#if you have noticed a pattern no you didn’t

[vivimura]

CHAMPAGNE CONFETTI ─ bf!riki gives you soft head when you can't sleep! (nsfw, 1.660 k wc) i missed posting <3

moonlight poured into riki’s bedroom from the large windows across the bed in such a gentle, serene manner that it made you scoff bitterly.

sometimes you wondered to yourself— how was it so, that despite laying on a comfortable (and likely expensive) mattress, being in the arms of an amazing cuddler, having been tired from the day earlier, sleep eluded you.

it was an exhausting feeling. the crippling urge to rest denied by a sinister train of thoughts that never seemed to shut no matter how hard you tried. your eyes drifted to the side profile of your boyfriend, riki laying beside you. he was one of the few, and probably only people, whom the sight of laying so peacefully could bring a gentle smile to your lips.

not wanting to disturb him with your inner turmoil, you turned around in his arms to lay on your other side. however, the action caused his eyes to flicker open.

he stirred slightly as you moved, his arms tightening around you instinctively before he realized you weren't sleeping. he lifted his head to look at you, noticing your restlessness. his voice was low and gentle in the dark room. "can't sleep, baby?"

you mentally cursed at the sound of his voice. you back to face him quickly and sighed as you shook your head, the action barely visible through the darkness of the room. there was a look of guilt in your eyes, one of having disturbed your lover’s sleep. 

“no.. god, i had when this happens..” you mumbled and tucked your head under his arm.

he stroked your hair softly, trying to soothe you back into a relaxed state. his voice was a comforting murmur in the quiet darkness. "it's okay, i’m here." he kissed the top of your head gently. he patted your head in a steady rhythm to try and lull you to sleep, slight tiredness evident in his own voice.

in that moment, you felt the racing train of thoughts in your head pause. but it was only for a second. as if to convince riki that you were falling asleep for the sake of some sleep of his own, you stayed as still as you could and closed your eyes. but there was no fooling him.

“baby.” he called out, you remained silent. but, riki noticed the movement of your eyes moving from under your eyelids. he could only chuckle fondly and shake his head.

“wanna try something?”

you finally opened your eyes when you heard his question, a look of sheepishness yet desperation in your orbs as you looked up at riki. you had to take a moment to simply appreciate how comforting riki’s mere presence was, and then said, “try what?”

riki looked into your eyes with something you’ve labelled as intensity, determination, and passion. he didn’t reply straight away, and simply leaned forward to begin planting a pattern of soft kisses from the side of your cheek bone, down your face. “wanna eat you out..” he whispered against your skin and gripped onto your waist with one hand, the other moving lower, fingers brushing the top of your ass.

you let out an audible gasp at his words. you backed away and put a pause to riki’s affectionate kisses at the laughable speed of light, and looked at him with cheeks visibly colored even through the lack of lighting.

“..w-what?”

he laughed softly at your embarrassed yet curious expression, already knowing how affected you were by his words. "i know you heard me, baby." he shifted up on all fours and moved to position himself between your legs, his eyes darkening with desire but maintaining a tender tone.

your breath hitched as you watched him slowly come into a position of hovering over your legs. you remained silent for a few seconds and stared at him with wide eyes, as if waiting for him to burst into laughter and tell you that he was joking. at his obvious and expected awaiting, you gave him a meek, barely there nod.

"...okay."

he grinned and moved to pull your legs over his shoulders. he looked up at you with loving eyes before pressing a gentle kiss to your inner right leg, making his intention clear. "you gotta be quiet, though. the others are next door. can you do that for me?" his voice was soft but commanding.

your teeth sunk into your lower lip as you nodded. this was one of those nights you were grateful for your minimal choice in sleepwear, consisting of a measly t-shirt belonging to riki, and a pair of panties underneath. even through the dim light, you recognized that glint of intention in riki’s eyes.

he started placing gentle kisses up your inner thigh, his hands gently spreading your legs wider. he could feel how tense yet excited you were, how quiet you were trying to be. you always looked so adorable when he was about to pleasure you. "such a good girl..."

he smiled against your skin and slowly, teasingly, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slid them down your legs. "lift your hips for me, baby."

when you did, he tossed your panties aside and gently spread your legs wider, his eyes locked onto your pussy. he blew a soft breath against you, making you shiver. "so fucking pretty," he murmured before pressing a gentle kiss to your inner thigh, deliberately avoiding the middle.

you whimpered and squirmed in place, trying your very best to keep quiet at his soft breaths and kisses that seemed to land everywhere but where you needed them the most. "riki.." you whined out quietly, extending one hand to gently dig your fingers into his hair.

riki chuckled at the desperation in your voice, but the sound of your sweet voice whining his name pushed him over the edge of control. he moved his mouth directly to your slit, giving you a long, slow lick. "shh... quiet baby," he whispered against your sensitive flesh before sucking gently on your clit. "no noise..."

you let out a surprised whimper, but when he began sucking your clit gently, you melted like butter on a pan. you grip on his hair tightened a little, your back arching off the bed and eyes rolling up from the sudden pleasure he brought. "shit.."

he hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through your core. he continued to suck and lick, his movements slow and deliberate, building up the intensity. one of his hands moved to your inner thigh, holding your leg open and steady as he feasted on you. "so sweet..."

"oh, my god.." you gasped and cried out softly, trying to keep your voice as low as you could. but at that point, the only thing you could think about was the warmth and wetness of riki’s tongue.

he chuckled softly against you, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through you. he loved how sensitive you were, how easy it was to make you fall apart. he flattened his tongue and gave you a long, slow lick from bottom to top, collecting your wetness.

he hummed, tasting you again. he knew you were quiet because he told you to be, not because you were actually sleepy. he spread your folds with his thumbs, exposing you more to his mouth. he gave another slow lick, this time going lower to gather your wetness again.

"fuck.." you whispered out a curse and panted, unable to resist grabbing a fist of his hair and tugging it closer to you. your hips bucked erratically with no permission, your chest heaving rapidly as your breaths came in ragged gasps.

he felt your tugging on his hair and knew you were getting more into it. he loved seeing you like this, completely lost in the moment. he licked up your slit again, then focused on your clit, sucking it into his mouth gently. "quiet..." he whispered against your pussy.

you barely managed to whisper out a, "y-yeah.. sorry.." before letting out another quiet moan. his tongue gave such immense pleasure that your legs jerked, and it wasn't long before you felt a knot tighten in the pit of your stomach.

he could feel your muscles tense up, a clear sign that you were close already. he flattened his tongue again, maintaining steady pressure on your clit as he slipped two fingers inside you. "shh... almost there, baby..." he whispered against your pussy.

he felt your walls clamping down on his fingers and knew you were on the brink. maintaining the perfect rhythm with his tongue, he curled his fingers inside you, stroking that sensitive spot. his other hand reached up to cover your mouth gently, silently urging you to stay quiet as your orgasm hit.

a particularly loud moan escaped your lips, but was thankfully concealed by his hand over your mouth as your orgasm crashed. your legs trembled as a gush of liquid expelled, and you began squirting uncontrollably.

he groaned softly against your pussy as he felt your release gush out, coating his mouth and chin. he continued to lap at you gently, helping you ride out your intense orgasm. his fingers continued its steady thrusts, drawing out your intense release. once he sensed you beginning to slow down, he slowly withdrew his finger and licked his lips, savoring your taste.

the sight of riki wiping your squirt off of his lips with the back of his hand was one of the last things you remembered seeing, before you were knocked out to sleep almost immediately.

he smiled softly at how completely worn out you were from your orgasm, your breaths evening out into deep sleep. he gently wiped up any remaining wetness from between your thighs before covering your naked body with a blanket. "well, that was easier than i thought," he thought to himself and grinned, giving your forehead a goodnight kiss.

mlist comment and reblog!

[jazziejax]

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐡

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore x Black!OC & Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - In the underbelly of Prohibition Chicago, a quiet bartender begins to suspect a dangerous secret about a man who might not be just one man after all.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Violence, implied abuse, trauma, period-accurate sexism, organized crime elements

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - another one.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 2,511+

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 - 𝐈. 𝐈𝐈. 𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐈𝐕. 𝐕. 𝐕𝐈

𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐨, 𝐈��𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐢𝐬 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟕

To the people of Chicago, Odessa Ripley was a simple woman. All they knew about her was that she worked at Gertie’s Fine Dining, was born and raised in Clarksdale, Mississippi, and the second wife to Laurence Ripley, who they only assumed could be the on putting those bruises on her skin that she tried to hide with makeup and a beaming smile. And that was all true. She was born and raised in Clarksdale Mississippi, far out from the small city life the place did have. She lived a small plantation where her family did a little well, though they were still slaves to the money they only could dream of. The eldest girl of four kids.

But she wasn’t the ideal child, not to her father at least. She was so focused on doing her work, making as much money as she could to take care of her family, but the time she was sixteen, she had no prospects. And that didn’t sit right with him. He spent the next two years, trying to turn the field girl into a suitable wife. And she knew the basics, cooking, cleaning, sowing, all that. And though her beauty was there, men didn’t want a girl who worked her whole life doing labor. They wanted a lady. And that was something she wasn’t.

She wasn’t soft spoken, and she wasn’t stupid and naive as most men wanted her to be. She was reserved, didn’t talk much, but when she did it meant something. She was an observer, so she started a lot, and she resting face gave off an unwelcoming feeling to most. And Carl Coulter had lost hope.

That was until he caught word from some white men speaking about their daughters during work, and how they’d send their girls off to marry suitable men.

And then all hope didn’t seem to be lost, and he also saw extra money in his future.

And next thing Odessa knew was that five years ago years ago, she’d been Odessa Maree Coulter of Mississippi, a barefoot girl with callused hands and no prospects. And then her father had sold her off like a debt, packed her onto a train with a suitcase and a scrap of paper: Laurence Ripley, Chicago. And she wasn’t even sure how much she was sold for.

She just hoped it made her family happy, and now they could live a bit better.

And now, by day, Odessa Ripley served fried meats and bootlegged coffee at Gertie’s Fine Dining, a “restaurant” so polite you could bring your elderly mother after church. And by night, she ghosted through the real heart of the place — a speakeasy buried under the floorboards, lit dimly by candles, cigarette smoke and broken dreams.

She wasn’t loud, wasn’t showy. She never was but it was something she grew not to be after years in the bustling city of Chicago. She minded her business, kept her eyes low and her hands busy. In a place like Gertie’s, it was safer not to see too much, though nothing could go down in the designated safe zone.

But even a reserved woman could notice patterns.

There was him. This one man. He was tall, dark, well built and sharp at the edges. Everyone that was anyone seemed to know him. The Italians bragged about him, and the Irish laughed with him over glasses of rotten whiskey.

Same man.

Only… he wasn’t the same man. At least, that’s what Odessa gathered.

She caught it in the smallest things. When he came with the Italians, he wore polished shoes, a perfectly pressed suit, a gold pinky ring flashing under the low lights. His hair slicked hard and smooth when he took off his fedora. The gold outlining the teeth of his canines when he laughed loudly with the men and he kissed cheeks like he was born in Naples.

But when he rolled in with the Irish, he wore scuffed boots, a crooked tie, a rough grin that didn’t stretch far but signaled trouble. His hair tucked under a flat cap, and he laughed easy, slapping backs like he grew up tossing stones at windows in Dublin.

From the inattentive men of the mobs to the unassuming bystanders, it was just one man. A man like no other that gained them more power and money than some of them could ever think of.

But to Odessa, it was two. It had to be. It didn’t make any sense to her. Unless her lack of communication to people besides her children was staring to get to her.

She noticed things about them—him. Some nights, he drank bourbon neat. Other nights, he asked for gin with a twist. Some nights, he limped on his right leg. Other nights, his left shoulder hung low. Some nights, he spoke sharp and clipped, like he’d been raised in Chicago proper. Other nights, there was a soft, creeping drawl that curled the edges of his words.

Most folks would’ve chalked it up to exhaustion, to drinks, or to the weight of the life. But Odessa had lived enough of a double-life herself to recognize a crack in the mask.

But she wasn’t brave enough to say it out loud.

Lord knew she had enough troubles stitched into the seams of her life already. But she did have the ones she grew to love more than she could ever imagine.

Her husband, Laurence Ripley, was a widower. She never knew fully what happened to the woman, and she wasn’t strong enough to ask the little ones or the grieving husband. But from word of mouth, it seemed to everyone that it was simply unexpected. And now Laurence needed help, he said. Needed a wife, he meant.

Odessa learned the difference between the two quick.

She also learned to love his children — Beatrice ‘Beaty’ and Peter ‘Pete’ — who clung to her like barnacles to a sinking ship after the loss of their mother. Nothing but ten and twelve when she first met them, her nothing but eighteen.

Now, she lived with the children, who were closer to her age than she was to their father. She tried her best to keep smiles on their faces, even when they would drop when Laurence came home drunk or angry every night. The three found solace in each other after abruptly loosing the life they once knew.

Still, she couldn’t help but tell the kids her theory late at night, when the dishes were washed and Beaty was playing with her hair while Pete was pretending he wasn’t listening.

“I think there’s two of ’em.” She said, dropping her voice like the walls had ears as she sowed the hole in Laurence’s shirt closed.

“Two what?” Pete asked, looking up from his whittling knife.

“Two men, keep up Pete.” Beaty said said, looking up from the woman’s hair and over to the older boy. Pete simply threw her an annoyed look while Odessa continued. “You don’t know them, but you’ve probably seen them. The one the Italians love and those Irish men laugh with. They look alike, sure, but… they ain’t the same. I swear it.”

Beaty giggled, finishing off the one braid she did with a white ribbon. “Mama Dessa, that has to be the craziest thing I ever heard. Are you making up stories to keep us entertained?” She questioned, causing Pete to snort while Odessa playfully rolled her eyes at the girl. “Ain’t no one slick enough to pull that off.” Peter stated. “’Specially not with those fellas.” He said, before standing up from the table and grabbing his new banjo from the living room, new to him since he saw an old white man throw it out that morning when he was in town getting groceries.

“Ehh.” Beaty chimed back in as she continued with the other half of Odessa head. “It sounds crazy but don’t give those white men too much credit. They ain’t that bright.” She shrugged.

“That ain’t dumb either.” Pete said as she walked back into the small stable that sat in the corner of the kitchen, placing the instrument in his lap. “They just let their egos get in the way of making smart decisions. That’s how they always mess up.” He said, strumming a few strings and letting the soft sounds fill the kitchen. He then paused, looking over at the older woman in the other side of the table. “At least, that’s what you say, right mama?” He asked.

And Odessa smiled into her cup. She then placed it down, offering him her soft look. “Of course.” She said, a bit endeared that he remembered her words. “But don’t go ‘round saying that to other people ‘else word get back to ya and bites. And since you’re in the mood for quoting, also remember—.”

“There ain’t no white man smatter or better than you.” The younger two echoed before the woman could even speak. And hearing their words caused a smile to cross her lips.

“But based on your story, mama Dessa, we may be smarter than you. Cause ain’t no two men posing as one with the mod.” Beaty woke up, her and her brother sharing a laugh while Odessa rolled her eyes at them again as she went back to her sowing.

As they laughed, she wasn’t sure she believed it herself, not really. But deep down, in the place that still had a little fire left, she knew.

She knew.

They never interacted. The man — or men — never said anything to her. Never gave her a wink or a hint. But sometimes, when he passed by her at the bar, shoulder brushing hers, he’d tip his hat just a little lower. And she would nod back. That was it. And it didn’t eat away at her like she thought it would, because even if she was ever right, she knew some things — and some people — were safer left in the shadows.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

The night came in heavy, wrapping Gertie’s in smoke and low murmurs as they prepared to close down for the night. Odessa was working her upstairs shift, and as she wiped down the polished wood of the upstairs counter, head bowed like always, but her sharp eyes caught movement near the door.

There he is, she thought.

Tonight, he was dressed crisp. Tweed suit with a dark green color, a matching flat cap, silver cufflinks, and a dark coat slung over his shoulder. Irish side, then.

He moved smooth through the room, parting it like a ship through water, a close-lipped smile that offered no one comfort.

When he reached the bar, Odessa had already poured a whiskey. Neat. No words exchanged.

He smiled wider now, still small, just a touch to show his nice teeth. Enough to make a lesser girl blush.

“Appreciate it, sweetheart.” He said, voice low and syrupy. She gave a small, polite nod, sliding the glass to him across the bar. Her fingers brushed his glove.

He smelled like tobacco and cologne, something expensive.

He drank standing up, surveying the room that was beginning to thin as families closed down to the night and some men headed to the back to enter their downstairs area.

“Busy night?” He asked, kidding his head over to the bereaved curtain that was stationed behind the bar. They both knew he was taking about the speakeasy below their feet, the room buzzing full of boisterous men drunk off illegal drinks and high off gambling.

“Steady,” Odessa said, voice even. She kept her gaze slightly averted, like a good and unsuspecting girl would.

He let out a small chortle under his breath, tossed a coin onto the bar, and tipped his hat. “Save me a spot next time. I’d love to try the food here.”

Then he was gone, vanishing into the back and disappearing into the dark like a shadow.

The next time was about a day later. She really say then in the same day. She was working her speakeasy shift that night and after the Irish had cleared out and the Italians had flooded in with louder laughs and messier boots, he returned.

But different.

Black suit with a matching wide brimmed hat, gold cufflinks, a white pocket square so sharp it could slice you. He moved as smooth as before, though a little less assertive. He flashed that smug smile that had the women swooning, opposed to the close-lipped smile that said everything and nothing at once that she saw yesterday. His accent was smoother now — words rolling looser, more careless.

“Evenin’, darlin’.” He said, dropping onto a stool with a heavy sigh, like he’d been working all day digging graves. “You got anythin’ that’ll kill a man twice?” He asked with a smirk, showing those gold teeth in the corner of his mouth.

Odessa lifted an eyebrow but kept her voice mild. “Could rustle up a gin, maybe some moonshine or a prayer. Whichever you think’ll hit harder.” She deadpanned.

He barked out a full, throaty laugh — none of that tight and taunt smile from before.

“Gin’ll do,” He said, tapping the bar with two fingers.

She poured him one, hand steady even as her mind rattled. Up close, he seemed a bit broader. His knuckles looked less scuffed, but his skin a shade darker from sun or soot. Maybe she’d imagined the roughness earlier.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

He threw back the drink and grimaced happily.

“You’re a blessing, you know that?” He said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Odessa hummed, taking the glass and pointing him another before moving to the rest of the empty glasses left by men from earlier. “Don’t rightly feel like one some days.” She murmured, surprising herself.

He tilted his head at that, studying her now. The easy humor faded from his face, replaced with something quieter.

Softer.

“You oughta.” He said finally, almost serious before picked a toothpick from the short glass on the bar and put it in his mouth. Then he slid a few coins her way — double what the drink cost — and sauntered back toward the table in the back where a few Italian men were raising hell over dice and cards.

Odessa watched him go, wiping down the already clean bar with slow, careful strokes.

Same man, she thought. Same eyes, same voice.

But…

But not the same weight behind the voice.

Not the same way he wore his own skin.

And no matter how many times Beaty and Pete laughed at her for it, Odessa just knew that those had to be different men. There were two of them. Two faces. Same damn lie stitched up in different suits.

She tucked the extra coins into her apron and said nothing. Some secrets were safer locked behind your teeth.

And she had learned a long time ago. Women like her didn’t survive by speaking the truth.

That is how she got her husband after all.

[nottsstar]

SUNDRESS. theodore nott 𓍢ִ smut 18+ MDNI

THE MALFOY MANOR was a perfect place for pool parties. Though it was dull and dark, the pool area (let’s pretend there is one) was perfect for a small party. I mean, Mr and Mrs malfoy probably didn’t even mind. Well, that’s what Draco told everyone.

The day was perfect for some pool fun. The weather was nice with no clouds covering the bright sun. The whole group, including Theo was invited for the holidays as vacation to the Malfoys. Nobody swam today. Not even Pansy and Blaise were swimming today. They all planning do sunbathing under the scorching heat.

Though, right now everybody was inside. Except for you and Theo. You both weren’t friends-friends. Just friends of friends. But sometimes you both talked. Theo had found interest in you somewhat. He thought you looked gorgeous. With your sharp features and body, you could captivate anyone. Even Theodore Nott.

But you? Oh boy, you had a major crush on him. And throughout the whole vacation you had been ogling at him. Though that was a huge secret. Not even Pansy knew this crush of yours. And she knew almost everything about you. The only person or more rather thing which knew was your diary. It would always star with a ‘dear diary...’ and end with a small ‘<3’. It had been your secret since the first time you saw him. If staring at Nott was a job, you’d be rich enough to by at least six whole planets already.

All you did not know, was that Nott had found one of your ripped pages. The most important one yet. The one that was ao secret you were planning on throwing it away. Though, that never happened because the next moment you opened your dear diary, the paper was nowhere to be found. You assumed you must have already threw it away somewhere. But nope, Theo had gotten to it before the dustbin. And he was pretty surprised with it too. Exactly how you would be when you found out he had seen it.

dear diary . . .

oh goodness gracious god, did Theo look great today. He had a white button up on. I could ogle at him for days, weeks, months, even years. And guess what? He talked to me today! He asked me if I was enjoying my stay. And I obviously said yes. Though, what I really wanted to say was more than that. His hair was a little bit more disheveled today. Oh how I wanted to smooth it out with my own fingers. Okay, back to his white button up. Do you know how hot it made him look? Sexy even. His chest was practically seeping through. I could see it so well. I almost melted. I wonder how they’d feel under my touch and...maybe I shouldn’t write the remaining

<3

and that’s all that was wrote on the ripped piece of paper to Theo’s dismay. Some bits were missing though, the parts he needed to know were there. And you wouldn’t believe it but—

Today, theo was wearing his normal pool outfit. A buttoned one with a normal striped yellow and blue pattern. His shirt is fully unbuttoned though, revealing his chiseled chest bare and exposed. Exposed to your eyes. You had been staring at him all day. All day, you swore. And he was honestly no better than you.

You had been wearing your sundress today. Your sundress that came up to your mid thighs. And funny enough, you aren’t wearing any underwear either. And the dress exposed a good amount of neck too. With black sunglasses on, there’s more you can do than protecting your eyes, theo had managed to stare at you or rather your legs without you noticing. They were exposed. Fully on display. And he could stare at them for hours. You’d probably melt if you knew that.

And currently, you were bouncing on his dick. It’s just how it went. Believe it or not, his hands were on your thighs as you rode him. You were moaning out his name while he was moaning out absolutely nothing. What were the risks of getting caught? You both could care less. I mean, if you both were caught it would be bad and awkward but right now your minds were circling with emotions.

“you’ve wanted this for so long huh? Bet you’re gonna write about this in your diary too.” he manages to say through all the pleasure. Your face flushed an even deeper red at that, if that’s even possible.

“oh shut up.”

“that’s no fair, you don’t shut up about me in your diary.”

You groan at that, scowling at him. He smirks seeing your expression. He’s enjoying giving you pleasure and getting you all pissed at him. He knows the pissed expression will go in no time.

His hands that were on your hips shift to your shoulders, he lowers you down with almost a feather light touch. He chuckles to himself. As you lower down to meet his face with yours, his dick twitches inside of you. Causing you to let out a sof whimper, to Theo’s pleasure of course.

With a bold move he captures your lips with his, locking them in. Your hands are now tangled in his soft brown hair. And he doesn’t pay any attention to it until you tug on it. He lets out a shaky groan into your mouth. His tongue licks your bottom lip as in asking for access to your mouth. And you let him, already in his game. If you’re in, you can’t out. His tongue explores your mouth inch to inch. He even lets out a small ‘mm’ for some reason. Of course, withyour brain fogged you don’t know why.

Once he lets go of your mouth, you go back to your original position. Which is straddling him with his cock buried deep in you. Your hands almost automatically fly tp his chest, stabling yourself. Like you wrote in your diary, his hard abs felt great under your touch. You wanted to skim your hands over them. But there was just no time in this pleasure to it. Maybe next time? Definitely next time. His hands are now on your hips as before, gripping them enough to leave two red handprints. You don’t mind though. Did you? Nah.

“oh fuck Theo...‘m gonna...” no more words come out your mouth before you’re spilling all over his thick cock. You get up from it, still dripping in what not. Though, you’re still on him. His cock is now arched towards your chest as he runs his hand up and down, closer and closer to his release. And it’s not long before thick ropes of cum shoot at your chest, splattering all over your tits covered by your sundress.

“hope you got what you wanted cara mia.”

And that’s the last thing he said before he ordered me toget up. And I obviously did. Hopefully this isn’t the end just yet. But can you believe it? I had sex with him near the pool while there were ninety nine percent chance we’d get caught! I enjoyed it though...

<3

reblogs and feedback are always appreciated!

wc: 1184 😦

(What the hell? I dunno how this turned into a fic. Help.)

[atlasthegreatest]

Fireflies and Wild Blooms / Charlotte Matthews x Female Reader

At a sleepy summer camp tucked deep in the woods, Charlotte Matthews spends her days as a counselor surrounded by laughter, sun-warmed docks, and late-night bonfires. She isn’t looking for anything — until she meets Y/n Harrington, the older counselor who feels like the first breath of fresh air after a long winter.

Warnings: None. Summer Camp AU.

Word count: 2623

Camp Hollow Pines was the kind of place that looked like it had been pulled from a postcard — sprawling forests, a sapphire lake, cabins nestled between crooked trees, and the scent of pine and burnt marshmallows baked into the air.

Y/n Harrington had been coming here for years — a veteran counselor, tall and composed, with that kind of quiet confidence that made kids listen without yelling and made other counselors feel steadier just by standing near her. They always put her in the toughest bunks, knowing she could handle anything.

This year, the Yellowjackets girls had signed on as a group, taking counselor jobs before their senior year. They were loud, chaotic, funny — and completely inseparable.

And among them was Charlotte Matthews.

She wasn’t loud like Natalie or effortlessly cool like Taissa. She moved like the woods — soft and sure. She wore her shirts knotted at the waist, hair tied back in messy braids, and she always smelled faintly of lavender and bug spray. Kids loved her. She’d whisper to crying campers at night until they fell asleep or braid flowers into their hair before campfire songs.

Y/n tried not to notice her too much.

She tried not to notice how the tall brunette looked at her during morning meetings like she was trying to figure something out.

Or how her name sounded different when she said it — gentler somehow.

But it was hard.

Especially as summer stretched on.

——————-

It started with chores. Y/n was cleaning out the mess hall pantry when the brunette appeared beside her, sleeves rolled up and hands already reaching for the cans.

“You always do everything alone,” she said, not accusing. Just noticing.

Y/n gave her a small smile.

“Force of habit.”

Charlotte paused, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe you don’t have to.”

From then on, she kept showing up.

Helping stack oars after canoeing.

Sneaking iced tea from the staff fridge.

Sitting next to Y/n during campfire singalongs, always just close enough that their knees brushed.

It became a pattern, unspoken but certain.

There were nights when the heat lingered late into the evening, and they’d all gather by the lake. Natalie and Van played guitar badly, singing even worse. Jackie complained about mosquitoes to Shauna— who was helping some kids with their smores. Taissa led the kids in ghost stories. Misty manned the s’mores station with obsessive glee.

Y/n sat on the log bench, a little apart, watching the flames flicker and the stars prick the sky.

And Charlotte?

Charlotte always found her way to her.

One night, she handed Y/n a half-burnt marshmallow sandwiched between graham crackers. Her fingers lingered on the older girl’s.

“You always take care of everyone,” she said.“Someone should take care of you, too.”

Y/n didn’t answer. But her heart did — loud and clear.

——————-

It wasn’t sudden.

It was glances shared across the arts & crafts table.

It was Y/n’s hand brushing hers when reaching for the bug spray.

It was Charlotte tucking a daisy behind Y/n’s ear before heading to the flagpole.

It was Jackie elbowing the older girl during cabin inspections and whispering, “You and Lottie, huh?”

It was Van calling out, “You’re blushing, Matthews!” during kitchen duty.

It was Misty saying too loudly, “You two are always together,” while Natalie rolled her eyes and said, “Maybe because they like each other, genius.”

It was soft. Quiet. A slow bloom.

One late afternoon, when the sky was syrupy and orange, and the kids were off at archery, Y/n found Charlotte sitting under the old willow tree by the dock. Her eyes were closed, the breeze teasing her hair, and her journal was open on her lap.

Y/n approached without saying anything.

The brunette looked up and smiled.

“You always find me here.”

“Force of habit,” the older girl echoed from earlier.

Y/n sat beside the brunette, legs stretched out, her shoulder brushing hers.

“I like being near you,” Charlotte said simply, eyes still on the lake.

It was so quiet that even the trees held their breath.

“And I like you,” she added, softer this time, as if saying it out loud made it real.

Y/n turned to her, heartbeat thundering loud in her chest.

Charlotte looked nervous — like someone brave in every way but this one.

So Y/n reached out, her pinky finding hers, and said, “Me too.”

And the brunette exhaled, laughing quietly, in that way, people do when the weight they’ve been carrying suddenly disappears.

They stayed there until the sun dipped below the trees.

Not rushing.

Not needing to.

Just two people falling — slowly, surely — in the middle of a summer where everything felt a little more alive.

——————-

After that evening under the willow tree, something shifted.

Not all at once. Not in any way they could point to. But there was a new kind of gravity between Y/n and Charlotte — gentle and sure like a river slowly carving its path.

They still did their jobs. Y/n still woke at sunrise to the bell clanging across the camp, still herded muddy kids through breakfast and canoe practice. Still sat through endless counselor meetings where Van made jokes and Misty took way too many notes.

But now, there were stolen glances when they passed each other in the mess hall.

Brushes of hands when handing over life jackets at the docks.

A silent language built in the spaces between the noise of camp.

One afternoon, Taissa and Shauna organized a massive capture-the-flag tournament. Y/n was drafted as a “team leader” (read: glorified referee), while Charlotte — after much pleading from the campers — ended up leading the Red Team.

Watching her laugh as she plotted elaborate battle strategies with ten-year-olds made the older girl’s chest ache, in the best way.

At one point during a chaotic scramble near the woods, Charlotte slipped past her, grinning wildly, her hand catching hers just for a second — a tug, a tease, before she disappeared behind a tree.

And Y/n stood there like an idiot, grinning, long after she was gone.

Later that night, the two of them were on campfire duty, staying behind after the kids had been herded to bed. The embers glowed low and the stars spilled across the sky like sugar.

Charlotte sat cross-legged on the ground, poking the ashes with a stick. Y/n sat beside her, elbows resting on her jeans-clad knees.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

It was easy like that now — the silence between them comfortable, like worn-in denim.

Finally, the brunette said, “This summer feels…different.”

Y/n glanced at her. Charlotte’s face was lit softly by the firelight, all shadow and gold.

“Because of us?” she asked.

The brunette nodded, tucking a stray braid behind her ear. “I didn’t think I could ever feel something like this. Not again.”

Y/n knew what she meant without needing the details. Some things were better understood without words.

Y/n shifted closer, carefully, giving Charlotte the chance to pull away. She didn’t. Instead, the brunette tilted her head against Y/n’s shoulder, a sigh escaping her like she’d been holding it in all day.

They stayed like that until the fire was nothing but a memory.

——————-

The days grew shorter, but the heat still clung stubbornly. And sometimes, the other girls gave the two a hard time.

Like Van, throwing a stick at them during counselor free swim: “Just kiss her already!”

Or Natalie, during kitchen duty, muttering to Misty: “They’re so obvious it’s painful.”

And then Jackie, less subtle, during arts & crafts: “We’re betting on when you two will make it official. Don’t make me lose twenty bucks.”

Even Taissa, who usually rolled her eyes at the drama, grinned one afternoon and said, “About time you found someone good, Lott.”

Charlotte would just blush and duck her head.

Y/n could only chuckle and shake her head.

But secretly?

She loved that they noticed.

She loved that it wasn’t hidden.

And she loved Charlotte.

Y/n didn’t say it — not yet — but it lived inside her now, bright and certain.

———————

One evening, as a late summer storm rolled in, all the kids were herded into the rec hall for movie night. Y/n and Charlotte found themselves on the old worn-out couches pushed together in the back, half-watching The Sandlot flicker across the projector screen.

At some point, without thinking, Y/n draped her arm along the back of the couch behind the brunette. Charlotte leaned into her, fitting there like she’d been made for it.

Y/n looked down at her — the way the screen’s light caught her cheekbones, the way she bit her bottom lip when she was trying not to laugh — and her heart stuttered.

Maybe it was the storm outside.

Maybe it was the slow build of all the moments leading up to this one.

Maybe it was just time.

Y/n leaned in, slow enough that Charlotte could have pulled away. She didn’t.

Y/n’s lips brushed hers — feather-light — a question, not a demand.

And Charlotte answered by tilting her chin up, kissing the older girl back, soft and sure.

When they finally pulled away, Charlotte's forehead rested against Y/n’s, and she whispered, almost giddy:

“I was hoping you’d do that.”

Y/n laughed, low and breathless.

“Me too.”

Outside, the storm raged, lightning flashing silver across the windows.

Inside, Y/n and Charlotte held each other in the soft dark, and nothing else mattered.

——————-

The last week of camp always felt a little like watching the sunset — beautiful, but heavy in Y/n’s chest, knowing it couldn’t last forever.

The kids started counting down the days, leaving goodbye notes in each other’s cubbies, friendship bracelets piling up on wrists like armor against change. The other counselors were already talking about plans for the fall — classes, sports, senior year, maybe keeping in touch.

And Y/n?

Y/n was thinking about Charlotte.

The way she leaned into her side when they watched the lake at dusk.

The way she always saved her the last orange popsicle.

The way her brown eyes softened when they landed on her like she was the calm in her storm.

They hadn’t talked about what happened next.

Not really.

But the clock was ticking, and they could both hear it.

One evening, with only a few days left, the camp threw a “Bonfire Bash” — a tradition. All the kids wore glow sticks and the counselors helped roast s’mores while music echoed through the trees.

Y/n stood by the firepit, handing out marshmallows and laughing with Jackie and Natalie while Misty awkwardly taught kids a line dance she made up. Charlotte was across the fire, helping tie shoes and rebraid a girl’s hair that had come loose mid-run while talking something to Shauna and Taissa.

She glanced up.

Y/n met her eyes.

And Charlotte smiled.

It didn’t matter how many times she did that.

It still made Y/n’s heart trip over itself.

——————

Later, when most of the kids were tucked in and the fire was embers again, Charlotte found the older girl sitting on the dock, her legs dangling over the water. Y/n heard her footsteps before she saw her — soft, deliberate, always a little grounded even when the rest of the world spun too fast.

“You okay?” The brunette asked, settling beside the older girl.

“Yeah,” Y/n said, looking out at the lake. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

Y/n hesitated then looked at the girl at her side. “All of it. You. Me. What happens next.”

Charlotte drew her knees up to her chest, watching the moon ripple across the water.

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” she admitted. “It’s been…a long time since I let someone in like this. I wasn’t sure I could again.”

Y/n reached over, lacing her fingers with Charlotte’s.

“I don’t want this to be just a summer thing,” the older girl said, voice low but sure. “Not with you.”

Charlotte's eyes met hers — warm, a little glassy.

“I don’t either,” she said, almost like a vow.

The brunette leaned in then, slow and steady, and kissed Y/n — soft, familiar now, like coming home. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against Y/n’s again, their hands still entwined.

“We’ll figure it out,” she whispered.

And Y/n believed her.

——————-

On the last full day of camp, Y/n and Charlotte snuck away during free hour.

They ended up under the willow tree — the same one where it all began. Charlotte lay back in the grass, the sunlight spilling through the leaves, her hair fanned out like a halo.

Y/n stretched out beside her, one arm behind her head, the other resting against the brunette’s.

“I’m gonna miss this place,” Charlotte said, eyes closed.

“Me too.”

The brunette opened one eye, glancing over at the older girl. “But I’m not gonna miss you,” she added.

Y/n arched a brow. “No?”

Charlotte shook her head, smiling. “Because I plan on seeing you all the time.”

Y/n laughed, quietly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Coffee dates. Study breaks. Maybe you’ll teach me how to do real push-ups since you’re better at everything.”

Y/n snorted. “Clearly.”

And Charlotte grinned, then reached for Y/n’s hand again.

It was still strange, still new, but also — somehow — the most natural thing in the world.

When the buses rolled in the next morning and the kids clung to each other crying, when duffels were tossed onto the pavement and camp began to dissolve like a sandcastle under waves, Charlotte found Y/n one last time before leaving.

The brunette stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to the older girl’s cheek, quick and soft.

Then she whispered, just loud enough for Y/n to hear: “I’ll see you soon.”

Y/n watched her walk away, her chest tight but full. Because she knew Charlotte meant it.

And for once in her life, goodbye didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like the beginning of something real.

Bonus chapter:

Fall came fast. The leaves turned gold and rust. The air got sharper, crisper. Life picked back up — classes, jobs, the noise of the world. But in the quiet pockets of it, there was Charlotte.

Phone calls at night, her voice soft and tired but hers.

Little texts during the day — pictures of the sky, a new coffee she tried, a quote she thought Y/n would like.

Weekend meetups halfway between their towns, huddled in old diners or walking through crunchy leaves in sleepy parks.

It wasn’t perfect — sometimes life pulled them in different directions — but Charlotte was steady in a way Y/n hadn’t known she needed.

And Y/n? Y/n made sure Charlotte knew she wasn’t alone anymore.

——————-

One chilly Saturday in November, Charlotte came to visit her.

Y/n met her at the train station, her small backpack slung over one shoulder, a beanie tugged low over her ears. Charlotte spotted her instantly and grinned, practically running the last few steps.

Y/n caught her, arms wrapping around her instinctively, Charlotte’s cold nose nuzzling into her neck.

“I missed you,” the brunette mumbled.

Y/n squeezed her tighter. “Missed you more.”

Charlotte pulled back just enough to kiss her — right there, in front of everyone — quick and sure like she couldn’t wait another second.

They didn’t care who saw.

The whole world could’ve stopped right there and they wouldn’t have noticed.

—————-

The two of them spent the day bundled up in old jackets, wandering in Y/n’s town.

Charlotte made fun of Y/n’s terrible latte order.

Y/n teased the brunette for getting lost in a bookstore for an hour.

And then Charlotte tried to win the older girl a stupid stuffed bear at a street fair booth — and failed — but Y/n bought it for her anyway, because her smile when she held it was worth it.

That night, after a movie and cheap takeout, they lay tangled together on Y/n’s couch, an old blanket thrown over them both.

Charlotte’s head rested on Y/n’s chest, her fingers absently tracing patterns on the older girl’s arm.

Y/n’s heart beat slow and steady under the girl’s touch.

“Feels like camp,” the brunette said quietly.

Y/n looked down at her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Warm.” Charlotte tilted her head up to meet Y/n’s eyes. “Safe.”

Y/n’s throat tightened, and she kissed the brunette’s forehead, lingering there.

“You’re my home too,” she whispered.

[moondustbaby]

Made For This

Blue collar!Rafe x Wife!Reader Smut 18+ mdni

cw: smut, piv, breeding kink, rafe being unhinged about giving his wife a baby lmao. mdni!!

summary: It’s a late night and Rafe’s working you harder than usual — but this time, it’s not just about satisfying each other. Between his filthy words and possessive touch, he’s determined to fill you up in every way, and you’re more than ready to take it. And when it’s all said and done, Rafe’s already thinking about what comes next — because with him, it’s never just about the moment.

⸻

It always started the same way — late nights, tangled sheets, Rafe’s body heavy over yours, his voice rough and low against your ear.

“You’re gonna let me fill you up tonight, aren’t you, baby?” he rasped, dragging the words out, every syllable thick with hunger. His hands were already moving — calloused palms sliding under your thin sleep shirt, thumbs stroking up the sides of your ribcage like he couldn’t get enough of touching you.

You whimpered, hips shifting up into his instinctively. You didn’t even need to answer. You always let him.

“You think I don’t notice, huh?” Rafe’s mouth was everywhere — jaw, throat, the underside of your chin. “You think I don’t see the way you fucking melt when I talk about knocking you up?”

He rocked against you, grinding slow and rough, dragging a needy moan from your chest. His cock was already straining against his boxers, thick and hot against your bare thigh. He hadn’t even touched you properly yet and you were already so wet for him it was embarrassing.

“You’d look so fuckin’ pretty with my baby in you,” he groaned, sliding the thin material of your panties to the side and dragging his fingers through your slick folds, teasing but firm. “Belly all round and heavy… tits all swollen f’me.”

You gasped as two fingers sank inside, curling deep, pulling the most broken little sounds from you. He worked you open slow but deliberate, thumb circling your clit in dizzying patterns. He was talking you through it, every dirty thought spilling straight from his mouth, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Gonna fuck you so full, sweetheart,” he muttered, curling his fingers just right. “Gonna fill this sweet little pussy until it takes. Til you’re mine in every way.”

Your thighs were shaking already, your walls fluttering around his fingers — and when he pulled them out to replace them with the thick, heavy weight of his cock, you whined at the loss. He didn’t make you wait long. Barely a second later, he was lining up, one hand gripping your thigh and shoving it higher so he could slide all the way in with one slow, brutal thrust.

“Goddamn,” he hissed, forehead dropping to yours. “Tight as fuck, baby. Gripping me so fuckin’ good. Like you were made for this.”

You clawed at his back, overwhelmed, filled to the brim and gasping for him. He fucked you slow at first, deep and punishing, like he was trying to carve himself into you. Every roll of his hips hit that spot inside you just right, sending sparks up your spine.

“Let me give it to you,” he grunted, pace picking up, every thrust harder now. “Let me fuck a baby into you, pretty girl.”

You whimpered something that was supposed to be yes, yes, please, Rafe but it barely came out coherent, all your words tangled in desperate little sobs. It didn’t matter. Rafe could feel it. He could feel the way your body was begging for him.

“You’re gonna take every fuckin’ drop,” he panted. “Gonna be dripping with me. Gonna have my baby growin’ in that perfect little body, just like you’re meant to.”

The way he was talking, the filthy, possessive words falling out of him — it was too much. You came with a cry, clenching so tightly around him that Rafe cursed low and savage against your mouth.

“That’s it,” he growled, slamming into you harder, chasing his own release. “That’s my good fuckin’ girl.”

One more deep thrust and he was spilling inside you with a broken, desperate sound, hips jerking as he emptied himself into you, filling you just like he promised. He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard, forehead still resting against yours like he couldn’t bear to pull away.

“You feel that, baby?” he murmured after a minute, voice rough and wrecked. His hand splayed wide over your lower belly, already so possessive, already so sure. “Already starting somethin’ real fuckin’ good in there.”

You were still shivering, legs trembling from how hard he worked you, but you nodded, completely blissed out under him.

Rafe kissed you then, slow and sweet, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth tenderly, a sharp contrast to the roughness he’d just given you.

“I love you,” he whispered into your skin. “And I’m gonna love every fuckin’ second of making you mine like this.”

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: not to be dramatic but blue collar!rafe could literally look at me and i’d be pregnant. i had no choice but to write this. shoutout to my brain for cooking up something so unhinged at 2am. if you survive this one, you deserve a medal.

♥️ lani

Send Me Requests! 💌

Masterlist

[hotchnerwrites]

Heyy!!! Oh my god i love your writings SO MUCH i am obsessed!! And i have a request 💘💘 can you do Hotch and girlfriend just moving in together after some times of dating and Hotch noticing issues with her eating habits, her putting on home workout videos at night after dinner out of nowhere etc etc? You can do however you like smut, fluff, angst whatever feels right. YOU'RE GREAT! LOVE YOU💋💋💋💋💘💘💘 CANT WAIT!

Not So Fancy

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: SFW, allusions to smut, mentions of disordered eating, hurt/comfort

A/N: hello hello!!! thank you so much for your kind words and your patience <333 really appreciate it. i hope you don't mind, i changed your request just a little bit to make it more of a oneshot rather than many events building up. if you'd still like me to write it as separate events, please feel free to shoot me another req! more than happy to do so. anyway, i really hope you like this and it's what you wanted. enjoy the read! mwah mwah mwah <3

My requests are open. Send me stuff! Please read the rules before asking, and be advised there is a slight wait time right now. But I will post for sure. :)

The air was still thick with the warmth of what you’d just shared. 

You lay with your head on Aaron’s chest, his arms wrapped around you. You could hear his heartbeat beating rhythmically. Steady. Reliable. 

His fingers traced gentle patterns against your skin, and you inhaled deeply, trying to match your breathing to his pulse. But even as you lay there, content for a moment, the familiar unease still tugged at your bones, hidden beneath the surface.

Aaron stirred then, breaking you out of your reverie. He stretched his arms above his head with a satisfied sigh, ensuring not to jostle you. “You hungry?” He asked, kissing the top of your head, “Wanna eat in bed? I’ll grab some snacks.”

A simple question. So why did the malaise keep spreading?

You’d been trying to avoid this. It’s not that you weren’t hungry, but the idea of food right now felt like too much. So you forced a smile and said, “No, I’m fine,” hoping he wouldn’t notice. You weren’t trying to be difficult, but you couldn’t help it. “Thank you, though,” you added, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. 

But Aaron noticed. He always did. The way your shoulders tensed and how you instinctively tried to curl inwards. He didn’t even need to profile you; he had always been able to read you like an open book.

“Are you sure?” he asked, a teasing lilt to his voice, though it was clear he was picking up on something more. “What about some chips, or maybe some chocolate? I’ve got those After-8 Mints you love…”

“No,” you cut him off a little too quickly, trying to make your voice sound as casual as possible. “I really just don’t wanna eat right now.”

His eyes were on you now, playfulness gone. You could feel him searching your gaze, trying to make sense of every micro-expression. You were already naked under the sheets, but this— this exposed you. Like a bloodied shard of glass laid bare for him to inspect. And you hated it.

"Hey," Aaron said softly, his tone muted, "Talk to me. What’s going on? You’ve barely eaten today."

You hesitated, trying to push away the knot in your stomach, but it only seemed to tighten with every word he spoke. You sat up slightly, arms wrapped tightly around your knees, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

“I’m fine, Aaron,” you said, this time with more firmness, though your voice still trembled ever so slightly. “Really. I’m just not hungry.”

Aaron's gaze softened for a moment, but there was something behind his eyes—a concern, a quiet worry. He knew you too well by now to let this slide. “What about something light, then? Maybe some fruit? Or just a little snack?” His voice stayed gentle, but there was no mistaking the way he was probing now, trying to find a way in.

“No, Aaron. I don’t want anything.” You sighed, growing more agitated, your patience beginning to wear thin. “I really just don’t wanna eat right now, okay?”

Aaron’s jaw tightened slightly as he leaned back on the bed, still watching you closely. “You’ve been saying that for the past few days. And every time, you get more and more distant. What's going on, really?"

You tried to brush it off, but it was starting to feel like a pressure cooker, the conversation simmering beneath the surface. The fact that Aaron wasn’t backing down only made you more defensive. You couldn’t shake the feeling that this conversation was about to go in a direction you didn’t want it to.

“I told you, I’m fine,” you snapped a little too harshly, your shoulders stiffening. You tried to turn away from him, hoping he’d drop it. "I just don’t feel like eating right now."

But Aaron wasn’t about to let it go. His voice dropped a few degrees, and you could hear the frustration underneath the calm. “Okay, stop. I’ve seen what’s going on. You’re acting like this isn’t a big deal, but it is. You’ve barely touched any food, and I’ve noticed you sneaking in workouts late at night. You’re pushing yourself too hard, and I can’t just stand by and pretend like I don’t see it.”

Your breath hitched, and you instinctively pulled the blanket tighter around yourself as if it would shield you from the tension growing between you two. You wanted to hide, to bury the feelings, but he was too sharp, too attentive. 

“I’m just trying to get healthy,” you said quickly, hoping it would be enough of an excuse to end the conversation. “I’m just making some changes, Aaron. That’s all.”

His eyes searched yours, a mixture of confusion and concern in his gaze. “Get healthy? You’re already healthy. You don’t need to starve yourself or overexert yourself to be that. What’s really going on?”

You hesitated for a moment, trying to formulate something that wouldn’t make you sound ridiculous. But the truth was, you didn’t know how to explain it without feeling vulnerable—without feeling exposed.

“I just... I don’t know,” you began, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “You’re a big, important man, Aaron. You’re a fancy guy, and I just feel like... I don’t know. I want to match up with you. To look the way you deserve. To be perfect, especially around your coworkers. You always have everything together, and I don’t want to be the one who looks out of place. I don’t want them to look at me like I’m... less than.”

He didn’t say anything after your little speech. He wasn’t even making eye contact. The silence stretched on. This was exactly why you hadn’t said a word. 

You stared down at your hands, your nails digging into your palms from how tightly you were clenching them. Humiliation prickled under your skin. You wished you could claw the words back into your mouth, pretend none of it had ever been said.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, trying to withdraw the moment. “Forget it. I don’t know why I—”

“Stop.”

His voice wasn’t sharp. It was soft—firm in the way only Aaron Hotchner could be when he actually cared about something. It rooted you to the spot.

Finally, finally, he looked up at you. His brow was furrowed like he was thinking so hard it hurt. And then he said, very quietly, almost like he was forcing it out:

“You don’t need to look a certain way for me. Or for anyone. I love you just as you are—just you.”

You blinked at him.

“I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” he continued, the words sounding clumsy in his mouth, like he wasn’t used to letting them out. “I care about you. You could show up to a Bureau gala in pyjamas and I wouldn’t—”

He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. His ears were slightly pink.

The ache in your chest tightened, loosened, tightened again.

“I’m… I’m just trying to get healthy,” you repeated— weakly, stupidly. Trying to hold on to the walls you’d built.

Aaron didn’t argue anymore. He simply reached over, gently touching your hand. “I don’t need you to be anything but who you are. Healthy doesn’t mean forcing yourself to be something you’re not, and it doesn’t mean changing to meet some idea of perfection. And honestly, I think you already look pretty perfect to me.”

There was a long silence between you, the tension beginning to dissolve. No grand gestures or big speeches—just him showing you he understood, and that you didn’t have to prove anything.

“You... you don’t think I’m embarrassing?” you asked, his words acting like a balm on your heart.

Hotch let out a breath that was almost — almost — a laugh. 

“No," he said. "I think you’re the only thing that feels easy anymore.”

The world tilted a little sideways. 

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“You’re not so fancy either, Agent Hotchner,” you mumbled, leaning into the warmth of his embrace.

Thanks for reading! I appreciate any likes/comments/reblogs/follows. Constructive criticism is welcome. Do not plagiarise my content and/or post it anywhere without crediting me.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[tacobacoyeet]

we cry together | patrick zweig x tashi duncan

warnings: SMUT 18+, cursing

The ceiling fan above the dorm bed spun in lazy, broken circles, stirring the heavy air just enough to remind Patrick how close everything was — the walls, the heat, the way Tashi’s thigh brushed his even when she shifted away, pretending not to notice. The window was open but the breeze never came, and so the room stayed dense and warm, thick with the smell of sweat and borrowed shampoo and something sharper he couldn’t name, something like resentment curling at the edges.

He watched the afternoon light sink lower, slanting through the slats of the blinds and striping Tashi’s bare shoulder in gold. Her back was to him, one knee drawn up against her chest, toes worrying at a loose thread in the cheap dorm blanket. It should have been a quiet moment, an easy one — one of those afternoons where nothing mattered except how close two bodies could get without disappearing into each other.

But Tashi kept talking.

Her voice was soft, almost lazy, threading through the stillness like smoke. She wasn’t even looking at him as she said it, just tossing off critiques the way she might have listed groceries or homework deadlines: your backhand was late again, you moved too slow at the net, your serve falls apart under pressure. Each word should have been nothing — just noise — but they stacked up inside Patrick, small and sharp, like pins shoved under his skin.

He tried to let it roll off him. He ran his fingers down the curve of her spine, murmuring something dumb and easy — a joke, a question about dinner, a comment about how they could stay like this forever if she’d just shut up about tennis for five minutes.

Tashi laughed — short, soft, almost sweet — and kept talking.

Patrick closed his eyes. He should have known better. This was who she was. This was who they were.

A partnership built on sweat and blood and the constant, gnawing fear that love — if they even had the right to call it that — would never be enough to soften the sharp edges they carried like weapons.

In the space between her words, Patrick could almost hear it: the low hum of inevitability, the storm gathering just past the horizon of their shared history.

He knew what came next. He always did.

And still, he stayed.

Tashi shifted in the bed beside him, shoulder brushing his chest, curve of her spine a clean, aching line against the crumpled sheets. Patrick wanted to memorize the way she fit against him — the small, thoughtless movements, the softness she didn’t even know she was giving him. He wanted this to be enough.

But then she opened her mouth.

Not to tell him she missed him. Not to tell him she was scared, or lonely, or happy just to be here, too. She opened her mouth and talked about his backhand.

Patrick let her words settle on his skin like sweat. He told himself not to take it personally. He told himself she didn’t mean it like that.

But Patrick had never learned how to let anything go quietly. Not when it mattered. And she always mattered.

"You know," he said, rough around the edges, "it's exhausting."

Tashi hummed, distracted, still tracing idle patterns on the sheet between them. "What is?"

"This," he said, shifting, trying to catch her eye. "Lying here and still feeling like I'm auditioning for you."

Tashi snorted under her breath. "You're so dramatic."

Patrick smiled without humor. "Yeah. Guess so."

He waited for her to say something better, something real, but she only rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling fan.

"Maybe I just wanted one night where you weren’t trying to fix me," he said.

Tashi shrugged, the motion careless and cutting. "I'm not trying to fix you. I'm trying to make you better."

"Same difference."

"It’s not," she said, sharper now. "You could be better, Patrick. If you just—"

"If I just what?" he cut her off. "Listened to you? Let you coach me through fucking everything?"

"You don't listen to anyone. Maybe that's why you keep coming up short."

Patrick let out a breath, slow and shaky. "Maybe I’m tired of trying to be good enough for you."

Tashi turned, meeting his gaze, and in her eyes he saw something flash — not pity, but something worse. Disappointment.

"Poor Patrick," she said, soft and poisonous. "Always the victim."

"You love a pity party," she added, voice low. "I won't show up."

The air between them snapped taut, hot and bitter.

"You think you're so much better than me," he said, voice quiet and breaking.

Tashi raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe you are," Patrick said, voice cracking. "But you don't get to pretend you're not standing on my shoulders to get there."

Tashi sat up straighter, gathering herself like a weapon. "Standing on your shoulders? Please. You barely stand on your own two feet."

Patrick barked a hollow laugh. "Yeah? Funny, coming from the girl who climbs over everybody to get her fucking crown."

"You think too small, Patrick. You always have."

"And you think you're God," he shot back. "Every win, every headline — you think the whole fucking world owes you something."

She smiled, slow and cruel. "At least I'm owed something."

Patrick stood, grabbing his shirt. "Hope you enjoy standing on that podium alone."

"Better than dragging dead weight," Tashi snapped.

"You think you're winning?" he said, stepping toward her. "You think your name on a bracket makes you better than me?"

"I know it does," she said coldly.

Patrick rifled through the desk for his keys, heart hammering. "Where are you going?" she asked, arms crossed.

"Anywhere you're not."

When he turned, she was holding the keys, dangling them from her fingers.

"Give them back," he said, low.

"Make me."

He stepped toward her. She lifted the keys higher.

"Real impressive," she said. "You can't even leave right."

He lunged — desperate — but she yanked them away, laughing under her breath.

"Go ahead," Tashi hissed. "Go fuck your little fan club."

Patrick snatched at the keys again, missing by an inch. "Maybe I will. Maybe I'll find someone who doesn't think they’re the second coming of Christ."

"Yeah?" she sneered. "Go fuck all the desperate girls in your phone you keep trying to say aren't there."

"Better than fucking a narcissist who only loves herself."

"Better than fucking a burnout," Tashi snapped back.

Patrick shoved his hands through his hair, furious. "You think you’re so untouchable? You’re a ticking clock, Tash. You’re not special — you're just running out of time."

Tashi laughed, short and sharp. "If I'm running out of time, what the fuck are you doing? You're already finished."

Patrick stepped in, chest to chest now, rage rolling off him in waves.

Tashi leaned closer, mouth curling into a vicious smile.

"I'd rather fuck Art," she spat.

Patrick didn't flinch. His voice broke and hardened all at once. "So would I."

The keys fell from her hand, clattering to the floor.

Tashi shoved him — hard — and he stumbled back into the desk.

"Fuck you," she snarled.

"Fuck me?" Patrick barked, broken. "Fuck you. You think you're the only one bleeding for this?"

"You’re the reason people like me have to work three times as hard!" she shouted, eyes shining with furious, unshed tears. "You're the reason women like me have to fucking bleed to be seen!"

"You think I don’t know that?" Patrick roared back. "You think I don't fucking hate myself for it?"

They stood there, shaking, panting, both too proud and too broken to move.

Patrick’s hand trembled as he reached for her.

"Please," he rasped, wrecked.

And Tashi grabbed him like she meant to kill him.

Their mouths collided — brutal, graceless, all teeth and claws and hate. Patrick fought her — clawed at her hips, tried to flip her — but Tashi shoved him back onto the bed, straddling him, pinning him with her body.

He bucked up hard — a desperate, violent move — and she grabbed his wrists, slammed them into the mattress above his head.

"You want to fuck me so bad?" she panted. "Take it."

She reached down and lined him up — no teasing, no pause — and slammed herself down onto him, making them both gasp, sharp and ugly.

Patrick cursed, bucked his hips viciously, but Tashi just rode him harder, rougher, grinding down like she wanted to break his body open and tear him apart from the inside out.

"Stay down," she hissed into his ear, voice low and wild.

He fought her every inch of the way — thrusting up into her, dragging desperate groans from her throat even as she bit down on his shoulder hard enough to bruise.

It wasn’t fucking. It wasn’t making love. It was survival — bloody, broken, inevitable.

Tashi’s pace turned brutal, savage, sweat dripping down her back, nails raking down his chest. Patrick bit out her name, a curse, a prayer, a surrender.

When he came, it was helpless, ripped out of him with a cry that he tried — and failed — to swallow. Tashi chased her own release through it, using him, fucking him harder until she shattered too, wrung out and furious.

They stayed locked together, trembling, shaking, wrecked.

The room was silent except for their breathing.

Tashi climbed off first, slow, mechanical, tugging her sweatshirt back on. Patrick stayed where he was — sprawled out, used, spent, broken.

She didn’t look at him. He didn’t reach for her.

The bedframe creaked under the silence.

Patrick shut his eyes.

The ceiling fan spun overhead, stirring the heavy, ruined air.

He didn't move.

Neither did she.

There were no apologies.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron@babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow

for @gibsongirrl — thank you for inspiring me to finish this <3

[hannahssimblr]

Jen and I used to play takeaway bingo when we were teenagers. You wind up at enough of them between midnight and two, and start noticing a pattern. Someone fighting—one point for your card. Someone forgetting what they ordered—another. Someone trying to get into the locked staff toilet. Someone kissing. A hen party singalong. The presence of a blow-up doll. Someone passed out in a booth, getting sick outside the door, a drink exploding over the linoleum, hapless drunks jostled around by bouncers.

The kebab shop is quiet tonight. One point for my card, for the guy snoring in the booth next to Evie and me.

She eats in silence under the lights, those grim fluorescents that hum faintly and cast a contaminated grey hue over everything—the kind I always thought made the food look suspect.

Still, she doesn’t care. She shovels it in. A kebab, handfuls of chips, chicken goujons, leaning over the paper packaging with greasy hands poised like a connoisseur of drunk food. Touch nothing but what you intend to eat. Can’t trust the surfaces. Never risk touching your clothing with saucy hands.

I watch her with admiration, fingers drumming idly on the side of my Pepsi can. I told her I wasn’t hungry, even though my stomach’s been growling since ten, and almost believe it myself when I say it. Hunger’s easier to ignore than the blow to my pride that would come from admitting I can’t afford a bag of chips. I long for the tacos I left on the plate earlier. Thirteen euros for them, sitting now in the bin in the Mexican place while I starve here.

But here I am anyway, watching her eat, the surreal, satisfying feeling of being with her again. Her. In the flesh instead of in memory. The different, less triumphant reality than what I had imagined.

She eyes me while I twist open the can, the hiss of it seeming to remind her I’m here. 

“Wow, greedy,” she says. 

“Yeah, I’m a mess. Might have to have me airlifted out after this feast. Here, can I’ve a chip?” I reach for the bag, and she swats my hand away. 

“No. Look at you—doing that thing boys always complain about. Girls not ordering anything and then stealing their food. This is modern feminism.”

I laugh. “Oh, come on. Just one, for Christ's sake.”

She eyes me distrustfully as I pluck one skinny chip out. 

“You want to count it?” I say. “Make sure I haven’t another hidden in my hand?”

“Ugh, shush for a minute,” she says, this edge of desperation in her voice. “Please, I really just want to eat this.”

I lean back, taking conservative sips of my drink while she tears into her food. It’s a bit insane, the ferocity at which she goes at it. This kind of relentless feasting, head down, elbows out, chewing with mechanical focus. Like if she stopped, she’s have to think about talking to me again.

“Skipped dinner?” I say eventually, and she wipes a blob of sauce from the corner of her mouth. “Didn’t have time to eat today.”

“Ah.”

“You went to some Mexican place earlier,” she says between bites. “The guys were saying.”

“Yeah.”

“Hm, risky move, isn’t it? Bringing you to a Mexican restaurant?”

“Why’s that?”

She shrugs, and a piece of kebab meat drops onto the paper. “Because you’ve probably had, you know, actual real Mexican food when you lived in the states. That’s what everyone always says, isn’t it? Like, ‘oh, you don’t know Mexican food until you’ve had it in America’, or something like that.”

“I imagine they’d probably say that about Mexico, too.”

She just smiles. 

“Well, yeah, the food was okay. It was nice to see Claire and Shane again. That was the real reason I went out. They look good.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, of course. Shane’s gotten real fit, you know? He’s in great shape.”

Evie lets out a derisive laugh. “Yeah.”

“Hm?”

“Like, yeah. He’s working out the whole time. Twice a week home to train, then the coach has him sanctioned to the gym every other day, just about. He’s gone full protein-shake mode, at this stage. I assume he’s aspiring to become the Hulk.”

Feel my smile thinning. “Good for him.”

“Mm. Bit miserable, don’t you think?”

“Clearly you do.”

“Well,” she pauses thoughtfully, swallowing a bite of kebab. “He doesn’t do anything fun, in my view. He doesn’t have free time anymore, and his coach has all these rules, even, about things he’s not allowed to do off the pitch. It’s like a totalitarian regime.”

“Alright,” I say, and her face falls. 

She doesn’t speak then. Just wipes her mouth with a serviette and shifts in her seat. Eyes locked on the food, though there’s something stiff in her posture now. 

I sip my drink, watching her a bit as she pretends to focus on the next bite, but it’s like she’s eating something made of rubber, something unappetizing, eyes zoned out, like she’s left the room without her body. 

The silence drags on longer than it should. 

“So come on, Evie, what’s been going on with you? I can’t believe it’s been so long since we last spoke, to be honest. That’s crazy.”

“I know,” she says, flatlined voice. “Seems we lost touch there at one point.”

I hesitate. “Yeah, I regret that. Life got so busy so quickly and… it was all a whirlwind, really. But, I… uh, I thought of you often, Evie. I always imagined we’d run into each other again.”

“Ah, well, what can you do? Here we are. A year and a half on.” I reach for her arm across the table, a bid for connection, to bridge a gap between us, but she moves away, pretends to want a drink from her milkshake. 

Nice, okay. Good to know where I stand, at least. I fist my hand in my lap. “You look really different. I always think of you with that really long hair you had.”

“Yeah. I cut it all off, as you can see.”

“And do you still run? And swim? Do you do all that stuff you used to?”

“No, actually I don’t,” she says. “I suppose I fell out of the habit when I moved here. Don’t really do most of the things I used to.” She fixes me with a new look, eyebrow quirked in some expression of defiance, like hey, you don’t know me at all anymore, and I will punish you for trying to. “How’s Berlin, anyway? Better than here, after all?”

“Yeah, really good. Hey,” again I move to reach out to her, knowing it’s futile before my hand rises above the table top. Drop it back down to my lap. “If you’re angry with me for losing touch—”

“Why’re you wondering about that?” she cuts in. 

“You’ve gone chilly on me all of a sudden, I don’t know.”

Her eyes widen with fury. “It’d be a bit intense if I was still angry about something like that, wouldn’t it?”

I say nothing. 

“Good to know you got my email, by the way. It was a pity it wasn’t worth responding to, apparently.”

I can’t help but laugh. In shock, really, instead of amusement. “Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. Yeah, I could have dealt with it better, but I was getting to know a new city, and there were all these new people… I left your email sitting there a bit too long and then, well, I suppose it started feeling like it’d be weird of me to respond after so long.”

“You didn’t really try, exactly, did you?”

I let that one sink in for a minute. Rougher than I expected. I always knew I should have tried harder, but I thought she’d just... forgive me, like she was supposed to. I didn’t want to be the bad guy here. I wanted proof I wasn’t one.

Say something. “You could have sent another message.” A reflex. Hollow sounding, and words sticking in my throat like they belong to someone else. Some weak little man.

Her face seethes. Oh, yes, good. She loathes me. Loathing is preferable to indifference. I might actually take that. The horrible, ugly victory of it. The proof she feels. Felt. Missed. Longed, maybe, for me to fill some dark and terrible hole. I hate the thought and the feeling. Sick triumph, like the smell of decay. I didn’t want to ruin you, not really, Evie. I just needed proof I mattered.

“Look, I–” 

“You have a new piercing in your ear,” she says, sharp jerk of her head, like, no. Don’t dare go on. Her features swiftly neutralise as she goes back to picking at her food while I touch my finger to the silver hoop through my left helix bone. 

“Uh, yeah. I did. I figured–” clear my throat and adjust in the seat. “You know, since my dad already hates the other two, might as well swing for a third.” It was a piercing I got done in Slovenia. Drunk. “It hurt,” I offer. Bled, in fact. She might relish the thought, but I don’t disclose it.

“Little baby,” she replies, smile tugging at her lips. “I got the same one done when I was like sixteen and it wasn’t bad at all.”

“I remember the piercings you had,” I say. “You had four on one ear. Can I see?”

And she turns her head for me, revealing a single hoop, the rest of her ear dotted with tiny punctures. Emptiness now in places that used to be studded with silver and gold. 

“I took them out,” she says, rueful. “They didn’t feel like me anymore.” 

And I am too—rueful about it. “Damn. I thought they were cool.” 

She hums in vague agreement and glances around, eyes on a group of rowdy lads who come in, chanting some tuneless chorus on their way to the counter. “So, any other surprises up your sleeve?”

Yes, literally, up my sleeve. I risk it for another chip. She lets me have it, and I pop it, cold and rubbery, into my mouth as I tug my sleeve up for her, exposing the soft underside of my forearm to the fluorescent light.

“Did you design it?”

“No, I just thought it was cool.”

“Ah, okay. And like, does it mean something in particular? The mango, like. Bit unusual.”

“Uh, no, actually. It really doesn’t. It’s just I was in Thailand and kind of thought it’d be fun to get one.” How devoid of depth and opinion do I sound now, really? I think. Have yet to come up with a decent reason to have a tattoo—can’t even formulate a lie about its meaning. Just cos. That’s why. Stupid thing, really. Artistry is impressive, yes, but I’m not even sure I pull it off. 

“Thailand, yeah? When was that?”

“June,” I say. “I always wanted to go. I think everyone should, if they can, to be honest.”

“Well, go on, then,” her straw squeaks in the lid of her milkshake. “Tell me all about it.”

“Oh, I can’t do it justice with words, really.” I retrieve my phone, aware that photos are safer than conversation. “Here, I can show you.” 

“Yeah,” she shrugs, and gets up. Slips into the booth next to me. “New phone, I see. I thought you’d still have that piece of shit you used to.”

“Had to upgrade. Needed maps to survive Berlin.”

“Hope you’re making good use of the torch feature.”

I chuckle. “Alright, well, let’s look at my holiday pictures when you’re ready.”

She leans over but never close enough to touch as I scroll through Bangkok temples, islands, markets. She’s performing interest, laughing at the right moments, asking non-probing questions. 

When her hair accidentally brushes my arm, she yanks away with a whispered “Sorry” like I might be contagious. 

“Here’s Koh Samui. Near the end of the trip.” 

“I could tell. You look aggressively tanned.” 

“Yeah, I tan easily.” 

“I remember.” A flash of something genuine in her voice. 

“There’s a photo somewhere of a monkey that jumped on my shoulder. Let me find it—” My thumb scrolls too far. “Oops. Uh...”

A photo of Astrid and me flashes on screen. At the lake. Barely wearing anything. 

Panic detonates, my thumb fumbles, scrolling too fast, Jonas asleep on the plane. Then back again. Astrid. My hand on her arse. Nowhere to hide from it. 

I can’t exactly lie or say she’s my friend. 

“Uh, yeah,” I look up from the photograph too fast, my thumb stills on her waist, mid-kiss, glowing on screen. “That’s my girlfriend, Astrid,” I admit. Feeble smile. Might as well be confessing to a crime.

Evie’s gone rigid in her seat. Not smiling, just observing. “Yeah, she’s very pretty,” she says. 

“She’s… yeah. She’s absolutely beautiful.” 

I flip to another photo. If we’re doing this. Astrid posing for the camera, hair sleek and straight, so long it brushes the waistband of her bikini. In moments like this, I see her as others do. Objectively. She’s extraordinary.

How’d you pull her? They always ask, and I have no idea how to answer. 

Evie sits there in this calm way that makes me wish she’d just scream, or something.

“Wow. Yeah. There she is,” she says. Her eyes flick to the men at the counter, clinging to each other’s coat sleeves, bawling out their orders, rocking unsteadily as a unit. And it occurs to me that, though they fill the place with noise, her silence is louder than all of them.

I shut the phone off quietly. Slide it back into my pocket. 

“We should go back, I think,” she says, all mild again. “They’ll all be wondering where we are.”

“Yeah, sure,” I reach for her food wrappers to help, but she tells me no. Takes them herself. 

The men start on her as she moves.

 Here, my mate fancies you. Can he have your number? He’s a gentle lover, he is. Ye’d have a beautiful life together. 

Evie looks bored. Takes her coat from the booth and zips it to the top. 

“We going?”

“Yeah, we can,” I hurry after her to hold the door. 

“This was nice,” I say as she slips out ahead of me. “Thanks for the chips.”

“It’s fine. Thanks for coming with me.”

Beginning // Prev // Next

Corresponding LG Chapter

[littleacebee]

It’s first day of Podcast Girls Week!

DAY 1: Favourite scene or episode

I didn’t have any creative ideas for today so I decided to simply share some of my favourite moments of podcast girlies (spoilers ahead!):

• Amelia telling a guy who took her grandma’s necklace to jump off the bridge (The Amelia Project)

• Alvina keeping dead guy in his bed while running his company (The Amelia Project)

• Anita punching Nazi (The Amelia Project)

• literally every scene where Leona eats/shows her love for food (Starfall)

• Addison saving little girl from being run over by the car in split second (Unseen)

• Medea coming to save Atalanta and Medusa on chariot with dragon (Khora Podcast)

• Anh and Alestes’ homoerotic sword fighting (Trice Forgotten)

• Alestes loving her potatoes (Trice Forgotten)

• Gloria starting a war against Ted empire (Midnight Burger)

• Gertrude Robinson and her crimes (The Magnus Archives)

• Melanie trying to kill Elias (The Magnus Archives)

• Minkowski and her harpoon (Wolf 359)

• Athena outsmarting everyone (Mission: Rejected)

• McGrath prioritising food over mission stuff (Mission: Rejected)

• Madge getting invested in her fake backstory while getting undercover (Fawx & Stallion)

• Anne and Mary’s homoerotic sword sparring (The Ballad of Anne and Mary)

• Cleopatra and Fulvia sharing their schemes and murders with each other (Cry Havoc! Ask Questions Later)

[totally-not-an-awkward-okapi]

Trying to figure out how to digitize sketches ft. Doodles of Victor Freeze. I was thinking about how weird it is that “rule of cool” means he usually gets a much wider range of acceptable temperatures than an actual human. I don’t know, I find the idea of him having a human range but slightly lower is charming.

[riftsmagic]

I want to enjoy this game so bad bc I paid money for it and I’ve invested 70 hours of my life into it already. but I’ve gotten to a point where it’s SO hard not to get critical every time anything happens. im losing it

[no1ryomafan]

I still have NOT started my Kikaider rewatch because I swear I have adhd and can’t focus right now to do anything besides build dragon ig but I keep rotating back to like- how similar mitsuko and michirus families are and I’d love to do a comparison on them but I don’t know how I’d do it given not just “well mitsuko and her fam got to be more fleshed out in especially the anime cause they didn’t have to juggle three main characters” but also like they’re two families who aren’t necessarily a family trope themselves but rather are compromised of multiple tropes from that era:

Michiru/Mitsuko: The supporting girl who is friends with the main character, potentially their love interest

Saotome/Komyoji: The old man scientist who works for the good guys and sometimes may or may not either be the father of the MC or the supporting girl

Genki/Masaru: The little boy support character who tends be the little brother of the main character, but sometimes can be the little brother of the support girl

And then they both get slapped with a dead older brother and a mother who is MIA both of which don’t always happen in tandem with these tropes but I think it’s more of a coincidence both Michiru and Mitsukos families are so similar so they just line up these tropes that were super common back then. (Though since Kikaider came first Ishikawa could’ve POSSIBLY took inspiration especially because Nagai knew Ishinomori but I have no clue if they ever met)

[sodacowboy]

“I felt like this character didn’t really interact with the story he was just along for the ride and didn’t make choices for himself” 😐

[saintrosalyn]

JAILBIRD

Ghost becomes pen pals with an inmate before deciding that he wants to adopt his little jailbird.

Word count: 4.1k

Tw: inmate reader, reader is kept as vauge as possible but is implied to be younger than Ghost, violence, stalking, ghost is a perv, p in v, oral (f! Receiving), creampie, spanking (once), orgasm denial if you squint, unprotected sex, NOT edited we die like men.

Edited to Add: Part Two is posted :)

Notes: Baby’s first fanfic, please be gentle. Let me know if I missed any trigger warnings or if you want to see more! I have an idea for a second part but I don’t know if anyone wants it, right now it’s tucked away safely in my drafts. Enjoy! :)

P.S. I’m thinking about making an ao3 account and publishing an edited version of this on there. I’ll link it if I do! I’ve already spent too much time procrastinating finals but christmas break is around the corner so who knows.

The letter came with the top serrated, already opened, as all your letters came. You mostly ignored them. There were a couple of programs that allowed people to become pen pals with prisoners but you’d been there long enough to know what they often contained. 

Many of the women milked poor losers on the outside. Money given and sent. Promises of butterfly kisses and blowjobs whispered over the phone. Exchanges. Some were even able to sweet talk their honeys into giving bribes. Money passed into hands of guards, currency that was then exchanged for cigarettes, which were much more valuable on the inside than the bills used on the outside.

You don’t know why you read this letter. It certainly wasn’t the penmanship, a scrawled handwriting that lay between cursive and print. Maybe it was the blue pen, you’d recognize a Bic anywhere, or maybe it was the fact that it smelled a bit like top-shelf liquor. 

It was rather blunt. But not in an obscene way. Simple and straight to the point as if constrained by an unknown word count. It wasn’t memorable, but what else was there to do? Pace your cell back and forth and wait for zoochosis to settle further in your bones. Close your eyes and remember what freedom tasted like before it dissolved in your mouth.

The pen they gave you was cheap, the paper even cheaper, but you were used to making things work. Your reply was shorter than his, than Simon’s, but it got the job done. If he wanted to write back he would. If he didn’t, well, the new prison guard was starting to get rather handsy with you. The time will pass no matter what.

___

His replies came in strange patterns. Some weeks you’d get eight in a week, other times you wouldn’t hear from him for a few months. It took a year for the first phone call of which lasted less than a minute and consisted mostly of him grunting on the other end and a schlick sound you pretended not to notice. It was his fourth phone call that he finally said a few words in a voice so low it made the phone buzz against your ear, tickling like a lover's breath. Eventually, you had some semblance of conversations, even if they were interrupted by a recorded voice warning you of the time you had left. 

He told you he was a soldier and at first, you planned on cutting the whole penpal idea off. Even before you got arrested you hated bootlickers more than anything. But Simon grew on you, and your friends all suggested you get in his good graces to see if he could pull some strings. You would’ve felt guilty if he was anything other than glorified government property. Both of you were.

The first thing he gave you was a book, The Yellow Wallpaper, which was thicker than you remembered from the time you read it in school. It was only when you cracked open the spine did you find a pack of cigarettes inside, the pages carved out so your real present could be placed inside. You couldn’t help the smile that split your lips as you pressed one between your lips, not noticing the tiny S carved into it.

You thank him for the gift by whispering his name into the phone. A mantra, a prayer, it didn’t matter as long as you kept your voice breathy. He promises to get you more and you learn not to refuse him. At one point, you notice that little robotic voice doesn’t time you anymore. The guard who couldn’t keep his hands to himself was replaced with a woman, hair pulled back into a military-style bun. And you got an extra cookie with your meals.

It took a year for him to visit. You knew it was coming eventually, men are only fine with their imagination for so long before they crave something tangible. Hell, even you were curious about the man who wanted to sink his teeth into you. It almost felt like getting ready for a date. Butterflies dropped like lead in your stomach as you tried to tidy your appearance as much as you could. You smelled, but there wasn’t much you could do about that. The whole damn prison smelled like a county fair bathroom. The lack of air conditioning in the heat of summer just added a sweet BO tinge. 

The first thing you noticed about Simon was his size. You had never met a man as big as he was. The next was the thick scar tissue that marred his face. Though, even without the scars you would be hesitant to ever call him handsome.

Intimidating.

That was what came to mind staring at the thick cords of muscle that covered his arms and the broadness of his shoulders wasn’t just genetics. And he just stared at you. You glanced at the phone that connected to his on the other side of the glass and back at him but decided against it.

You offered him a small smile and an awkward wave. It unnerved you. The focus and attention pinned you in place. Normally you kinned yourself to a tiger you saw at a zoo when you were a child. One that paced back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A habit you understood all too well. But sitting in front of your pen pal you realized you were rather off. 

Simon was the tiger and you were the bird that caught his attention.

It took far too long for the guard to come and collect you. For once you were grateful to retreat back to your cell, so much so that in your retreat you failed to notice the nod your warden gave Simon.

___

After that Simon met with you in person as often as was allowed. He never said anything and neither did you. Eventually, the novelty of him wore off. Humans were rather adaptable creatures, and you could only be scared of the man for so long before your body adjusted to him. Despite your silence, Simon didn’t appear displeased with you. In fact, it was almost the opposite of it. More gifts arrived.

A pillow, high-end shampoo, a toothbrush (that you had a strange suspicion was used before being given to you), nail polish, and more cigarettes. Some of the women were jealous of the attention given to you, others tried to get with you to share your bounty. Somehow you dodged most of the conflict. But you can only run so long while trapped with so many women.

When you showed up to your meeting sporting a bruised cheek and split lip the air quickly changed. Before you thought Simon looked like a predator. 

You were wrong.

Fear coursed through your veins and you recognized the look in his eyes. Every woman in the damn place knows what a hunger for violence looked like. Slowly he reached out an arm, the sleeve of his hoodie riding up slightly showing off tattoos, before grabbing the phone and pressing it to his ear. With a shaking hand, you did the same.

“Bird.” His voice was somehow deeper in real life than over the phone.

“You should see the other guy.”

His lips twitched.

There was something uncanny about his eyes. They weren’t brown, they were black. Obsidian. You realized that before, the first time you met him, he wasn’t trying to scare you. Though, you were pretty sure it wasn’t directed at you.

“Just a little spat is all Simon. Everything sorted itself out.”

All over a bottle of nail polish. Tempers run short in prison. You spend most of your days in a cell, and what little free time you get surrounded by the same insufferable bitches, it’s a mystery there isn’t more violence. For the most part, things were settled with words. The more physical an inmate gets the more time spent in your cell. There were some weeks where you spent twenty-three hours a day in that little room. 

Simon let out a sigh as if dealing with you was the most insufferable part of his day.

“Did ye’ get medical attention a’ least?”

You nodded your head.

He gave a grunt.

That seemed to be his preferred method of communication with you. Caveman grunts and growls, the occasional moan over the phone he couldn’t hold back. You figured it had something to do with his job. He was quite tight-lipped about it, but you gathered he has co-workers (his squad? Platoon? What was the proper lingo?). Despite this, you were under the impression he spent the majority of his time alone. He always seemed more primal after those month-long stints of silence.

You always wondered how you would feel if he never contacted you again. Went out and didn’t come back. Would you assume he was dead? That he moved on to prettier things that aren’t locked away? Would it make a difference to you? 

No. It wouldn’t.

Even now you got letters upon letters from other men. Though none were as giving as Simon was.

It was back to silence and staring contests that you were used to. The both of you slipping into a familiarity. He never put the phone back. Even when your warden came and escorted you back. You didn’t glance back at him. 

Tucked away in your cell you didn’t get to watch Simon slowly rise out of his seat, chair creaking from the shifting of his weight. You didn’t see Simon lurk in the back as the inmates met with their loved ones on the out. Didn’t see him take notice of a particular girls with nails painted the same shade as his gift to you. The same shade as the tip of his cock.

___

The girl was transferred. For a singular moment, you thought Simon had something to do with it. Then laughed at the idea. Simon may be in the military, but you highly doubted he had anything to do with the bitch who got transferred. At least you got your nail polish back. It was a strange shade, and the idea of a man as big as Simon standing in an isle trying to pick out a shade made you chuckle, it was the thought that counted.

Time marched on. Penpals came and went but Simon stayed the consistent part in your life. 

Eventually, the possibility of parole was on the horizon. 

Freedom. 

So close you could practically taste it.

Unfortunately, that meant a laundry list of to-do items. Court hearings, lawyers bankrolled by Simon, arranging for transportation and housing. Simon handled most of it. By now, the lingering guilt of using your soldier fiance had long left you. He seemed like the kind of man who needed to learn lessons the hard way, and entering a relationship with a felon was a lesson most didn’t need to learn. Still, he had been putting in quite a hard amount of work. He deserved a treat.

And after years of forced celibacy, you needed it bad.

The two of you would enjoy each other for a week or two. Simon would realize he made a mistake moving you in. He would kick you out. You’d pawn the ring he’d give you and use the money as a cushion as you landed, getting back on your feet. The two of you would go your separate ways and never see each other again.

Being in prison taught you a lot of things. Despite everything, patience wasn’t one of those lessons. The day you were gaining your freedom passed was the slowest part of your life. The checking, double checking, retrieving your stuff, checking again, until finally,

Finally,

You were outside. You were outside in something other than a uniform that stunk of sweat, there were no handcuffs. Anxiety crept everywhere. You wanted to get as far away from the prison as you could, if you breathed wrong a warden would drag you back. A pair of arms snatched you.

You looked up and couldn’t help but laugh, pressing your lips against his scarred ones.

“Fucking Christ your tall.”

He chuckled against your lips before taking them again, hands digging near painfully into your ass. The two of you somehow managed to walk back to his car peeling off one another before Simon peeled away, hand clutching the fat of your thighs as he drove.

“Never pictured you as a reckless driver.” You giggled.

The adrenaline and giddiness of being free hadn’t worn off yet. If anything it seemed to slowly be morphing into a different beast entirely. You pressed your lips against his bicep causing him to groan. You glanced up at him, watching as his jaw clenched weaving in and out of traffic in a way that was certainly not legal. You would’ve been worried about being pulled over if he wasn’t driving a military vehicle. They answered to a different police, or so he told you.

Eventually, he pulled into the yard of a house with an honest-to-God white picket fence. You smiled as you got out, curiosity creeping in about what his house was like. Simon opened the door for you, which would probably should’ve made you swoon at his gentleman-like behavior, but truthfully it was how he hauled you out of the card and dragged you inside that got your heart racing. 

Impatient.

The door barely closed before his body was pressed against yours and his lips were pressed against your jugular. One of his rough hands slipped up your shirt, grunting when he found a clear path to your tits instead of meeting the edge of a bra. The other dipped into the waistband of your pants, running over your clothed cunt, no doubt feeling the wet spot against your underwear. Your hands slid over his arms, squeezing at the muscle, before slowly sliding them up and up, going to the back of his neck, a hand threading through his short hair the other cupping his face to kiss yours. 

A large thumb found your clit, only the thin cotton stopped him from rubbing directly against it. He pressed down hard on it, causing your breath to catch in your throat, his thumb moving down your slit. The seam of your mouth parted in a moan and he used that to stick his tongue down your throat. 

The kiss was obscenely wet, beastly as his spit passed from his mouth into yours. Before prison, you would’ve pulled away with a grimace. Too much tongue, too much teeth, too much. But your whole body was on fire, years of pent-up orgasms made you desperate for it all. For someone to press against you, to be inside you.

Simon was oh-so-convenient. 

You tried to pull away, lungs burning enough to convince you that air was in fact a need, but the door stopped you. Pressed between it and Simon you had no escape. You whimpered against his mouth, again and again until he finally got the hint and pulled away, a string of spit connecting your mouths as if it too was reluctant to pull away from you.

“Bedroom?” You panted, though if he took you here against the door you would die happy.

Simon threw you over his shoulder and took his stairs two at a time before tossing you on his bed making you laugh. The caveman and his prize. Simon took the moment of being away from you to pull at the collar of his shirt. You watched in appreciation as it lifted higher and higher until it was discarded on his carpet. 

His body was marred in scar tissue, muscle, and a layer of fat that made for a solid fine specimen of the male species. His pants were discarded next, and either he pulled his underwear down with them or he just wasn’t wearing any to begin with. You didn’t have much time to ponder that thought distracted by his hard cock.

Jesus Christ.

Big was an understatement, monster was the word that popped into your mind. It crossed the territory between delicious into scary. Large and thicker than you thought possible. You swallowed and for a second hoped he would forget about the blowjob you promised him after he gave you a pillow. 

“Yer’ wearin’ too many clothes Birdie.” 

Quickly, though not as quickly as Simon was, you wiggled out of your pants, shrugged off your shirt throwing it in the same pile as his clothes. He stepped closer to you, one large hand grabbing your ankle before retching you towards him.

He leaned down, mouthing at your bare tits, slobbering over them. The soft press of his tongue flicked over your nipple before he moved to the other and grazed his teeth over it. His hands were everywhere. He was everywhere. Impossibly big and pressed against you everywhere. Until all your senses were filled with him. As if Simon was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The artificial sun in your glass cage.

His mouth moved lower, nipping at your skin before he moved between your legs. He settled his body in between them, the calloused palm of his hands pressing your legs further and further apart until the stretch burned in the muscles where your legs met your pelvis. Quickly the pain faded into the background as he pressed a kiss against your bare clit, before taking it in his mouth and sucking. You felt the rough pad of his fingertips press against your hole rubbing against it but never quite dipping inside. Again and again, he moved it against you but never in you. 

It was maddening.

You tilted your pelvis against his mouth, trying to coax his fingers into your welcoming body. He growled against your clit, removing his mouth causing you to whine. A sharp sting met your ass cheek and you yelped.

He spanked you.

“Behave.”

You never took the man to be hungry for anything other than missionary, but it seemed he had learned a few tricks over the years. He did have a few on you, you were sure of it. Your thoughts leaked out of your ears as he moved back up, slotting his hips in between your legs. Liquid lust ran through your veins at the sight of him rubbing his dick against your mound, a mess of your slick and his pre dragging along your pussy and up to your belly button. Your poor hole clenching around nothing at the image of how deep he was about to be in you.

You took a deep breath, mesmerized as he pressed the tip against your entrance, catching it before pressing himself inside. He went slowly, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as he finally began to sink home. Throwing your head back you closed your eyes as he stretched your body out.

You weren’t a virgin before you were locked away, but years of celibacy made you feel born again. Hell, with the size Simon was even if you had fucked him before he would’ve made you feel virginal with the way he was splitting you open.

When you opened them again you caught his gaze, he stared at you watching your expression pinch as he gave small thrusts, working the last of him inside you. When his balls pressed against your ass you let out a shaky breath. You had passed your limit two inches ago but somehow Simon had managed to coax your sweet pussy to take the last of him inside. The pain of him had taken you away from the edge of an orgasm he was working you towards, but when his hand found your clit again you knew you weren’t going to last long.

If his shaky breaths were anything to go by Simon wasn’t going to last long either. 

He kissed you again, this time it was softer. Sweeter. Made your stomach turn in a moment of guilt. It was replaced when he drew out of you, slowly letting you feel inch after inch leave your body, before slamming back in.

He moved again against you. And again. Building up a punishing rhythm. You couldn’t help the small ah ah ah’s that left your lips as he rutted in you. Your hips pushed against his, working with him as you both chased your highs. 

His hand never left your clit, as if glued to it working in tight fast circles. His other hand traveled along your body as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Squeezing at your tits so hard you thought it might bruise, running up your bare skin, constantly moving and feeling. As if he couldn’t believe that you were real. That you were out of your cage and underneath him panting his name in his ear instead of against the end of a phone. 

Your own hands wandered. Moving over his arms, God’s gift to you, his chest. But mostly they moved down his back, feeling his muscles move and contract under your hands. Before you left you would convince him to put a mirror over his bed, so you could watch his shoulders shift and move as he thrust inside you.

It was too much. The feel of Simon, the stimulation on your clit, the thick cock pistoning like a machine inside you, pressure built and built inside you. Your nails dug into his back, dragging down as he pushed you off that ledge.

Simon’s thrusts stuttered as he felt your walls fluttering around him, suckling at his cock, coaxing him. He came with a groan soon after you, painting your walls with thick globs of his cum.

You panted as he rested against you, letting his cock soften inside you as you ran your nails over the nape of his neck and caressed his short hair. It was oddly soft, comforting to run your hands over.

Simon began to untangle himself from you, slowly as if reluctant to part from your embrace. He moved to what you now realize was the on-suite connected to his bedroom. You could feel his cum start to drip out of your cunt and down your asshole, shifting at the uncomfortable feeling. You couldn’t find the energy yet to move, not even sure if your legs could support you right now. Simon came back to you, wash-cloth in hand, and began wiping up the mess he made.

“We’ll have to get a Plan B tomorrow.” You murmured as he crawled back into bed next to you.

Simon didn’t say anything, but he had always been a quiet man. He maneuvered the both of you until you rested under the covers, your hand running along his bare chest. Tracing his happy trail before moving back up, not ready to go again.

The adrenaline from before had worn off, leaving you suddenly exhausted. Sated and free you dozed off against him.

When you woke up again it was darker outside. Not yet the full black of night but rather the soft blue that came after the sun had only just dipped out of sight. Simon wasn’t in bed next to you. You rolled over with a sigh, sitting up and smoothing your hair. Thirsty you threw the covers off your body and padded across out of his room entering into a small hallway. There was a door directly across his room and with a shrug, you went into it. 

It wasn’t snooping if you lived here now too. Even if you were only going to stay for a little bit.

The handle turned easily but the room was darker than you expected, no windows to let in any natural light. Your hands patted at the wall until you found the edge of a light switch, with a click the room was bathed in a soft glow.

Your breath hitched.

The room was bare except for a small desk and chair, the walls were covered in photos. Photos of you. Old photos, from before your prison stint. Mugshots. But what made your skin crawl were photos of you in your cell. You sprawled out on your uncomfortable cot. You sitting cross-legged across from your cellmate. Images of you in the cafeteria. Images of you in the yard. 

You took a step back, then another, and another.

You flicked the light back off and slowly closed the door. You took a shuddering breath and yelped when you felt a chest pressed against yours. 

Simon’s hands dug into your hips, pulling you tight against him.

“You look like you’ve seen a Ghost, Birdie.”

Poor little bird, trading one cage for another.

___

Part Two

[foldingfittedsheets]

It started with cantrips, which is why it took people a while to notice. The first few events were people on the news talking about how they’d been needing a light and then suddenly they’d waved a hand and said words and there was light. No one really believed them but as more reports were verified suddenly more people came forward with even less believable stories of what everyone really didn’t want to call magic. Even though it was pretty obviously magic. Spectral floating hands grabbing things that were out of reach, whispered messages that reached their friend seated too far away to hear them.

An EMT who whispered a word and suddenly saved a dying man.

Then the darker stories started filtering in. 

Words spoken in anger causing explosions. Poison spewing forth from a hand gesture. One person gave a retort so witty that someone was hospitalized. 

Everyone was scared, but the nerds started to figure it out fastest. It sure wasn’t the scientists who were doing the equivalent of crying on the floor in the fetal position in their respective labs while reports poured in globally of these occurrences. A growing movement online started spreading lists. They had all the blessings people might have gotten and regardless of how many people scoffed no one could really deny that every instance of magic correlated to a website listing the cantrips in Dungeons and Dragons. People pooled their collective resources to help quantify what was happening and facts started to emerge.

Everybody got one. You had to be at least thirteen to use the magic. That pretty much summed up the only other common denominators. Otherwise it seemed completely random, the magic didn’t line up with any existing character traits. You just unlocked one piece of magic each. People with aggressive cantrips were almost loaded up into camps for suddenly being so dangerous- however many hit points real humans had it was apparently not a big number. A lot more deaths occurred than anyone could feasibly track and the global population panicked.

The legislation for the camps got struck down. There were riots and confusion and for a while everything was pretty chaotic. Firebolts and Eldritch Blasts went off from sheer exuberance as much as anything else. Amidst the rioting were people just living their lives, not using their cantrips. It took a while for things to settle down, but humans can get used to most anything if given enough time.

Almost everybody scanned the list to figure out which they got, but someone with Chill Touch just enjoyed frostier beverages than most even if it made you think about death more to drink something after the skeleton hand had been wrapped around it. At least it looked cool. Most people didn’t really do anything other than play around. A youtuber who had gotten Shape Water suddenly surged in popularity as she pivoted her channel to creating beautiful patterns with colored water. Other online personalities quickly followed and those with combat focused magic set up backyard target practice to show off. Some fires resulted as well as numerous noise complaints and a law was passed limiting where people could practice magic. It was virtually unenforceable but the people in charge were trying to keep a grip on the situation.

Noticeably the largest subset of the population that used their magic were those who had gotten Spare the Dying. Every government turned out the call that such individuals would receive a generous stipend for taking to the hospitals and stabilizing the sick and injured. Death rates dropped substantially, but it was still only a cantrip. Cancer marched on, but many got to live after miraculous recoveries.

Months passed and things started to become a little more normal. There were still debates about what had caused it and how to regulate magic but day to day life settled down. Speculations over what the long term ramifications would be continued as well as why those cantrips. Wizards of the Coast refused to comment for the first six months, closing its doors to the rioting and keeping them closed. At the end of six months they abruptly published a new line of cantrip cards with all kinds of utility and no combat usage whatsoever. The internet exploded and the government wasn’t pleased, but nothing happened. No one got any new magic. People wondered if those under thirteen would manifest the new stuff, but no one did. They just blew out their thirteenth birthday candles and got handed a cantrip like everyone else. 

A year later a mechanic in rural Canada was peering into the engine of a busted car. He realized he needed some lubricant and instead of reaching for his can he waved a hand and splattered the car with Grease that had burst from his hand. He was a calm sort of fellow so he called up the local news and said there was more magic. They asked first what cantrip he had- folks who received Prestidigitation had made a number of false alarms on receiving additional magic. The mechanic told them his cantrip was Infestation which he’d never had cause to use after figuring it out. 

The press descended and demanded a demonstration. Most people had read up on the basic rules of magic at that point, so everyone understood when the mechanic said they’d have to wait until the next day. A media storm went up the next day with headlines blaring that first level magic had been unlocked after the passing of the lunar new year. 

A wide contingent had been waiting for this opportunity. The spell list went out again amidst less panic but more chaos. There was a rash of identity thefts no could trace and eventually people realized Disguise Self posed a significant challenge to daily life. Celebrities had trouble convincing people they were who they said as random citizens took their faces on numerous joyrides. A scandal broke when it turned out an A list actor had hired someone else to play them while they went on vacation but the details were kept very hush hush.

Hospitals called out desperately for anyone with healing magic and most of those blessed with Cure Wounds and Healing Word answered. People with Goodberry formed community food kitchens and for the first time it seemed like hunger could actually be eliminated. Veterinary offices and zoos made special positions for those who could cast Animal Friendship and Speak with Animals.

A celebrity chef hit the jackpot with Purify Food and Drink and made a whole spinoff series where she went dumpster diving and made five star meals out of rotting leftovers. Several people changed careers entirely to lend their services to study ancient texts with Comprehend Languages. Even one hour a day led to huge leaps in discovery and understanding of ancient civilizations. 

A small murmur of worry followed the new influx of skills and power. What would happen when more magic was unlocked? The amount of people now running around with dangerous combat spells was even greater than before. Would people have to worry about necromancy? New crimes were being invented faster than laws could keep up as magic was put to novel and interesting uses. 

A year passed and everyone waited with bated breath for the lunar new year, but nothing happened. 

But I’m pretty sure I figured it out. We got handed cantrips. And we waited a year for first level spells. I’m pretty sure it’s one more year, and then things will really start to get interesting.

Inspired by this poll. If you enjoyed my writing consider leaving a tip on my Ko-fi!

[chastiefoul]

jjk men coming home and finding you crying

ft. gojo, geto, nanami, toji fluff and comfort

gojo satoru

you wiped your eyes quickly as you heard the door opened. you took a deep breath, making sure your voice didn’t come as shaky as you said, “welcome home, toru.” with a big grin and the usual paper bag filled with sweets on his right hand he planted a kiss on your head. “i’m home baby.”

you were just about to let out a sigh of relief when satoru suddenly knelt in front of you who’s on the couch, blindfold off as his blue eyes stared as if seeing right through you. “what’s wrong?” he said softly, his knuckles brushing over your cheek with such a careful gesture. “what do you mean?” you tilted your head, cringing inside at the bad feign. “you can’t fool my six eyes, baby. also what kind of boyfriend i’ll be if i can’t even notice when my girl is sad?”

you tried to form a sentence to say as an excuse but the kisses he peppered across your face wasn’t really helping. you chuckled as you whine softly, “toruu.” the white-haired man cupped your face, a gorgeous smile on his face. “my favorite sound, baby,” he said, kissing your lips. “tell me? pleaseeee.” you laughed once more at his emphasis at the last word. “it’s really nothing, toru.”

“i love listening to nothing. we even have some sweets here as snacks,” he said, opening the paper bag excitedly. “i think you just want an excuse to eat it at 8 pm,” you raised an eyebrow, as he grinned. “nonsense, baby. now c’mere, let me hold you while you tell your story.” he put you between his legs, your back resting on his broad chest comfortably. you sighed out of wonderment, thinking how you could be so lucky, being this loved by the man.

“here, pick whatever. this one is my favorite,” he rummaged through the bag that’s on your lap. you looked at him with fondness as his face leaned in beside you to see better. “yeah? you’ll give me your favorite?”

“there’s nothing in the world that you can’t get, baby.” he kissed the side of your face. “now start from the very beginning.”

geto suguru

“if you thought you were doing a great job hiding those tears i have some news for you sweet girl,” geto’s voice was gentle on your ear as he wipe the wet residue underneath your eyes with the inner sleeve of his robe. “i wasn’t really hiding it,” you frowned, somehow not liking the fact that he noticed your little moment of weakness. “yeah? so you were just rubbing your eyes all rough like that for no reason?” he gave you a little smile.

yeah, it was a battle you had lost from start.

he put his arms around you, rubbing your back in a soothing pattern. “what’s wrong baby, everything okay?” you melted right into his touch, resting your head on his chest right on the calming beating of his heart. “yeah, it’s not really a big deal,” you mumbled, your low spirit was really affecting him more than he would ever let you know. his hand kept moving as he once again kissed the side of your head, a low chuckled escaped him. “you’re cute when you think you have a choice on telling me what had upset you.”

you laughed softly at his playfulness, knowing full well to you’ll end up telling your boyfriend everything. “you’re right. but can i tell you later?” you asked, wanting just this peaceful moment to last just a little longer as you held him tight.

“’course baby, got all the time in the world for you.”

nanami kento

nanami already knew that something was off when the house felt a little quiet as he arrived. and then he found you hunched over as you stood behind the kitchen counter. “honey?” you wiped your eyes with what you thought was the speed of sound but it was clear to both of you that you had been crying. “hi ken, how was work?” you replied with a small voice, a smile nanami didn’t particularly like plastered on your face; only because it seemed forced.

“oh no, we’re not breezing past it. come here my love.” and his embrace enveloped you like a dream, all warm and perfect. he stroke your hair ever so softly as he whispered sweet nothings. when you calmed down a little he sneaked a hand under your jaw, rubbing his thumb on your cheek gently, a gesture with amount of love you could only guess. “what’s wrong, hm?” he questioned you, his eyes shone with adoration; there’s only you in that moment.

“i’m okay, ken. more importantly aren’t you tired from work?” there’s a deep crease between the blond’s man eyebrows he heard you say this, as if that was the most offensive thing he had ever heard from you. “’more importantly?’ there could be nothing that’s more important than you, dear,” he said, knowing that concern was from a good place, like he was worrying over you, of course you would fuss over him who just came home from work.

“still…” you hesitated, but he kissed it out of you quickly. “want me to prepare you a bath, love? you know i can get the perfect temperature for you,” he whispered, coaxing you. and he was right, even sometimes he would get it right more often than you. before you could even mumble out another excuse he continued. “and while you do that i’ll prepare dinner, okay? i’m sure there’re still some ingredients left to make that nice meal you like.”

“no, i couldn’t possibly let you do all the work ken-“

“love, i’m here. you can relax, okay? you always do so much for me, let me do this for you,” he reassured you, cupping your face as he trailed your cheeks with soft kisses. you’re still not convinced, as he smiled over your great concern. “do this for me, please?” he tried once more and there’s no way you could refuse that. you nodded, feeling another wave of tears coming out of gratitude for your boyfriend., “thank you ken, i love you so much.”

“i love you too. and when you’re ready to talk, i’m here okay? always.”

toji fushiguro

he lifted you up, your leg instinctively wrapped themselves around his waist as he grabbed both of your thighs to support you. you tighten the hold of your arms around his neck, resting your head on your shoulder, nuzzling closer to his neck; not wanting him to see your post-crying face.

he sat you on the kitchen counter, putting both of his hands on the hard surface, on either side of your body practically refraining you to run away. “what’s wrong pretty girl?” he asked you who’s currently staring at the fingers on your lap as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. he kissed your shoulder blade, intentionally lingering a little long to hopefully calm your nerves. “nothing, i guess,” you answered nonchalantly, like detaching yourself. “you’re shit at lying babe, you know that right? look at the frown that you’re wearing right now, it’s almost touching the floor,” he said as he kissed your neck next. “mean,” you meant to frown, and you realized you were already doing that for the past hour. fine, maybe he had a point, so what?

“nah, what’s mean is when my girl won’t even tell me what made her upset,” he said, tilting his head confidently, his big hand on your waist as he rubbed your side. the look on his face was enough to make you relent. “fine… you’ll force it out of me sooner or later anyways,” you mumbled as he smiled, knowing that you needed a little push is all to sound your worries. “atta girl.”

“tell me all ‘bout it yeah? don’t leave out a single detail. then maybe if you’re up for it, i can show you that i got many ways to cheer you up,”