's a second Superman flying around?"

"A Superboy, by the looks of it. He's the real deal — the flight, the strength, and the suit all points to another Kryptonian. This will make three, after Supergirl."

Hal furrows his brow. He lets his feet hit the ground and starts to pace, kicking up little bits of purple dirt. This planet is ridiculously fragile. It's part of the reason he and Clark are protecting it during these peace talks.

"Is it a baby? Don't remember either Kara or Lois looking pregnant."

"A teenager. Around Mouse's age, by the looks of him, and very inexperienced from what scattered footage I can find of the event."

"Which makes no sense. There's something up if he's a teen but still can't use his powers right. Supes told us he could hone his almost perfectly before he was old enough to drive a car. A new scheme by Luthor or Waller, maybe?"

"I knew I married you for a reason."

"Keep praising me like that and there won't be time for a debrief when I get home."

Bruce hums again. His considering sound. The Green Lantern suit feels very constricting, all of a sudden.

"You don't need to rush your mission to get back. There is one more thing you need to know prior to return, however."

"I'm all ears."

"Mouse described the Superboy as... handsome."

Hal falls to his hands and knees, kicking up a small cloud of purple dust.

"No, no, nooo! They're just a baby!"

"Well. They're seventeen."

"Well I say they're too young for romance! Yesterday they were afraid of Cooties!!"

"Time flies. It's inevitable."

"We're gonna wrap these peace talks up tonight."

Bruce sounds amused on the other end of the line, like he hasn't just crushed Hal's entire world three sentences ago.

"You aren't due back for another week."

"We're wrapping it up tonight!"

"Okay. Agent A will know to set your plate tomorrow."

"Can he make some of those mini quiches? I'm gonna need comfort food to get over this."

"I'll pass the request along."

"And can you wear the see-through robe you were given after you shot that Dior commercial?"

"...if you slick back your hair, yes."

Hal grins. He's still not happy about his youngest kid growing up so fast, but this is a nice consolation prize.

--

True to his word, Hal and Clark get the peace talks concluded by nightfall and head back to Earth. Clark is given the general run-down of what happened on the way, and his curiosity and insistence on getting answers lets Hal know it'll be a long night. He's gonna slick his hair back anyway. He misses his husband, dammit.

You sit at the meeting table in the Bat Cave, feet propped on top exactly like Jason does it, with your hands stuffed in the pockets of your hoodie. You stare groggily at Hal and Clark as they fly in from their trip, shuffling to your feet to give them both sleepy hugs.

"Welcome back," you yawn. "Dad said you have questions?"

"Hey, Mousey," Hal grins, ruffling your hair. You grumble and wave his hand away, then grumble louder when Clark does the exact same thing. "Just got some follow-up questions about the field trip, then we'll let you get back to bed."

You go back to your seat and slump into it, rubbing your eyes. "Kay."

"Did the boy you met tell you his name?" Clark asks, sitting to your right. There's a dossier sitting on the table that he flips open, glancing over the information Bruce collected with Tim's help. He frowns at a still image pulled from his interview on TV.

"Just called himself Superman," you explain. "He had a version of your suit on. It looked legit. I'm guessing he's not your son, based on the way you're looking at the file."

"He is not. Did he seem to be acting maliciously or under someone's control? Was he flesh and blood or robotic?" Clark asks. "Did he hurt anyone? Did he try to hurt you?"

"No," you say, "he was warm. He's flesh and blood and definitely saved us from that fire. In fact he seemed...uh.."

You wave your hand around vaguely and pick over the best way to phrase this.

"Okay! There's a boy at school named Rory. He transferred to Gotham Academy this year after being homeschooled."

"Mousey," Hal speaks up, "I know you're tired, but we kinda gotta stay on track —"

"I am!" You insist. "I am, I swear. Look, it was obvious Rory was homeschooled because he didn't know how to, like, socialize properly? He asked a lot of questions that feel like common-sense if you're used to going to public schools and talking to people outside your family. The Superman cosplayer kind of acted like that."

"Cosplayer?" Clark mouths at Hal, who waves him off.

"So you think he's never been out there doing any hero stuff before that day?"

You shrug and nod. "I think he's never been out at all before that day. He reminded me a lot of Rory on his first day of school."

"But he didn't hurt you?" Hal asks.

"I promise, he didn't. He spoke to me like twice and then brought me to the EMTs to get looked at. Then Jason showed up and brought me home after making sure the school knew I wouldn't be taking the bus back from Metropolis."

"Last question," Clark promises, recapturing your attention. "Can you find him right now? With your shadows?"

"Uh, I can try."

Your gaze becomes a little distant. The shadows cast from one of the overhead lights shifts and dissolves into the ground, zipping out of the cave. Hal and Clark wait silently as you work, feeling for the presence of the boy that saved you just a day before.

"... M e t r o p o l i s..." You mutter, voice taking on that faint, echoing quality it does whenever you speak through the darkness. "...A r o o m...c o n c i o u s...k n o w s I s e e..."

"Come back, Mouse," Hal says, urgent. You take a moment to get your bearings, yawning and rubbing your face. "He knows you used your power to find him?"

You nod. "He saw my shadow move in the corner of his room. Guys, it's so bare and dark. He's got a cot, an alarm clock, and one blanket in there. It looks like some room you'd stick a sick person in to quarantine them."

"Where in Metropolis is he? That doesn't sound like the Solitary Confinement cells in the prison."

"It's not a jail. It looked like a lab, I think?"

"Lex Luthor," Hal and Clark state at the same time. Clark stands up, drawing you into another gentle hug, then heads for the exit.

"Thank you for your help, Mouse! Sleep well."

"Bye, uncle Clark. Have a good night," you call after him. When Hal stands, you rise with him, stretching. "Can I go to bed, now?"

"Yeah, hon," Hal nods, pressing his hand to your back and guiding you to the stairs. "We'll head up together. I'll tell your dad what we learned when he comes back from patrol."

"Kay," you mumble, climbing the steps with another wide yawn. "M'sleeping in tomorrow. Being up at two am sucks."

Hal chuckles. "Yeah, it does. We'll put your breakfast in some Tupperware for when you get up, then."

Once the two of you climb through the grandfather clock and reenter the manor proper, you give Hal one more goodnight hug, then excuse yourself to go to bed. Your eyes are closed as you shuffle into your room and nudge the door closed behind you, navigating the space from memory. It's not until you start climbing back into bed that you feel a dip in it that shouldn't be there.

The dip of another person's weight.

You snap your eyes open and you inhale to scream. A hand presses itself to your mouth, and you find yourself staring at those brilliant blues from yesterday.

"Waitwaitwait-" the boy gasps, whisper-shouting. "Please!!"

You push his hand off and he lifts them both up in placation, floating off the bed and several feet away from you.

"What do you want!?" You whisper-yell back. "Why are you in my room!? That's creepy!"

He grimaces, knees curling towards his chest. In the low light, you can see color painting his cheeks.

"I wanted to come see you," he murmurs.

"Why?"

"I don't know your name."

You're completely flummoxed. You shake your head and shrug.

"Do you need to?" You ask.

The boy floats a little closer, his gaze intense. He looks at you like...he looks at you like you're the most important thing in the world right now. It makes your stomach swoop.

"Yes," he says, completely sincere. "I'm...I can't...there's this..."

His brow furrows. He's exceptionally easy to read, like he's never known how to be anything except fully, authentically himself. It's a welcome change in a family of vigilante detectives with emotional intimacy issues. It'll help you know if he's trying to deceive you, too.

Quietly, you give him your name. His eyes snap to yours and he repeats it, lips shaping the vowels and consonants with an unusual reverence. You can feel your own face getting a little warm.

"I'm...Conner," the boy says. His eyes dart to your mouth. You oblige.

"Hi, Conner," you mutter. His whole body un-tenses, looking like a puppet with his strings cut as he almost dangles in the air.

"Can I —" Conner cuts himself off. He drifts closer to you. You shift back, feeling cornered from where you kneel in your bed. "Ah. I wanted... I don't know how to say..."

Exhausted and confused, you gesture at him to hurry it up a little. You know you should probably alert someone that the new Meta boy is literally floating four feet away from you right now, but you know he isn't here to cause harm.

"It's late," you speak up. "Can you try a little harder to get the point across so I can sleep?"

"Yes," Conner says quickly, obediently. "Call for me."

You blink heavily. Your mind feels like sludge. "Elaborate."

"When you need something," he specifies. "If you're in danger, or lonely, or just...or just want to. Please. Call for me and I'll come to you."

"Why?" You yawn. It's getting harder to stay conscious. You let your body fall over until you collide with the pillows, eyes slipping closed. "Why me?"

Conner floats above you, reaching down to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with more reverence than is appropriate for having barely met. His fingers brush against the bruise on your temple, featherlight.

"Because it's you," he says, as your consciousness fades. "Something in my heart is yours... I hope that's okay."

You hum, managing a barely discernible "kay," in your last seconds of awareness before sleep pulls you under.

In your subconscious mind, you register warmth wrap around you for a moment, and then you're alone with nothing but a cracked window as evidence anyone had ever been there.

[cutiecusp]

Safe.

A continuation of this

A Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Soaps sister fic.

What happens when you knock on your brothers door for help, and Simon answers?

Tw. Brief dv implication, sexual talk, a kiss or two. MDNI.

The rain was heavy as you ran to your brothers house, heels long forgotten, just you in a ruined dress and a bruised eye.

You don't stop as you hear him calling your name, urging you to get back in the car, that it would never happen again.

Your heart is pounding in your chest as you reach your brothers flat, both hands battering down the door, hoping you were louder than the rain.

"Johnny, Johnny please!" You scream, your voice heavy with worry.

The door opens mid pound, making you stumble into a broad chest, and an accent unlike your brothers spits out.

"Oh little dove, who did this to you?"

You feel his gaze flicker down his body, his eyes stopping at the bruises on your face, the split lip, and then travelling down to your torn dress, your bare feet.

Ghost.

The one man you knew other than Johnny who would protect you with his life.

You shake, your body exhausted from the adrenaline boost, and being caught in the rain.

Ghost wraps his arms around you, gently pulling you out of the rain, passing you a blanket from the chair to cover yourself with.

You stiffen as you hear heavy footsteps behind you, the weight of them forever in your mind.

"I see, running straight into another man's arms, bitch?" Jake snarls, alcohol giving him the bravery to stand there in the doorway.

He doesn't get any further before you are shoved to the side, and a spurt of blood erupts from Jakes nose.

Ghost stands there in your place, snarling like a guard dog, shaking his knuckles.

"Watch your mouth around her." He advises cooly, taking in your (ex) boyfriend, his unnerving stare relentless in its dominance.

Jake staggers to his feet, clasping his nose.

"She ain't worth it, wouldn't give it up anyway, frigid cunt." He spits a ball of blood, landing on Ghosts shoes.

Ghosts eyes flick to yours, pushing you further in the house, shutting the door behind him, leaving you alone to find some of Johnny's clothes to get warm in.

Outside, you hear scrapes and five small high pitched screams, just barely louder than the rain, before Ghost steps in, his face a cool mask until his eyes meet yours.

"He won't bother you again." He grumbles, his deep voice filling the room.

You settle on the sofa, using the blanket as a shield.

"In fact. He probably couldn't touch a woman again in his life with the way I broke his fingers." He scoffs.

Looking over at your pale, shivering form, he gives an apologetic look.

"Sorry. No filter. Johnny's not back until tomorrow evening. I'm looking after the flat till then."

You nod, you had always had a light friendship with Ghost, and you knew there was a dark soul under the light smiles you always recieved.

"Let's take a look at ya." He gestures to your face.

"Looks like he got you pretty good." He says, standing to get the first aid kit.

You swallow down your embarrassment as you felt his touch on your face.

"You probably think I'm stupid-" you began, but he silenced you with a look.

"You remind me of my mother." He states plainly, wiping down your bloody lip and smoothing a balm over it.

"She was my father's punching bag, especially when he'd had a bottle. She was funny, kind, and didn't deserve it either"

You take in what he's saying, Johnny never told her about Ghosts home life, only it was a sad one.

"One day, she snapped back. Stood there and gave it back, her face a rainbow of bruises, but she fought back." He continues softly, almost as if he's talking more to himself.

He applies more balm over the cut on your cheek, a dark glance as he noticed it matched Jakes ring.

"What surprised me at the time was no one helped. Everyone knew about it. My mum was a good person, but she had no one. You have someone. You have me. " He decides, seemingly happy with his handiwork.

You nod, unsure what to say.

"Thank you." You muster up instead.

He nods, packing away the kit, before flicking on the kettle.

You two sit in a comfortable silence, mug clasped in both hands as you relax into the sofa.

Your eyes drift shut, you feel Ghost take your cup out of your hands and place a quick kiss on your forehead.

You are fast asleep soon enough, too asleep to hear Ghost pull out his phone and call in a favour.

"Gaz? Gonna need info. Jack Darrington. And a clean up crew." He listens for a few minutes before hanging up.

"You'll always have me." He says out loud to you as he slips out into the night.

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.

@kaeyasfuturewife @muneca-lemon-steppa @gardenof-venus @misshugs @soraya-daydreams @frudoo @renpodz @yesornowaitidontknow @thevoiceinyourheadx @shadowdark00 @rynbeerose @lunamoonbby @incredible-walker @identity2212 @pukbadger @urbimom @corvid007 @wordsfromshona @shadows-empress @m00xy @canyonmooncreations @oniraki @evie-119 @havoc973 @kylies-lover-blog @ishipdabands @cmbghost @heckinspooks @midwesternwitchery @eggy-yoke @masterclassofescapism @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @skeletonsucker

[aledethanlast]

The care with which the golden raven establishes Jean and Jeremy to be suffering the same kind of abuse in different fonts flies past poetic and into straight up mathematical precision.

Jean is the Raven hate sink. Nobody in the Nest is okay, but in an environment where every weakness is mocked relentlessly, Jean the significantly younger foreigner who won't (can't) speak english is the obvious standout, and Riko and the Master clearly signal that they won't punish abuse against him, so he becomes the target of their violence as a collective outlet.

The Knox/Wilshire siblings are all equally under their mother's controlling thumb, and none of them are coping well with the matter. They end up taking it out on Jeremy, since their parents already focus their ire on him for not staying in the closet or adopting the new family name.

Edgar Allen brags about the myriad of fantastic amenities they award their athletes, including high end cars and guaranteed professional careers, that they're never going to get to enjoy because the Nest demands too much of them. The Wilshires are fantastically wealthy, but more of that wealth is spent bribing their wider social circles to isolate the children than it is given to them for their own discretion.

The Nest implodes when Ichirou snubs Riko from their father's funeral, prompting him to almost kill Jean, and give up their greatest defensive talent in the process. The Wilshires explode because, by design or simple scheduling conflict, they entrusted their suicidal youngest to his drug addicted older brother in a large social event, because making both boys miserable was simply more convenient than getting either of them the psychiatric care the family had full access to.

Jean is technically out of the Nest, but he is still firmly under the Moriyama's thumb and there is no amount of technical freedom that will let him forget it. To cope, he tends to hit, scratch and choke himself, turning his grief and frustration into a physical pain he can quantify.

Jeremy does his best to act as your average LA rich boy, but there's no amount of placating that will keep his mother from pulling back his leash at a whim. To cope, he sleeps with people who treat him badly, mentally giving both himself and his parents a tangible reason to be disappointed with him, rather than accepting that their prejudice is not his fault.

Jean and Jeremy were raised to believe that they are at once fully competent and capable, and utter failures who cannot be trusted with anything and will inevitably get everyone hurt. And its only now, staring at each other, that they can see just how deep the contradiction runs.

[mychemicalweevil]

Absolutely no one was waiting for this but here’s my unofficial ranking of TLT characters based on how much they’d like pickles:

1. Gideon

I know they didn’t have food with flavor on the Ninth but the vibes are overtaking me. Gideon loves pickles. She’s drinking pickle juice straight from the jar before a workout to avoid cramping. She’s eating Harrow’s dill pickle off her plate because Harrow can’t even handle touching it. I know this in my heart to be true.

2. Dulcinea

Do all chronically ill people love pickles or is that just my specific crowd? Either way I think she’d love a really sour pickle and would eat them straight out of the jar on the regular.

3. Jeannemary

I don’t know what kind of food they have on the Fourth but this kid would be so happy to eat a pickle. (nooooo Magnus don’t tell them they forgot the extra pickles on my sandwich)

4. Magnus

The aforementioned Magnus. He’s pro-pickle but not a freak about it. He’d grill hot dogs for the Fourth kids and put relish on them.

5. Ianthe

She likes gherkins and she likes eating them suggestively. Sorry to any gherkin lovers out there…

6. Camilla

Make no mistake, she can deal with a pickle, but I feel like she’d rather not. She makes fun of Gideon drinking pickle juice before a workout.

7. Palamedes

He doesn’t like the texture. I am confident that in a present day setting he’d eat terribly, just whatever he can get down quickly that has enough nutrients to keep him going. He doesn’t understand the true value of pickles.

8. Coronabeth

If there’s a pickle on her plate she’s making Babs send it back. I don’t even know if she’d hate pickles at all if she tried them but she’s convinced herself she does.

9. Harrow

You know those videos of babies trying a lemon for the first time and it’s kind of funny but also sad because they had no idea what was coming? That’s Harrow trying a pickle.

[messenger-of-babel]

Could you write about the sweetheart grips? Soldiers in ww2 used to put photos of their lovers on the grips of their guns and I think that would be cute with Jason.

Eye for An Eye

Summary: Jason keeps a photo of you in his gun to keep you close to him, even in his hardest moments. (Jason Todd x reader)

Word Count: 2.7K

Notes: dear anon I really, really wanted to make this sweet. But then I got an angst idea and- I tried to do it justice without too many tears. Forehead kisses for you because as soon as you sent this in I legit thought about this idea for like three days straight I fell in love with the concept. I might use it again for other Jason fics you got me hooked (I was a MASSIVE military history nerd). Warnings for description of violence and injury, character death, some choppy writing. Back onto my angst train, I'm so sorry y'all (I'll write this concept sweeter sometime, I SWEAR).

ALSO HAPPY 100 POSTS. It's crazy when I remember I'm still a baby blog. <3

Enjoy~! RiRi xoxo <3

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Bruce had never been one for guns, and while Jason was Robin, he hadn't either.

He didn't consider himself a particularly violent child or had any real craving to use weapons. After all, he never really hit anyone who didn't deserve it, and he got great satisfaction of getting back at people who thought they could hurt innocent civilians just because they were bigger and older than him.

That was until he was taken by Joker and showed just how much hurt someone older and bigger than could inflict.

April 27th, the date that the Joker killed Jason Todd.

Now, he couldn’t imagine his hands without the comforting grip of his pistol. The grips were designed just for him, slotting into the contours of his fingers and worn away in the areas he instinctually rubbed. They were wide so they sat snug in his large palms, with a coarse texture in the areas he habitually flexed. The grip allowed it to stick to his gloves for a steadier shot while it would simply irritate anyone else who tried to hold them.

Everyone knew that those guns were Jasons, but nothing said it quite like the new addition of the faded photo tucked into the grips. The colt's had originally come with wooden handgrips, which were quickly removed while he made his modifications.

"You know the Bat isn't gonna be happy with you getting another set of guns." Dick calls out, approaching his worktable in the cave. Jason just grunts at him over his shoulder, making sure he keeps the screws where he can see them.

"Bruce can honestly suck it up." he huffs, the mention of the Bat souring his demeanour immediately. Jason had wanted to do this in his apartment for this exact same reason. He knew Stephanie would annoy him with questions if she caught sight of him, and that Tim would interject constantly with 'improvements' he deemed necessary. Duke he could deal with, and Cass would leave him well enough alone.

Dick and Damian just managed to piss him off simply existing sometimes.

Mostly when he was already in a bad mood.

His older brother trots down the stairs, a frown forming on his face as he puts his hands on his hips to observe.

"Quiet." Jason mumbles flatly, knowing the older vigilante was giving him a disapproving stare. Dick ignores him, eyeing the photo tucked up near his water bottle.

"Jason," he says, voice a warning tone.

"I said quiet." he cuts off, wiping the area down with a damp cloth. Dick just sighs behind him as Jason gingerly picks up the photo, rubbing his calloused thumbs over it. Dick wants to say something as he eyes the photo but can't bring himself to speak above the block in his chest. He watches the tension ease from his brother’s shoulders, the muscles that had been stiffly held by his ears for weeks. The scowl he wore softened slightly, and he could actually hear him exhale for once instead of wondering if his chest actually was moving or not. Instead, Dick sighs in reluctance, giving in. Dick watches him with sad eyes, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a slight squeeze. "Don't forget to, you know," he leans forward slightly and draws a circle with his finger on a certain point of the photo. Jason's face ripples with a flash of pain, but he watches his younger brother grit his teeth and nod.

"Look after yourself, Jay." he murmurs, pulling back. "Don't do anything stupid."

Jason waits a little bit before turning back the photo, ensuring that Dick had left the cave. A still silence settled over the dim space once more. It didn't help the hum in his head, making his fingers and muscles shake, the white noise refusing to settle in his conscious. He gently drew on the photo of you with pencil, tracing the shape that he needed for the grip and ensuring that you weren't cut out by accident.

It was a favourite photo of his, taken at one of Bruce's galas. He hadn't wanted to go, hardly showing to the events in the first place. "Full of rich idiots trying to get even richer." he had told you, tossing a look over his shoulder to you. You were standing at the door, holding the invite that had been slipped through the mail slot. You waved the thick cardstock, a small smile on your face. "Aw, but I was kinda looking forward to going." you say, looking over the details. "I think it'll be fun."

"The only one who thinks those things are fun are Dick and Steph if she's around. Tim will get bored and probably turn into a loan shark if left unattended too long. So yeah, fun." he grumbled.

"What about Dami?"

Her turns around, eyebrows raised.

"I’m sorry?" he asks. "When did we start calling the demon child, Dami? We're on nickname level now?"

He hates how his heart flutters in his chest when he hears you laugh, melting away his annoyance.

"He's sweet, just a little prickly. like you." you grin, coming to wrap your arms around his neck, pecking him on the lips.

"Yeah, he's sweet to you, he's a little shit to everyone else." he grumbles.

"Sounds like someone else I know." you tease.

He can't help but grin, sighing out through his nose softly. "Fine. we can go." he grumbles, knowing he won’t be able to stay mad at you for long.

The photo he traces was from that night, you tucked into his side. You're staring at the camera with a sparkle in your eye, lips pulled back into a wide grin. You're wearing black to fit the theme of the ball, with red accents, matching him. He’s got his arm around your shoulder, taking the photo with you pressed up against him. He thinks you look stunning, eyes twinkling at him from the page.

He takes the exacto knife and gently runs it over the image, cutting himself out so that he can focus on you. The piece pops free, and he trims the edges. His heart thrums as he slides you onto the handle, fluttering with a tame delight.

"Don't forget to, you know..."

Dick’s voice floats back into his mind, and the corners of his lips twitch downwards once more. Reluctantly he pulls your photo from the handle and reaches for a screwdriver to his left, bringing it above the paper. He feels like he's about to stab you, the way the metal tip hovers above the image smiling back at him.

But he does it, heart clenching with each scrape across your eyes, slowly erasing the twinkle he loved so much. There's something sickening about the feeling of scratching your face out, the gritty sound of the photo tearing and leaving white streaks in its wake making his stomach flip. Finally, it's done, stark white lines blotting out your gaze. All that's left is the upturn of your lips, and the soft smile you wore.

With a heavy sigh Jason slots it back onto the handle, placing the clear protector over you. At least nothing could damage you more than he already had. He told himself it was for the better, as he cleaned his hands on a nearby rag and bit the inside of his cheek. You weren't the most supportive of his guns, but you liked that they kept him safe. You had had a few conversations with him about it but never an argument. He wanted to keep you close, but he knew he wasn't going to be an idiot about it. He wanted to protect you, hide your identity from any eagle-eyed thugs.

"Besides," he thought to himself. "Don't want em seeing what I'm about to do."

Maybe it was for the best that he covered your face for this.

His body hums with adrenaline, still alone in the Batcave. With scarred fingers he screws the cover onto the grip, clear cover sitting flush and keeping your photo secure. Jasons tosses it a few times in his hand, getting used to the feeling of the new colt pistols and making sure you weren't going to shake loose. When he was content, he looked over his shoulder, scanning the shadows for movement.

He knew that Bruce would condemn his actions, he didn’t even need to ask on that front. Dick would be understanding but try to hold him back, and Tim would try to talk him out of it. The only person he felt that silently agreed with him was Damian, the pair of them fostering an unlikely bond in the last few weeks.

Everyone in the manor knew what Jason was thinking.

What Jason was doing spending his nights in the Batcave, the one place he had grown to hate ever since coming back.

What he contemplated as he haunted the halls of the manor, the place he often traded in for the comfort of his downtown apartment.

Everyone knew what Jason was going to do tonight, yet none of them were game enough to say it out loud or stop him.

Therefore, Jason took their silence as compliance because he knew somewhere deep down, they wanted him to do it.

Or was he deluding himself?

He shook the thought from his head, holstering the newly decorated pistol. He was already dressed and strapped for this mission, no turning back now. With heavy hands he donned his helmet, taking a deep breath as he pushed Jason aside to become Red Hood. The air was still, as if the Batcave was filled with spirits watching him in silence as he mounted the bike and pressed the key for the garage door, speeding out.

He was already haunted by too many ghosts.

The streets of Gotham were relatively quiet, the usual alleys he stalked devoid of the thugs he would have expected. It seemed that even the city was holding its breath, civilians tucked safely inside. He knew where he was going.

He had been receiving mocking invites in the mail for the last week, notes attached to crime scenes in a gory fashion just to mock him. So really, it was no surprise when he arrived at Gotham cemetery, parking outside and not even bothering to kill the engine. He wasn’t going to be long anyways.

Just past the cemetery was the crumbling shell of Arkham, ivy covering the brickwork and roof caving in. His boots crushed broken panes of glass as he entered the decaying mental hospital, leaves scattered through the building from wrinkled trees that had cracked through the floors. He slowly made his way to the upper floor, where he had seen the lights.

Instinctually he reached for his gun, and he felt his heart calm sliding his hand over your picture secured into his sweetheart grip. He hadn't felt this anxious fighting in a while, unused to the way that his pulse thudded against his neck or the dryness that crept into his mouth. The corridor felt like it stretched on forever, making his vision swim trying to reach the light at the end.

Candlelight flickered weakly at the end of the hall, luring him in like a moth. As he stepped in he took note of it, hand tightening. Jason knew he was going to play with him, taunt and torture him. The images of you taped up on the peeling walls were enough. Photos that spanned back months, photos of you on dates, at work, in his car, in your apartment, blurry photos of you and him in his bed. His thumb instinctually placed itself over your eyes, despite them already being scratched out.

He didn't need you seeing the messy patchwork of your life.

Jason didn't even mind the photos, knowing the sadist would be doing something like that. What he did mind though were the images of you from three weeks ago, the same images that Dick had refused to let him see, that Tim wiped off the Batcomputer hard drive and Babs had removed from the GCPD database. The ones displaying the blood, the bone, the bruising.

Your eyes, unseeing.

Everything that was so familiar to him, but so foreign on you.

Everything that that one curved piece of metal had caused way back when, stained a dark brown. The same piece of metal that was sitting in the middle of the desk at the centre of the crude shrine, drying with a fresher coat of oxidised red.

He felt his heart rise to his throat, but he wasn’t sure if it was bile in his throat or the taste of blood from his bitten lip. His grip turned white, muscles flexing under the skin and pressing unnaturally hard. He felt the green tinged mania inside him rear its head, threatening to take over his mind and act purely on instinct. The Lazarus pit clawed and pulled at his soul harder that it had in years, gasping at him like a beggar, screaming for a shred of violence to feed it.

He knew the game. He knew all of this was to provoke him, try to get Jason to release the rage inside him. The monster wanted to see him squirm, see him struggle to keep himself in check. He wanted to watch Jason Todd fight against the Red Hood, watch the Bats moral code play out on his face.

Well, Jason wasn't Batman. He wasn't Bruce.

As soon as a skinny figure moved from the shadows to his right, his pistol was out in a flash. His free hand ripped the mask from his face, jaw tight and eyebrows furrowed, but he felt more relaxed than he had been in ages.

He was no Batman. He was Jason Todd.

And Jason was going to do the one thing Bruce had always been too much of a coward to do.

With one crisp bang the clown couldn’t get a single word out before he was splayed on the floor. As Jason stepped over the body he regarded it apathetically, barely biting down the urge to step on it. The bastards’ lips were pulled back in a wide smile, even in death. Maybe he had expected Jason to do this, maybe it was his last hurrah as an asshole, but Jason didn't care.

He didn’t even feel scared at the idea of the aftermath as a retraced his steps out of the abandoned building, mounting his still-running bike.

There hadn't been a single gloat before the gun cracked through the night, not a single joke or pun or taunt to leave the devil’s mouth. Bruce might have entertained it, let him play it out, but not Jason.

For Jason, everything that needed to be said had been said in actions.

The air was strangely cool, devoid of the humidity that nomrally hung in the streets. The city itself seemed to be sighing, taking a breath like the chord holding the city on a leash had been cut. He relished the feeling of it on his skin, the cracks in his suit letting the breeze run across his knuckles and where his mask met his neck. He imagined the cool fingers were you, cradling his face and whispering for him to take a rest, and he let his eyes flutter closed briefly.

 As he hit a red light he took a pause, reaching his hand down to pat where you were, tucked tightly under his hip. He didn't care what the reaction was going to be when he reached the manor, or the screaming match that was likely going to destroy what was left of his relationship with his pseudo father. All that matters is that he had done right by you, that he had done what he wished someone had done for him.

April 17th, the night Jason Todd killed the Joker.

[inkxplashes]

Someone’s tags on another post I saved too:

#yeah like

#not even from a... we don't know everything guys we don't have all the evidence

#he has a right to presumption of innocence perspective

#like even disregarding all that

#luigi straight up didn't do it

#I'm glad the guy who did it got away and i don't think he should be charged either

#but all the supposed evidence that DOES exist points AWAY from luigi

#the actual photos we have of the actual shooter are a dude who is a different ethnicity and generation from luigi

#10 years older at LEAST

#NYPD found a 3D printed gun on luigi....

#even if that's true (and I'm skeptical of this gun and manifesto story)

#3D printed guns. functionally. can only fire one bullet. they're single use only

#so per the material laws of science he couldn't have used that gun

#the shooter also had DAYS to flee and for some reason decided to hang out in public a few hours away?? no

#like not even on a cops are pigs level

#but on a straight up like... basic logical consistency level

#the story they're trying to sell us is so factually absurd and riddled with plot holes

#it's just swiss cheese

#and if it were anyone but authorities/police telling this story literally no one would believe it

#luigi didn't do it. and that's not an ideological stance on my part

#that's an... i have eyes and a basic knowledge of science and reason statement

it’s crazy how absolutely blatantly luigi’s constitutional rights are being breached and people seem more concerned about his appearance than a real, scary view of the power CEOs and the healthcare industry have over the legal system. like yeah he looks good in those photos i can appreciate that too but can we focus on the fact that the media is absolutely treating him as if he has already been found guilty. this could happen to anyone. anyone could be arrested over the death of a wealthy, influential person and the precedent being set right now is essentially that the prosecution can run wild and create documentaries declaring your guilt. like that’s really serious and scary.

[gguk-n]

Where Do Broken Hearts Go? (Lewis Hamilton x Reader)

Series Masterlist

It all happened so quickly. Lewis didn't mean what he said; he never meant to hurt her. He didn't mean all the shitty things that left his mouth. He loved her and appreciated her; he knew how much she gave up just to support him and be there for him. It was not supposed to go as far as it did. Lewis knew now, as he sat in their empty apartment. Y/N's friend had come in the other day and collected all of her stuff. They didn't even talk to him or entertain him for that matter. They did what had to be done and left. Lewis watched as they took the place they had built together apart, piece by piece.

Lewis thought that if he gave her some time to calm down, she would be willing to listen to him. He didn't expect her to move out so abruptly. He then, tried to reach out to her but it was of no use. It first went straight to voice mail and than nothing at all. He tried texting her and soon realised she had blocked him, everywhere.

Lewis tried reaching out to her friends, no use, since they wouldn't talk to him either. Lewis went to all the places that they used to visit but didn't find her at all. She had disappeared without any trace.

He was stupid and hoped that she would come back. But he wasn't sure at this point. He looked high and low for the love of his life. As time went on, he could only replay the moment again and again and he couldn't help but cry; wishing he hadn't said what he had said.

"Y/N, you're acting unreasonable" he sighed. "Unreasonable" she almost shouted. "That woman was all over you and I'm being unreasonable" she asked. Lewis sighed, exasperated. "You always do this" he began. "No I don't" she cut him off. "You're the one who forgets you have a girlfriend" Y/N pointed out. "I don't" he reasoned. "Lewis, this isn't the first and I don't believe this will be the last time" Y/N explained. "I've always been quite low in your priorities. And I always hoped that one day it would change but it's been years and still I'm not on top of your priorities. I tried to let it go, I even tried to give you the benefit of doubt but I can't anymore" she explained. "They were right" he muttered. "What?" she asked shocked. "That you would leave at a minor inconvenience" he stated. Y/N sighed, exhausted from having to explain herself all the time. "Fine. Than I'll make it easy for you. Have a good life" she said before grabbing her bag and leaving. Lewis had expected this to be like one of their previous fights, but he guessed she probably had enough of him since she never returned. It was as if she had disappeared from the face of the earth.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find her. He wondered how much he had hurt her that he couldn't find her anymore.

[chiakeys]

rafayel snuggle smut. but it's less sleepy vibes and more like he's holding you hostage while spooning

just rafayel getting you off, groping, rafayel's scent kink, sweet talking still 🫶

˚꩜˖°⋆🐚‧₊˚ ⋅🌊｡𖦹°‧

"Don't move," Rafayel's gentle voice reverbs from right behind your ear. You can feel the words through his chest, pressing up against your back.

He sighs, and it's like he melts into you a little— his nose presses against your hair, breathing in deeply, his lips leaving a soft and quick kiss right behind your ear.

Rafayel's laptop is on the coffee table in front of you, some sort of long video playing. YouTube autoplay, nothing either of you were paying attention to anymore.

His arm squeezes you closer. You lightly scratch against the flexing of his muscles, just to see his skin rise. He smells your hair again, followed by another happy sigh.

"I like this shampoo," he finally speaks again.

You can't help but smile as you reply, "It's your shampoo, of course you like it."

"Mm-hmm," his arm slides down slightly. He lifts the edge of your shirt, just enough to press his palm against your stomach. His hand is warm, and it feels as nice as it usually does. "That makes it even better. And it smells different on you."

He rubs his palm against your skin before continuing, voice in a gentle lull. "Your hair, and your skin... Just don't move. I wanna smell you forever."

"That's creepy," you mumble back.

"Nuh-uh, you're creepy." He immediately responds, not even missing a beat. He pinches the fat on your stomach now, not enough to hurt, but just as a small retaliation.

You want to try and turn to look at him now, but he doesn't let you. He holds you down enough until you're forced to stare straight ahead again. "I'm not the one sniffing your hair," you say.

Rafayel chuckles from his chest, and his hand creeps up almost without you noticing. Further under your shirt, up and up— "You wouldn't be hugging me after the gym if you didn't like smelling me. And you like it 'cause you loooove me."

"You—" He squeezes your breast, and your words cut off. "What're you doing?"

"Nothing. We're cuddling. Do you like my shampoo?"

You blink. "What?"

"My shampoo. That you use here. Do you like it?" He patiently clarifies, as if the conversation is supposed to be expected. But it's a bit hard to focus on the words and not the fuzzy feeling in your stomach, when his fingers grope the fat of your breast, stretching out and massaging the plushy flesh.

Not gently, but not rough—

You swallow. "It's nice, yeah."

"Yeah?" He hums against your neck, and his thumb brushes over your nipple, back and forth. And you can't help but push back against him, him and his all-encompassing warmth.

He doesn't grind up against you like you expect him to. He huffs, instead, hand groping hard again, until you squeak.

"It's only nice? I spend a lot of money on that. Can't believe it's only nice." Rafayel pouts.

"Fi–Fine, it's very nice. I'm sure it's made from glowing jellyfish mucus or something—"

He cups the bottom of your breast, bounces the fat slightly, and he lets out a pleased sound. "I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that," he adds after.

You grab at his forearm, gripping at it until you can firmly pull at it, not sure if you want to pull it away from you or down, or make sure he can't move his hand away from you at all. He doesn't react, doesn't even acknowledge it.

He keeps fondling you while he presses his neck further into your hair, breathing deeply again. It feels a little more obscene this time.

It does something for him. You hear his voice in your ear, a low moan.

You sigh yourself, before speaking out again. "Are you gonna..."

"What?" Rafayel grins. "Am I gonna...?"

"Are you gonna do anything? Like, yourself?" There's a slight whine in your voice. You can feel him hard against you, and no matter how much you squirm, he doesn't push back up against you. It has to be purposeful.

"I'm doing plenty," he leaves a wet kiss on your skin. "We're just cuddling."

You groan. "This is... cruel and unusual cuddling..."

But if he's going to be stubborn about this, then you may as well settle into it. Your eyes close as you relax further against him, and relax against the feeling of his hand, heart fluttering.

"There you go," he drawls lightly. "Cuddling is a two-way street, you know. It doesn't work if you're all stiff."

"Shouldn't that be my line?"

Rafayel snorts. "My stiffness isn't relevant right now."

You whine. "But why not?" You open your eyes again, turning your head just enough to pout up at him, and his eyes crinkle softly.

"'Cause you don't need to do anything about it. You're just pretty enough like this." He gives you one last squeeze, before his hand drops back down.

He shoves his hand into your waistband, patience forgotten. You gasp quickly when his fingers draw a straight line over your panties, rubbing back and forth.

"But I'm not even doing anything..." You reply, sighing.

"Exaaactly," Rafayel shuffles up against you. His nose presses against your neck, right as his fingers press into your covered slit, curiously feeling just how much wetness has soaked through.

He continues, "You don't need to do a single thing to get me off. You're pretty." He presses a wet kiss near your pulse, speaking into your skin. "And you smell good." He peppers another kiss. "And I love you."

"What more do I need?" He asks, and your thighs squeeze around his hand, hips jolting forward. He stubbornly presses against you for a few more moments before he gives in and slips his hand underneath the fabric entirely.

"Raf—" You gasp at the rush of sensation, arching back against him. You blindly reach out behind you, grabbing onto the fabric of his shirt. You don't think you'd be able to loosen your grip even if you wanted to.

"And you can drop the fake protests, yeah? We both know you're more than happy to just stay put and take it."

It breaks the tension, a little bit. Enough for you to struggle through a surprised laugh— voice falling off into a pitched moan.

"Rude," you gasp. "So, so... so rude..."

Rafayel spreads you open, stroking at your outer folds before dipping in, wet and dripping.

"Oh." You suddenly keen as his fingers push in deeply, scissoring at your walls, in and out, until the squelching can be heard through your clothes and the rustling. In and out, already setting a fixed pace.

You're still struggling with your thighs, squeezing them against Rafayel's hand. But he doesn't seem to mind. He doesn't bother forcing them open. He just presses his whole palm more firmly against you, pressing down on your clit—

And you jolt from the sensation, pushing up against him, close close close, as your hips instinctively try to get away.

"Good?" He asks, voice quiet and low.

"Yeah, yeah— Really good, super good— So, so, so good."

He groans, jutting his own hips against you for a second, almost accidentally.

You don't get a chance to grind back against him, not when he starts fingering you in earnest, the weight of his hand heavy against your wet cunt, the slick sounds embarrassingly loud.

Rafayel scrapes his teeth on your skin at the next whine you let out, and you know he means business when he makes sure to keep a consistent pace. And something about it has you keening closer to the edge that you should be, fingers slipped off his arm before grabbing again, moans breaking out again.

"Raf— You have to slow down," you cry out, voice breaking.

"Why?" He asks simply, casually.

"I'm gonna— I don't wanna, yet, it's too fast—"

He laughs slightly, fondly. "You can cum, pretty girl, that's the point. I want you to cum. All over my fingers, yeah?"

Rafayel grinds his palm against you even more, his fingers pressing against that spongy spot inside of you, the spot that makes you keen without fail, eyes tearing up because it's too good and there's nowhere to go except to stay.

"Pretty, pretty, pretty..." His mumbles against your skin are almost unheard.

You think you say something back to him, stutter through another reply, but the content of it all escapes you now. You babble through some sort of response as Rafayel brings you up and up and higher still.

You gasp suddenly, freezing for a brief second. All you can do is reach back to grab onto his shirt again, warning him without words. He knows what you're trying to tell him, of course. He probably knows it better than you do.

"There you go, there you go..." Rafayel keeps stretching you out, your wetness audibly smacking against his knuckles. "Just relax with me, let it come, I'm not going anywhere."

He continues even as you gasp on your own moans. "I've got you, I've got you..."

And of course, of course it finally hits— he builds you up higher and higher until you finally slip past that edge, stomach dropping, back arching as you cry out.

You writhe against him through your climax, thighs squeezing his hand so tightly that you're not even entirely sure how he manages to keep going, not slowing down even a moment.

He lets you ride out the full extent of your peak, until everything within you finally starts to still. You gasp for breath. Waiting more for the shaking to stop, as Rafayel slips his fingers out, and lazily pats at your puffy lips. Good job, the gesture seems to say.

You can finally turn your head all the way now, to look at his face, Rafayel's warm eyes gazing at you already. He leans in to kiss you indulgently. Soft and gentle and a little wet, his favorite kinds of kisses to give you.

"Do you need anything?" He asks you, still close enough for you to feel his breath against your lips. It takes you a moment to find your words again.

"No," you say quietly. "Do you?" You ask right back, double meaning intended. You know he's still hard.

"Nope. Nada." He smiles and kisses you again. No arguing allowed.

You blink slowly, still trying to catch up to the world, but the sleepiness creeps in. Rafayel catches on and pulls you over until you're fully facing him, and then some. Until your cheek is against him and your body rests on top of his.

Warm.

You don't drift off to sleep that fast, but you let your mind doze off as Rafayel wraps his arms around you. He puts his hand underneath the back of your shirt to soothingly stroke your skin.

You melt further onto him, as close as the two of you can be.

[amarriageoftrueminds]

The problem with all this is that it straight up ignores what Sebastian Stan said: that, of course, he doesn't remember them.

I take Seb Stan's word over whatever Spellman or whoever comes out with; he knows the character better than them and it was him playing that beat.

(I don't regard tie-in books as canon either because they're not the canon films and frankly I don't trust whoever writes those for Disney to do a competent job. Likewise whatever the real-life state of neuroscience is and how that would affect Bucky's brain if they were following those rules isn't relevant, IMO, because the MCU writers aren't putting that much thought into how they portray Bucky's memories! This is Markus & McFeeley and Spellman under Feige's interference. They aren't working that hard. They're not that conscientious!)

It's also treating the fact that TFATWS said Bucky remembers missions as solid canon when:

a) the people 'writing' that didn't give a shit about characterisation consistency and have been very open about the fact that they didn't even bother to watch the movies Bucky's in. 😒

So whatever their 'take' on Bucky's memories is, we can pretty definitely state that it's a bunch of bollocks = most likely to be completely wrong and diametrically opposite to canon, as you'd expect from someone who doesn't even know what Bucky's canon is. (All they care about is that "he" killed people.)

Textbook example of this 'getting Bucky exactly 100% wrong': that nonsense from Spellman there about Bucky having a piece of the Winter Soldier inside him and that means he's an awful person.

That's complete bullshit and an exact misunderstanding of what the WS is. The WS is NOT a monster lurking inside Bucky, note even a piece, because the WS was the complete absence of personality, of humanity. As blank as an Iron Man sit. He's not a dark hidden piece of Bucky's psyche that was always waiting to come out, like the Hulk (as the nonsense show posits).

In fact, he's the very opposite (ie. a monster with a good man locked inside). Like an Iron Man suit that is being remotely controlled, that Bucky has been locked inside and has no control over.

The show creators have stupidly taken that one single line from CACW at face value, ignoring everything else, and fixated on it as 'proof' of Bucky's continued buried villainy that he needs to grovel about.

If this is the sort of rubbish they mistakenly believe to be true about Bucky, we can certainly discount whatever else they say about his memories!

In fact, if it's the writers of TFATWS who said X thing, I can't think of a stronger argument in favour of the opposite! 😬

b) the events of TFATWS also happen years and years after Bucky is in the situation where he, eg. wakes up from being triggered and doesn't remember what he just did as the Winter Soldier and has to ask Sam and Steve, lied to Tony, etc.

It might be that Bucky has, since treatment in Wakanda, reacquired all his missing memories.

The state of his memory is not a monolith that has always stayed the same and has not altered: just because his memory seems to be in a certain state in TFATWS, that doesn't mean it was in the same back in CACW days.

Watsonian explanation: this shoddy characterisation from TFATWS could mean that Bucky was lying to Tony when he said he did remember the mission to kill his parents.

That could've been completely untrue, at the time Bucky said it, but has since become true only because Bucky does now recall missions, as a result of receiving bad writing proper treatment, had longer to heal, etc.

Another HUGE thing people always totally ignore about that scene in CACW:

Bucky has just watched a friggin' video tape of one of his missions.

I imagine that's not standard Hydra procedure, to show him tapes of his own performance! So even if 'I remember all of them' is resigned-abuse-victim bullshit to goad Tony, it's possible Bucky has literally just seconds ago recalled the Starks for the first time ever... because Zemo just reminded him!

It still seems to me that Bucky remembered the inbetween-missions things?

IE. He clearly remembers procedures.

In CATWS we see him preparing to open his mouth to have a mouth-guard put in, before he is asked to, and leaning back into the chair before it reclines. And in CACW he doesn't look surprised by anything that is happening to him while he's in the Siberian base, in the chair, etc.

So he knows what happens to him when he's back at Hydra HQ (and where HQ is) and doesn't need to be re-taught it every time.

Similarly, all the brain damage aimed at his pre-Hydra memories hasn't destroyed his ability to shoot, which Bucky acquired during WWII, not under Hydra.

Bucky still has the skills he got in the chunks of memory Hydra are targeting hardest of all (ie. his personality-forming years).

As per CATWS he also speaks Russian, a language Bucky canonically is not shown having any knowledge of pre-Hydra. So skills acquired during Hydra time are also retained, despite the fact that they're damaging his brain repeatedly all the time, including wiping him of Hydra periods of time.

He's like Jason Bourne; he can do things without remembering when he learned how to!

This may be impossible in real-life brain damage terms, but I think MCU canon looks like Bucky doesn't remember missions but does remember the in-between missions bits necessary for the efficient handling and wiping of of the WS.

(In CATWS they treat it as risky to keep him out of cryo for too long between wipes, that he'll become erratic and start attacking technicians, as his memories start to regrow. But despite this, 'erratic' Bucky who is asking questions and speaking English is still retaining knowledge of being wiped and how he has to behave... even when he can't remember meeting Steve earlier on in the same week.)

Maybe it's repetition that's the key?

He remembers skills learned through repetition, and what is done to him, over and over and over again, but can't recall missions because they're one-offs? No new skills acquired?

It's curious that Zemo tries to trigger him and then command him. But Zemo isn't Hydra. He's not official. I think that's why there was that mess in the room when Sam and Steve got to where Zemo was and found the WS out of his cage. I think the WS attacked Zemo once the WS realised this wasn't an official Hydra handler & this wasn't a proper Hydra procedure.

(Also curious that Sam and Steve have him sitting down, in restraints, which also mimics a Hydra procedure set-up. Maybe that helped Bucky's recall too? 🤔)

As you said, Bucky was able to recall what Zemo asked him about because Bucky hadn't been wiped.

Likewise, maybe he can recall fighting other WSs either because Zemo told him AND/or because he was 'ordered' to remember it (if you think about it, that's a very very unusual order for someone to give him!)

And... that fighting the WSs wasn't an official off-base-assassinating-people mission, that was just standard 'Hydra doing training in between missions' stuff, plus their skill set is intel the WS would need to retain about his colleagues in order to complete missions with them correctly, if Hydra intended to send them out on missions as a team together.

It's repetitious skill acquisition and mission-critical intel, so it's necessary that the WS be allowed to recall it? 🤔

Another possibility: Bucky had been KO'd just before he recounts things about the other WSs and what Zemo asked about to Sam and Steve. Maybe that head wound shook up his brain status quo too?

(Magical fairytale thinking: maybe it's also different because it's Steve. He was able to break through Bucky's conditioning with the Power of Twu Wuv in CATWS, so maybe the fact that it's Steve who gave Bucky the head wound by dropping a helicopter on him that shakes loose some more marbles? 🥰)

You could posit that Bucky does usually remember all his missions and procedures, and it's the head wound (acting like a mini-wipe) that prevents him doing so immediately after waking up to Sam and Steve.... except that Bucky consistently displays this post-wipe amnesia of missions, more than once (ie. doesn't remember Nat even after years of healing... doesn't remember previous missions after wipes in the same week in CATWS, more than once, etc.) And this is including times when he hasn't just received a head wound / been KO'd / had any other head trauma equalling or approximating a wipe IE. in CACW he fights Steve exactly as if he doesn't remember him at all, when we know that isn't the case.

Once he wakes up, the WS is always a blank slate.

That's an interesting distinction, actually:

what does Bucky remember, and what does the Winter Soldier remember?

Because, even after years of Bucky's brain healing, and even though he hasn't been 'wiped' of Steve since CATWS, once activated by Zemo ... the WS doesn't remember Steve.

But Bucky does.

Maybe that's the crucial distinction:

Bucky can recall missions, but the Winter Soldier can't?

He only recalls procedures? 🤔 And he can only recall missions by -- much later on down the road -- becoming Bucky Barnes once again?

(I mean, the Doylist explanation here is that the writers are just shoddy and inconsistent even within the same movie. But we have to work with what we've got here! 😖)

In any case, I'm sticking by what SebStan said because he's the Bucky expert: if he said Bucky specifically didn't remember the Starks, at the time he said that to Tony, then I believe him. (And if that later changed because Bucky healed, well that still doesn't contradict what SebStan said!)

“That line was an interesting moment. At the time, the choice I was making is that [Bucky] had realized there was no way he was getting out of there, and someone was gonna die, whether it was gonna be him, Steve or Tony. When he says that line, to me, it was a turning point — he was, like, ‘Okay, I know what you want me to say, and I’m just gonna say it.’ When someone comes at you over and over again, and they can’t hear you, they can’t see you’re pleading with them, you’re trying to figure out how to get through to them and they just won’t accept it, at some point you just give in, and you go, ‘that’s right, that’s what you want.’ Of course [Bucky] didn’t remember them all.” —  Sebastian Stan

[rafesweetie]

rafe is precious about his car.

it’s one of his less admirable traits, but he spends way too much money on his benz and there is no way he’ll let anyone get it dirty.

it’s light blue and sleek, and inside it’s leather and pristine. he’s had it for seven months and it still has that new car smell. maybe it’s because of the lack of fast food he lets in his car. either way, his car is pristine and he will not let someone like you, his girlfriend, mess it up.

there’s a few times where he has to reiterate some of his rules for you. the first rule? no feet on the seat.

it’s a rule you cannot seem to get through your head, as much as you try. it’s just comfy to have your knees to your chest as you sit and relax.

getting in the car after a late night at topper’s house party, your knees find your way to your chest so your chin can rest of them and you can shut your eyes after a tiring and busy night. as you put your feet up, rafe grabs your ankle and yanks your leg down.

“ow, rafe!” you whine.

“c’mon, you knew that was coming. no feet on the seat,” was his answer, reiterating his rule.

“what if i take off my shoes?” you offer, just wanting to rest comfortably on the drive home.

“no.” he repeats. “no feet, baby,” you sigh.

“my feet are clean,”

“stop arguing, not gonna work,”

so with that, you slump in the seat, choosing to be content sitting normally, with his big hand on your thigh.

the second rule is no food in the car. it’s a simple rule, one you obey most of the time. unless the two of you are in the car for a while.

“oh, rafe, there’s a chick-fil-a,” you point out during a road trip with him. “can we go through the drive thru?”

“fuck no,” he responds, driving straight past it.

“but raaafe, i’m hungry!” you complain.

“hey, i can turn around and we can eat in,”

you shake your head. “no, rafe, got these in,” you point to the heatless curlers in your hair. “can’t go in public with these,”

“shit,” he sighs. “no food, then,”

“why can’t we just go through the drive thru and you can make an exception?”

“no.”

you groan and he keeps driving. it’s a cruel thing to keep your girlfriend from eating, but he doesn’t trust you (or anyone) not to make a mess. so it’s worth it for him.

the third and final major rule is that you don’t control the music. every single part of his life is integrated with you, he’s bent his lifestyle for you, so the one thing he gets that’s still fully masculine and him, is his music.

every now and then you’ll make a request, and he might play it. but for the most part, he’s listening to rap and r&b music — future, carti, kendrick, don toliver, drake.

he’ll listen to a request if it’s out of the three ‘girly’ artists you like. that includes sza, lana del rey, and tate mcrae. he only started to warm up to taylor swift when you played him ‘end game’ and the version of ‘bad blood’ featuring kendrick. he likes only a few lana songs, which are the ones with a$ap, quavo, and the weeknd.

if you happen to request someone not his speed, he’s not gonna listen, in any circumstance.

“ray, can i have the phone to play a song?” you ask gently, reaching for his phone. he grabs your wrist.

“woah, woah. uhhhh, it depends, baby,” he stops you. “who you gonna play?”

“was gonna play some sabrina or gracie,”

“no, don’t like ‘em.”

“raaaafe,” you whine. “you’ve literally gone to sabrina’s concert with me!”

“that was just so we could do her position for that one song,”

you sigh, slumping in the leather seat. “fine.”

he pats your thigh to cheer you up. “hey, c’mon, tell you what — i’ll play that lana song we both like. what’s it called again?”

“groupie love?” you perk up a bit.

“yeah,”

“okay!”

he turns the song on, turning it up loudly. his fingers drum to the beat on your thigh, as you perk up and listen too.

rafe’s precious about his benz, but it’s okay to you — because maybe if you’re good, you’ll be bent over in the backseat after the drive.

[eiralunaire]

The scent of flowers mingled with the warm breeze of the royal garden, a sweet and subtle perfume that permeated the air with its deceptive tranquility. Damian Wayne stood a few steps away from the princess, his posture straight as a stone wall, observing every corner with a calculating gaze. His senses were alert; even in such an idyllic space, danger was never entirely absent.

“Damian,” the princess’s voice interrupted his vigil, as soft as silk, but with the assurance of someone who did not accept “no” for an answer.

Damian did not answer immediately, but he turned his head slightly in her direction. He knew what would come next.

“Kneel,” she requested, holding a small white flower between her delicate fingers.

He suppressed a sigh. It was not an order. The princess rarely gave him orders, but her requests were impossible to refuse. Not out of obligation, but because she… was her.

Without a word, Damian dropped to one knee in the grass, bending his head just enough for her to reach his hair. He felt the princess's fingers brushing back a few stray locks, gently placing the flower among the dark strands.

It was a childish gesture, a childhood prank she refused to let go of. And yet, Damian didn't stop it. He couldn't.

The warm brush of lips on the top of his head took him by surprise, as always. Brief, light… but enough to make his heart skip an uneasy beat in his chest. He mustn't react. He mustn't allow himself to feel anything at such a simple touch.

He was no ordinary man, nor did he have the right to yearn for things beyond his duty. His life was devoted to the protection of the princess, his loyalty unwavering, his existence reduced to being her guardian.

And yet, as the princess walked away with a satisfied smile, Damian reached up to her hair, barely brushing the small flower that now rested among her locks.

Damian stood up with the same precision with which he would draw his sword: without hesitation, without hesitation. The princess had already returned to her flower gathering, moving through the bushes and vines with a natural grace, as if the world around her existed only for her to explore.

He must not be distracted. He must not let his guard down. But her hand remained at his side, her fingers barely brushing the handle of his sword… and the phantom sensation of that flower in her hair.

“Why do you always have such a serious expression, Damian?” the princess asked suddenly without turning, as if she had read his thoughts.

It took him a moment to answer.

“It is my duty to be alert for any threat, Your Highness.”

She sighed and turned to him with a flower in her hand. One more.

“Even here? In our own garden, surrounded by castle walls, with guards at every corner.” Even here you worry?

Damian held her gaze. It wasn't the first time they'd talked about this, but it wouldn't be the last, either.

"Especially here," he said, with the certainty of someone who'd lived through too many betrayals.

The princess watched him for a moment longer, as if trying to find a crack in his armor. Then, with the same gentleness with which she gathered her flowers, she came closer again. Damian already knew what was coming, but he still felt a pang of something he couldn't name when she reached out and touched his hair again.

"So, if you're always so tense, I'll have to remind you that there are beautiful things even in the midst of danger," she said with a soft smile.

Damian felt the light pressure of another flower placed next to the first. And then, as if it were a sacred ritual, the brush of her lips on the top of his head.

He didn't move. He didn't speak. But something in his chest twisted, something that had nothing to do with obligation or loyalty. Something that shouldn't be there.

And yet, when the princess walked away again, he let his fingers brush through her hair once more, making sure the flowers were still there.

Just for an instant. Just to make sure.

[abysful]

Tread carefully

Contains: Plot, Friends to Fuck buddies, Mentions of Masturbation, Smut (not-so-dry humping, blow job, p in v)

Summary: You love summer more than most, yet swimming has never been your strong suit beyond a survival doggy paddle. But one quiet summer night, your friend Chris teaches you a few tricks, in and out of the water.

Word count: 5k

There was nothing that riled you up more than when your three best friends claimed to “hate” summer. You reminded them time and time again how amazing it was to be surrounded by bright green grass and beautiful flowers, and how all it takes when you feel the heat bundle you up a bit too tight, is a carefree dip in a cooling chlorine filled pool. The complaints of how sticky and humid the air gets during summer seem to quiet down to silence when summer finally arrives and everyone’s skin is sun kissed and warm, when music and laughter accompanies a bonfire, and when all of your friends are happier and lighter.

“T’s sweaty and fucking gross” Nick starts, reminded of his hatred for the season when a headline of summers first day being a week away, pops up on his Instagram feed.

You look at Matt and Chris waiting for either of them to swoop in and defend your favourite time of year but you quickly realize you’re on your own.

“Let’s not get disrespectful” you play around, trying to stop yourself from getting in a unserious but low-key serious debate with Nick.

Nick looks at you unamused “I literally don’t fucking believe you when you say summers your favourite season… you aren’t even from LA. There’s mosquitoes and allergies and fucking sunburn.” he exclaims.

The friendly banter goes on through the night, regardless of the activity, only stopping when you’re all asleep on their couches after an evening filled with jokes, games, and stupid stories.

At some odd hour in the night, the dry cotton-mouth that left the walls of your mouth feeling like sandpaper, had rudely yanked you from your disorganized and frankly confusing dreams.

There was no possibility that you were going to ignore the now hydrophobic texture taking place within your jaws, the only option was to get up as silently as possible and find something to remedy your dehydration.

In hopes you wouldn’t disturb your peacefully sleeping friends, you sink into the couch as you lay straight, slowly rolling off of the cushion to the floor, using all of your arm strength to softly lower yourself without making a sound.

As you stand, you look over the dormant bodies of the people you care most about, wondering what they’re seeing in their dreams, some on the couch, others on air-mattresses that were in place of the coffee table.

Though the sweet admiration quickly turns into a headcount, you see Madi, Nick, Matt, Madison, but no Chris.

Your mind can barely process your consciousness, so Chris’ whereabouts slip out from your thoughts almost immediately when you regain awareness of the dryness coursing your throat and tongue.

Pivoting on your heels, you B-line for the kitchen, so eager to drink just one glass of water, the ability to stay quiet threatens to disappear. Once the glass is in your grasp, and the slippery condensation cools your clammy palms, you begin to guzzle the liquid in your cup, letting out loud breaths between each gulp.

Feet standing a foot and a half from the sink, you bend over to rest your elbows on the countertop, your body at a near 90 degree angle.

You don’t even hear the sound of a toilet flushing or a door opening, nor did you hear any footsteps approaching, the feeling of the water reviving every vein and artery was clouding your thinking.

Chris walked into the kitchen from the bathroom, heading for the sink to get a drink. His eyes had just been exposed to the bright florescent lights of the washroom just a moment ago so when he flicked the switch off, his eyes were able to see virtually nothing.

Touching and feeling around him, once he understood where the table and cabinets were located in relation to him, he no longer felt the need to extend his arms for guidance.

That was until he was a few steps from the sink. Chris’ walking is abruptly interrupted when his clothed groin slams against your ass as you’re leaning on your forearms, hovering over the basin.

“Shit” he whisper yelled, completely oblivious to who it was he rammed into.

Instinctively he reached out again to feel who was in front of him, it all happened so fast, his hands finding your hips in search of anything identifiable in the blinding darkness.

“Woah” you yelped, now turning as fast as your body physically allowed you to.

Your familiar voice telling Chris all he needed to know, he pulled his grip back as if he’d just touched a scalding hot stovetop.

“Sorry sorry sorry” he slewed out rapidly, his voice now quiet but above a whisper.

“Ts fine, my fault for not paying attention” you apologized soon after, out of curtesy more than honesty.

A thought paralyzing silence blanketed the both of you, embarrassment being the only feeling in the kitchen that now felt 2 feet wide.

“Thirsty?” Chris whispers, very obviously trying to move on and not have that be the last thing that you two remember before going back to sleep.

Your body flinches slightly when you remember you aren’t completely alone in your thoughts.

“A little” You turn your head to meet Chris’ gaze, being in the solid dark long enough for your eyes to adjust, you can probably see Chris better than he can see you.

His shorts are hanging slightly too low, the fault of him trying to ‘keep his tired’ and haphazardly throwing on his bottoms before rushing out of the bathroom just a few moments ago.

Chris had a charm about him that made you find him more attractive than most of the men in your life but you didn’t spend any time figuring out what that even meant to you, so of course you assumed the pulse in your head, heart, and heat that came about whenever he was around, was nothing.

Yet in the dark, having a chance to take a good look at a barely clothed Chris without him being able to tell where your gaze fell, you used the opportunity as any person would, you checked him the fuck out.

Your eyes started at his V-line but his happy trail caught your attention not long after. You could tell by the way it was growing that he had been shaving around it to keep it shaped nice, not overgrown, but still visible. ‘Sort of like a landing strip’ your inner monologue narrated in your head, making you break into a smile that only you knew about.

With every breath inwards he took, all of him moved with it. The room was still too dark to be able to identify much else so you decided to cut your semi pervy staring session short, the places that your mind was going needed to be knocked unconscious.

“I need to hurry up and lay down before I fully wake up” you smiled at Chris, though he definitely couldn’t see well enough to tell. He let out a hum of agreement as you let your tired legs guide you to the large comfy couch.

Ever so quietly, you ascend back into the small indent your body left on the pillowy cushion. Comfort washed over you as your body felt as if it was melting and becoming one with the cloud of a sofa that was underneath you, you didn’t even get to the number four when counting yourself to sleep.

That night was weeks ago, between then and now, things were predominately business as usual except for two things, one slightly more concerning than the other.

On the brighter side, summer was here, your skin was glowier than ever, the skies had never been clearer, and every feeling seemed more intense.

But the time between the mishap and now— it seemed that every single night that you were unable to sleep, like a movie, you replayed the view of Chris that night, over and over in your head.

One night in particular you were engaging in sexual self care, and as much as you fought it with every neuron and vessel in your brain— the only image that got you to cum was that of Chris’ slender figure looming over you in the dark kitchen in the earlier hours before dawn.

Between their meetings and your job, none of you had the chance to spend a full day enjoying the heat of your beloved season quite yet.

“Y/n idc what you gotta do but we’re going swimming tomorrow” Nick texted you out of nowhere, it was 7pm and you were winding down from yet another busy day of working, going to the gym, and just the general tasks of everyday life.

“I’m there” you typed back with one hand while the other stirred your vodka pasta simmering on the stove.

That night your mind struggled to sleep once more, it seemed that only when you needed to rest the most, your bed morphed into a lumpy boulder keeping you from the level of comfort you needed for tomorrow to come quickly.

Thoughts about spending the day with the triplets, spending the day with Chris, more so, getting to see shirtless Chris in broad daylight this time, were wading through your mind. Over an hour of tossing and turning later, you drifted off to dreamland.

Your plans started later than discussed which was nothing but normal for your group of friends, everyone woke up late, got dressed late, and found their way to Madison’s LA home 3 hours late, by the grace of god you all showed up around the same time.

What was once a 1pm hang out, began at 4pm. First going to get ice cream, Madi and Matt got regular flavours while Nick and Chris purchased odd but reasonable mixes. You and Madison on the other hand, decided to get the most nonsensical and unappetizing combinations of ice creams.

“Get that fuckass cup out of my face” Nick retorted to you after you offered him a bite of your Frankenstein fro yo, to which you all belly laughed.

Then thrifting, it seemed Matt had the sharpest eye for that sort of thing, while the rest of you dicked around, mocking the freaky antiques you found, eventually leaving empty handed.

Finally, you were all in Madison’s pool an hour before sun down. There wasn’t much time for staring, Chris went from clothed to wearing nothing but swim trunks and submerged in water within half of a second.

The missed opportunity to bask in his sex appeal didn’t bother you too much, their was a level of guilt that was paired with each dirty thought you had of Chris which you weren’t opposed to not having to experience on your first proper hang out of the summer.

Last summer when you first met everyone, your choice of swimwear was one pieces and basketball shorts— a result of unjustified self critical thoughts, but the year in between was spent building up your self esteem and getting comfortable with letting yourself feel sexy. Now your choice of swimwear was more scantly clad, a black twisted bandeau top that’s half a size too small and tie-side bottoms.

The first 30 minutes in the pool, everyone played chicken fight, taking turns on shoulders— around 20 minutes til sundown, Nick and Madi volunteered to leave the pool to order food and chill in the hammocks. After their departure, lighthearted conversation flowed seamlessly between the four of you, that was until Matt poked fun at you about your swimming.

“Can you do literally anything other than a doggy paddle?” He teased, your face started to feel hot, remembering talks of the triplets laughing about their mom being an adult and not knowing how to swim.

“Matt shut up, she can swim” Chris chimes in, seemingly not to defend you but instead, actually in denial that you lacked the ability keep yourself afloat.

“No seriously, have you seen her leave the shallow end” he points out, his words phrased in a way to make you feel like he’s joking with you not at you, which made you a lot less embarrassed about the whole thing.

“She can swim a bit Matt” Madison inserts, her words prompt you to slowly glide through the water to the deep end.

The issue was never with getting somewhere in the water, it was staying above surface level. Once you reached the other side of her pool, you turned right back around and started swimming to your self assigned place in the shallow end.

“See? I swam” you snapped back playfully, jetting your gaze to Matt. A smile creeps onto your face before you mumble incoherently under your breath for comedic effect.

“What?” Chris prods with a smirk.

“I just can’t keep my head over the water if I’m not moving” you sheepishly confess.

“Y’mean tread water kid?” He asks, sounding unconvinced.

“Mhm” you nod, ironically standing in the kiddie end feeling like a 12 year old.

“D’you need me to teach you?” his words now laced with hints of genuine concern that you’ve gone this long without acquiring such an important skill.

You shrug “You couldn’t teach a dog to bark but I’ll let you try.” the idea of touching Chris’ slippery skin under the privacy of warped water is enough to twist your stomach.

Your mind was only just beginning to wander to unwarranted directions when Nick called out from his hammock.

“FOODS HERE”.

You expected Chris to do the ‘Chris thing’ by jumping out of the pool and running for the patio, but that wasn’t what happened. His eyes stayed planted on you, yours finding his quickly after noticing he didn’t seem to care much about his surroundings.

“Lemme teach you right now” he asserted, his voice was calm, all the while being more serious than it had been all day. The swift shift in mood threw you off to a panic.

“N-No it’s fine we can eat first”, if you had a gun to shoot yourself in the foot right now, you would. You knew yourself better than anyone, and one thing that was certain, was that you didn’t have much self control.

Everyone gathered around the dining room table, and by the time the food was finished, the sun had disappeared, lowering behind the sky high Hollywood hills.

The evening became night, and Chris was off in the washroom doing god knows what. Having read the oven clock, Madi stated she’d be calling it a night and walked over to the guest room with a blanket in one hand and her phone in the other, Matt suggested playing a movie up in Madison’s room, to which you declined from your spot on the couch, and watched as your three friends skipped up the stairs.

Less than ten minutes later, Chris finally joined you in the living room.

“Where’s everybody?” He asked.

“Madi went to bed and the rest are doing a movie night upstairs” you answered not looking up from your phone, mainly from the shame you felt.

The entire dinner, Chris’ eyes remained tethered to yours, it confused you at first but rather than wondering what he was thinking, you allowed your mind to go to places of its own.

Behind your eyes were made up images of Chris, you carried out scenarios of what it would be like to let him have you in any way he wanted, you imaged all while holding eye contact with him. Now you had spent time alone with thoughts and the feelings of satisfaction morphed into disgust with yourself.

“You gonna let me teach you now?” He inquires, you can see in your peripheral vision that his focus never faltered you once.

“What, like now now?” You question.

“Ion know what other now there is” he says.

You shrug, trying to give off the impression that none of this matters much to you, but internally, nearly every organ of yours is turning and tossing. Following his lead, you both find your way out of the sliding glass doors to the back of the house where your swimming attire is hanging to dry.

Chris pulls the corner to dress in a concealed area, on the other side of a picketed fence gate. You shamelessly but speedily put on your bikini and jumped into the pool with a loud splash, non verbally informing Chris you were finished dressing.

He appeared out from around the bend, swim shorts riding lower than they did when there was an extra 4 bodies in the pool with you earlier. Stepping back so he could have a longer running start, Chris cannonballed right over your head, landing in the deep end. A few seconds later he emerged from underwater.

“See how my arms ain’t movin” he nods down to his arms floating in one spot.

“Yeah” you engage.

“Go underwater an open your eyes” he instructs you in a suggesting tone.

Abiding by his wishes and taking a deep breath in, stretching the inner lining of your cheeks as you collect as much air as your mouth will allow, you had dived to watch the correct way to tread water, but you stayed to gawk at his abdomen flex and move with every kick each leg made.

You remained submerged, enjoying the show, until there was no air left in your lungs. Once you come back up for air, he questions you.

“Y’think you can do it?”.

You shrug to which he starts up again “cmere” he orders, less jokey as before. His assertiveness only fuels the fire of desire within you.

You swim slowly to him, once you get close enough, he grabs your hands and places them straight out to the side like a ‘T’.

“M’not gonna let you go, just pedal” he softly guides you as his hands stay clinging to yours.

Both sets of your arms are spread out leaving very little room between your bodies and faces. Every word of encouragement muttered in gentle whispers, the distance between you, or lack there of, ensured that you never needed to exceed quiet breathy volumes.

“That’s good”

“Like this?”

“Yeah you’re doin so good keep goin”.

To an outsider, the exchange sounded erotic, and though neither of you would admit it in that moment, as insiders, it felt erotic.

He eased his fingers out of yours until you were staying up on your own. You felt like you were levitating.

“No shit, I’m actually doing it” you cheered, but the ten minutes of trial and error left your legs exhausted.

Your legs cramped and froze as your hands reach back for Chris, landing firmly on his shoulders.

“Tired?” He rhetorically asked, eyes searching for yours as you stayed looking at the water.

“Y’know you can do it with your arms too” he tried to motivate you.

“Yeah maybe you can but I think I’m good with just the legs” most of your pessimism coming from insecurity.

“No seriously, it’s lowkey easier too” he said in attempt to brighten your outlook.

“Let me just-” his words snuffed out, as his fingers snaked down to your sides.

“Can I hold you here?” his voice drops an octave. You look up at him, nodding, as you feel his touch glide down to the small of your back underneath the water. The nervousness weighing you down, as you lower your hold on his shoulders, trying to move your arms in a circular motion.

The sexual frustration within you intertwines with your actual frustration of not being able to get the hang of things, a look of agitation growing on your face. Your eyebrows furrowed and the near permanent smile that painted your lips, turned sour, now straight.

“You’re doin fine, just relax a bit” he begins, “I gotchu” his grip around the lower half of your torso tightens.

As your mind begins to realign its focus on the physical task you both came for, you feel something graze your lower stomach faintly, just underneath your belly button. Diverging your hyper-fixation to look down, you feel Chris’ arms slowly let you go, initiating a knee jerk response for your arms to fling up to link behind the nape of his neck to support you.

The change in grounding point, brought you closer to his body than before. The thing touched you again, this time much less subtly, and the lack of space between you and Chris, gave you a near certain answer to what that thing was.

Every night you spent unrested you imagined a moment like this, and every orgasm you brought yourself to with the faint thought of Chris in that kitchen, you imagined a moment like this, you knew exactly what you wanted to happen, it was just about how.

“Sorry” Chris lamely excused, he didn’t attempt to string together what other reasons there could possibly have been for his dick to be in the state that it was. But you didn’t comfort his embarrassment, nor did you back away from where you were, instead you chose to seize the moment.

Your legs started off straight, but close to his, then, you began to bend your knees while parting a gap between your thighs. One of your arms stayed around his neck while the other travelled up the back of his head to interlock with his deep brown strands, now black from being soaked in water.

Only seconds later did your lower half complete its journey to be fully draped around his waist. Your faces, once inches apart, now only centimetres away from one another. His eyes broke free from their shackled gaze with yours, as your body language gave him the go-ahead to finally look at your frame the way you had peered at his once before.

The long string of weeks where you could only think of how he would feel on you and in you, was enough foreplay in itself, so you made no haste to bridge your hips up against his pulsing cock under the still water. The warmth that was rushing to every part of your bodies, made the water feel that much colder.

When he had finished eating you with his eyes, his hand jerked up from your back, to clasp your cheek. As he guided your mouth to his, his tongue waited from no invitation. The kiss was wet and messy from the beginning, only picking up heat as you explode each other’s bodies with no hesitation. His hand slipped down from your back to cup your ass before squeezing it and rubbing it repeatedly, the other hand slithering down from your jaw to find hold on your neck.

With the gap between your bodies non existent, his solid cock tented in his shorts was now pressed up against your aching core. Using the strength of your knees around his waist, you began to wine your hips in a circular motion, utilizing the part of his shaft that was against your cunt as friction.

The both of you moaned at the action, him bucking his hips in response. The coolness of the pool sent waves of shock as the cold ripples acted against your throbbing heat, the kisses became sloppy as you and Chris lost the capacity to think, thinness of your swimwear allowing every point of contact between you to feel as if neither of you had clothes on.

After barely 5 minutes of breathlessly making out and grinding over his hungry dick, you pull away from Chris.

“The pool house” was all you could slew out as you tried to catch your breath, you look deep into his eyes, the blue irises now near impossible to see beyond his black dilated pupils. He gulped in excitement, mind numb, all he could do was nod.

Both of you wasted not a second climbing out of the water, and creaking the door open. The pool house didn’t have much inside, but catching a fairly large couch in the corner, you both stumbled over towards it.

Chris immediately sat down, presuming you would assume the same position of straddling him as you did in the pool, but instead you lowered onto your knees. The sight of you so eager to make him feel good prompted Chris to whip his head back and let out a sigh of built up sexual frustration.

As your fingers hooked underneath the hem of his shorts and tugged, his length sprung out, slapping into his stomach. You knew your time in the pool was torture from his irritated tip, the colour of his teased dick making you want to do nothing more than relieve the pressure.

Once his gaze fell back onto you, your hands spread out on his thighs, sliding up to his cock, once you grab hold of it, you look into his eyes before collecting your saliva and slowly letting it run down his pulsing dick. Once his length was wet enough, you used one of your hangs to circle his tip with your palm while the other assisted your mouth in taking all of him from the side, running your lips along his dick. “Fuuuuckkkk don’t stop” he groaned as his fingers trailed through your hair.

Eventually you remove your hand from his now much redder tip, and slide his cock down your throat until your nose hits his skin. You keep him in your throat for a second or two as you look up at him, his eyes getting teary just as yours were. You continued to ram his dick in and out of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you did so, his moans never stopping once, kept you going.

When you knew he was close, you used both of your hands to stroke him while your tongue lapped around the head of his throbbing cock. It took less than a second for him to cum, you popped his dick out of your mouth and steered his dick to shoot his thick white ropes of cum onto your chest. When he caught his breath he looked into your eyes.

“Didn’t wanna swallow?” He joked.

“You drink Pepsi like its water and eat like a 7 year old with a bank account and free will, I would rather drink bleach than your cum Chris” you shot back.

“Fair” he responded before pausing, then finishing his thought, “I bet your pussy’d soak up my cum with no complaints”.

Rather than a verbal response to the annoying but honest truth, you gave him a physical one. You stood up and pulled the strings of your bikini bottoms in one motion before crawling onto his lap. He looked at you as a cocky smile crept onto his face. You were on your knees hovering over his eager dick, your pussy pumping since the pool.

Waiting for him to enter your needy hole, you look down at his hand finding his length as he guided it to your entrance but rather than placing his dick where you wanted it, he tried teasing you, sliding his tip over your over-aroused clit. You moan, furrowing your eyebrows, eyes still planted on what he was doing.

“Chris… don’t… fuck around” you stammered between your heavy breaths and groans. He sneered and let out a huffy breath of amusement before finally letting his dick find your sopping wet hole, bottoming out immediately, not allowing you to adjust to his impressive size.

“Fuck” you screamed, leaning forward to embrace him, resting your chin over his shoulders and wrapping your arms around him.

“Easyyy easyyy” he hushed. His hands found your ass, softly grabbing hold of it as he lifted you up and down.

“Too much?” he asks, turning his head so his mouth pressed up against your ear as he whispers.

“Mm, keep going” you respond, almost forgetting how to communicate out of pure bliss, your eyes begin to roll to the back of your head and your eyelashes flutter. Chris plants kisses on your shoulder, as your moans get louder you can feel him smile into the kisses.

His slender fingers find your clit, using your slippery wetness to make his digits slide faster in circles. Every one of your limbs begin to numb, your mind soon following. As a blur grows around your vision, your moans turn to screams, the distance from the house your friends were in was large enough for you to let all that you were feeling be heard.

“Chris” you start to which he interrupts.

“I got you, cum for me baby” his thrusts rapid like bullet fire, sending your body into ecstasy. One second the knot is building in your gut, the next, it snaps.

“Fuck fuck fuck” you scream out.

“Mhm I got you” he assures you, as you ride out the feeling of his dick slamming against your g-spot and his fingers caressing your overstimulated clit.

As you come down from your high, you lean back, the sweet sweat that collected between your chests made it all feel so intimate. Chris slips out of you and runs his finger between your folds one last time, raising his hand to show you the white liquid dripping out of you.

He smiled and egotistically smiles “told you”, you grab his fingers and lick the cum off, more for the purpose of shutting him up.

After dressing into your indoor clothes and limping back to the house, you walk upstairs to Madison’s room with Chris by your side. “D’you get the hang of it?” Matt asked, not looking away from the rom-com playing on the TV in front of him. “Yeah, fast as fuck too, had time to teach her other shit too” Chris answered for you.

Authors note: I suck at smut but I feel like this one’s a bit better than the last one, TBHHHH this was basically a self insert cause I can’t swim for shit but I hope y’all liked it, happy Wednesday!!!

I forgot who wanted to be tagged ngl

Taglist: @hjvi @theyluvivi @sturniolosrtewsexy

[sylphidine]

@i-am-a-fish

From one of my longfics [it's dinner, not lunch, but it's delicious and everyone is happy]:

The vibrant, art-filled walls of SpaHa Soul never failed to send a shiver of happiness down Swatch’s spine. The Friday night after they got their job offer letter, they followed Uncle Julius to a corner glass-topped table, while Indigo pulled out a chair for Aunt Desiree. Catechu chatted with the guitarist setting up for the evening’s set and waved at Artist T., just emerging from the kitchen with plates for the group of diners in the opposite corner.

Uncle Julius had found this place about eight years ago and it had become THE go-to place for Dyer-Paletta family celebrations.   

And tonight they were here to celebrate Indo and Catto’s getting summer internships at the Wythe in Williamsburg, as well as Swatch’s internship.

“Chef’s choice tonight, sir,” Uncle Julius said to Artist T., after getting a hearty backslap from the proprietor. “All three of these fine young people, going out into the world and making their mark!”

“It’s a better world for you all being in it,” agreed Artist T., making a note on his pad and heading back through the swinging doors.

“I like the new eyeglasses, honey,” Aunt Desiree commented to Swatch. “You look good in aviators, and brown is a nice color for you.”

Swatch nodded.”The tint’s helpful for cutting out blue light, and since I expect I’m going to be spending a lot more time in front of screens with the new job, I figured they were worth a splurge.”

On the other side of the table, Indo was listing off all the different areas in the boutique hotel where he and his twin would be working during their ten weeks. “I don’t know how I’m going to keep a straight face when I’m answering phones and directing calls to ‘Le Crocodile’. It’ll probably get easier after a while. At least ‘Bar Blondeau’ sounds more normal. Only thing I’m worried about is getting there on time every day.”

“Better than the commute would have been if we’d gotten the gig at The Ludlow. That commute would have been a real bitch.” Catto caught his mother’s glare and muttered, “Sorry, mom.  It would have been a real bear .”

Uncle Julius laughed and then turned to Swatch. “You’re going to be cutting it awfully fine, between graduation and starting this new job. You’d better start looking at apartments now if you don’t think your landlady will extend your lease past June.”

“I know. Even with a decent salary, I’m either going to have to spend all my time commuting or all my money on a shoebox to live in.” They realized that it sounded like they were complaining, and quickly added with a laugh in their voice, “Or I could ask my favorite aunt to use her real estate agent superpowers and her mad networking skills.”

“That’s the spirit,” Aunt Desiree answered. “We’re not going to leave you out in the cold, even if you have to stay with us for a month or so while you’re getting your feet under you. You’ve got family, don’t forget."

Swatch smiled back at her. “I will never forget that.”

“And don’t forget we’re proud of you. All three of you,” Uncle Julius interjected, waving his hand to include his sons. “Not a bad apple in the bunch.”

“Thanks, Pop,” Indo replied for himself and for his brother. “Especially thanks for being such a good sport about us not working at Ambit Automation.” “Oh, you boys might still end up there if the economy tanks. Luxury disappears, but people always need manufacturing. Look at the Brooklyn Navy Yards. That’s as big a comeback as the Jazz beating the Nuggets.”

“But the boys are using their degrees,” Aunt Desiree pointed out. “Degrees that you and I both approved of, husband mine.”

“Yes, dear.”

At that moment Artist T. and Amber swooped in with platters of fried chicken, stuffed pork chops, coconut rice, spicy yams, and collard greens, enough to feed an army.

Catechu raised his glass. “To family.”

Four glasses clinked against his.

how would one of your OCs react to a HUGE burger and delicious seasoned french fries?

[quandledlngle69]

☆ GENRE/THEMES/WARNING: Gore, corpse, murder, electrocution, mention of drugs, frat party, reader is a bimbo, reader is fem, reader is implied to be stupid outside of killing, reader is a little weird. ☆ W.C. 0.9K.

・. ★ Thinking about Ghostface!Kaiser, who resides in the heart of Berlin, a football prodigy in a top college. His life seems flawless to outside eyes, but when the light of day disappears, and the darkness comes to swallow the city whole, he’s the reason for the terror caused, the string of brutal murders of college kids that have everyone on edge. 

He thrives in it, the whole spectacle. He makes sure the crime scenes are a show of blood, gore, and things that would make even the most hardened detective try not to let their earlier lunch come up their throats. 

And then, someone comes and steals a piece of his spotlight. 

The kills are messy, like his, but way more sloppier. Leaving the corpses as if they were dissecting a frog in biology, or like someone was blown up from the inside out. They seemed to only target females, not males, which he quickly learned it’s probably because it's either they couldn’t take down an average male, or they were some boy creep. The girls had things in common, either they were popular, cheerleaders, or mean bitches, or the lucky draw of all three.

It takes a couple weeks, but he finally figures out the killer is you on Halloween night.

He loves nights like these, where can just go out in his mask and costume, strew up the guts of a couple of kids at a college house party – and no one would know. It was the biggest frat party that year – and everyone was either black out drunk, high, or coked out. His target was the host, a popular girl on a cheerleading team, a spoiled daddy's girl who only got in because her father was buddy's with the school principal. She had gotten tired of the party downstairs and went to go take a bath, according to the whispers he overheard. He had managed to slip past silently upstairs, like a shadow. His blood felt hot, already pumping with the familiar build up of adrenaline.

But his target wasn’t alone, he saw you stood over the tub. 

It was you, the dizzy, bimbo girl he would see in the hallways and in his criminology lectures. You were an international student. He had no clue how you got in, with the way you would ask questions with common sense answers, earning a puzzled look from the professor and whispered snickers in the room. You always looked like a lost rabbit in a crowd of wolves, and you were too clumsy to be left alone with even a plastic fork. You dressed like you were pushed straight out of that one American movie he had heard of–mean girls. You were bubbly, pretty and sociable enough to get a seat at the cheerleaders table, and the attention of the mere meatheads he played with; who only paid attention to you babble when you wore a low cut shirt, and you were none the wiser.

You were a target on his list, not at the top, but still on it. He wouldn’t tell you that though. 

You were dressed as a stereotypical playboy bunny outfit, but–pink. The whole dramatic and sexy outfit was a juxtaposition to the bloodlust in your big eyes. The girl had her headphones in, her voice dreadfully loud and scratchy as she sang to some dumb pop song, cucumber slices over her eyes, completely unaware of you looming over her. The warm, lavender–scented water rippled as the girl comfortably adjusted her position in the big ceramic bowl. His gloved hand gripped his Buck 120, prepared to have two for one bodies for his art piece, but he paused when he saw you holding something. 

The toaster was heavy in your hands, its metal surface cool over your twitchy fingers. His sharp eyes followed the cord connected to it, all the way to the outlet by the sink wall. Your posture showed a hit of debate, before he watched you harshly rip back the curtain, the screeching sound loud enough to startle the once relaxed girl in the tub–who finally took the cucumbers off her eyes. She immediately shrieked, obviously upon being seen in the bath, but you, a guest, were standing over her tub with a toaster in your hand, a manic look plastered on your features. 

It was like he was watching some cheesy, comedic horror movie. 

“Hey, do you ever think about how dangerous electricity and water are together?” You asked with an almost dazed look on your face, your eyebrows and nose scrunched, as if your brain was trying hard to figure out the answer to your own question.

Before the girl could answer, the toaster purposely slipped from your hands.

The moment it hit the water, bright and angry sparks erupted– cracking like fireworks. The bathwater was an inescapable death trap, the girl's body jerking and convulsing violently as her mouth opened in a violent scream, before it swallowed bathwater. The bubbles and bathwater spilled from the sides, getting the bathmat wet, the water seeping in it, turning it a darker colour. The bathroom lights flickered above, and the distinct smell of burning flesh swirled in the air. 

And then– stillness. 

You tilted your head, crouching just a little almost to admire your work, before unplugging the cord from the wall. You mumbled, almost to yourself, “Guess you don’t have to worry about your split ends anymore.”

Kaiser was still in the shadow of the doorway, grinning from ear to ear under his mask. He was silent with his stalking, and you were only able to gauge his presence when he was directly behind you, flinching when your back hit a hard, muscular chest. 

You didn't seem even a little afraid as you looked up at him through your lashes, your glossy lips parted in surprise.

Scheiße, maybe he won’t kill you just yet.

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