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jichanxo · 1 year ago

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how different is your creative process between writing and drawing (and in which areas)? do you have a different approach in each artform? if you have an idea, you first think how you'd write it or draw it?

This is definitely going to be long so. Cut.

Just to preface, obviously both writing and drawing are a form of art, but I tend to use the word “art” when I mean illustration or drawing, so that’s what I’m going to do here. And of course a disclaimer that I’m only speaking to my subjective experience.

Tbh I don’t think my approach to both is that different from each other, which is odd, because I’m used to thinking of them as very different processes. Probably because the mediums themselves are so different. But like with my writing, I tend to improvise. Feel it out, see how things go, throw ideas at the wall. I would probably say that I’m more willing to experiment with/scrap my art than my writing. Probably because I’m more confident with my art than my writing, so I find it easier to make judgments like that, or because I’ve made so much that throwing stuff away when it isn’t working is very easy. I get a bit more precious about my writing. I always want to keep it or at least try to adapt it into something less bad, lmao. I’m also just not as confident in my ability to judge what writing is worth keeping or worth permanently deleting. I just haven’t polished that skill for writing as much as I have for art.

With regards to planning my art – I definitely do sometimes, because I consider art my Serious Hobby, which means I do like to have a go at more serious projects as opposed to just improvising all the time (a contrast to my writing where my only “serious project” is senseific, and I fell into that by accident). The things I plan out are the idea/s I want to convey, and what imagery would express that. (like this IW art, and the second one in this umineko post) Or sometimes the imagery gets stuck in my head and I work from that. (yagami’s hair clinging to his neck here)

I actually find that planning too much can be detrimental to my art process. That is to say, not in terms of figuring out ideas/themes, but doing too much drafting. I find it very difficult to do things like clean lineart unless I’m having a Weirdly Good Art Moment, so I just don’t. Hence a lot of my art is very sketchy. I’m just not good at capturing the same looseness with “proper” lineart than with my sketches, so I keep them. Not worth fussing over. This is what works for me.

(even in this, and the first image here, you can see a lot of breaks and incomplete looking lines. not to say necessarily that this is a bad thing of course, but you can see that even in what I consider my “polished” work, I won’t use “proper” linework, but instead a high quality/detailed sketch. I imagine some other artists would have their proper linework stage after these sketches, but i choose to stop here)

this probably reads like I’m talking myself down, but that’s not really what I’m meaning to say – my point is that I don’t figure out details even for my bigger pieces, and that with drawn art I have a better time judging where my time is best spent. I don’t think I have a strong understanding of my writing by comparison, so I can’t decide how to play to my strengths or anything like that, I just have to see how i go.

For writing, either it’s “i’m in the mood for it” or “i’m not in the mood for it”. For art, it’s “today is a good day/bad day”, “today’s a painting day”, “today feels like masking”, “today I just want to sketch”, “today I’m too loose for what I want to work on”, “today I’m too stiff”. You can see the difference in my ability to judge, yeah? So a big difference is to do with just my own (relative) inexperience with writing as opposed to drawing.

I think the other major factor is the differences in the mediums themselves. A fanfic is sequential. There’s a change in time. Illustrations are by nature a single moment in time. Big difference there. Of course, there are comics and animatics and other art that’s both drawn and sequential, but since I don’t do a lot of that, just count that as exceptions for now (and in a way, those are kind of like a combination of writing and illustration, aren’t they?) I find there are some ideas that are conveyed easier or better through writing, and others where the better option is art.

So to answer your last question, often ideas come to me pre-packaged as a “writing idea” or an “art idea”, rather than having to decide that separately. In the case that a sequence is better conveyed with a visual element, that’s when it’s comic time. The gorillashipping comic is a great example of this. The punchline is at its best when it’s not explained in words, and the expression of the final panel does all the heavy lifting. I pitched this idea initially in words (as a joke on discord), but the comic version has more punch.

Comics are also great for when you want to avoid explaining context, and for when you want to force the reader to take a specific pace. Here’s the example I’m thinking of.

The visual space dedicated to the fighting forces you to take time to process, and that time is important for the buildup to the punchline. This wouldn’t work as well if we cut this down to, say, the four panels of the last example. So yeah, timing. And then my other point – context – why are these two fighting? I don’t know. Where are they? I don’t know. It’s not necessary for the joke. The same is true of the gorillashipping joke. How did the relationship between kiryu and kaito happen to make this even remotely possible? I don’t know. But I don’t need to explain it in a joke comic. With writing I find that it feels more necessary to make context clear to the reader so they understand what’s happening, but with illustrations, it’s a lot easier to skip over that. Obviously this isn’t impossible in a written format, but that’s just my personal opinion.

Admittedly I think this second example is doable with just pure writing (replace all the panels with descriptions of the fight that take long enough to simulate the time it takes for the reader to digest the build up, then make the punchline a wham line, yknow), but it varies on a case to case basis. Also I would not want to write fighting. Lmao. I’m not… any good at that. So I guess it is also just in part about playing to strengths.

Anyway, enough comic side tangent. I’ve already started talking about it there, but was going to do a comparison between writing and art as mediums. The main thing, I find, is that they have different strengths. More than strengths/weaknesses though, the mediums themselves convey some things with ambiguity, and other things with detail.

Like I first mentioned, time: it’s easier to convey the passage of time with writing than with illustration. And like I said before with comics – conveying context – because an illustration captures a single moment in time, it’s a lot easier to avoid context entirely, while it’s harder to avoid in writing. I’ve drawn kuwagami cuddles before, and there’s no background, nothing discernable as to the lead up or any other detail. And that’s great! I don’t want to have to invent a plausible reason for them to end up hugging. I can just do it, right? But sometimes it’s the context that makes things significant, so you do want it there. A better job for writing. Writing allows you to be detailed with your context, while illustration leaves it ambiguous. Different strengths. You just pick which best fits the situation.

It’s a similar case for a lot of different factors – they're conveyed differently through both mediums, and depending on your idea, some results are more desirable than others. Rather than explaining, it’s probably better to do a direct comparison. (If it makes any difference to your curiosity, I did the drawing first then the writing. You’ve caught me on a good art day, what a nice sketch…)

I’ll try not to talk too much because I think the comparison and table say enough, but you can see how, despite depicting basically the same thing, these two things feel pretty different from each other. The mediums do different things. The mood of both is similar, but not quite the same. It’s these differences that inform the choice of mediums instinctually. (but again. points at disclaimer. as is true with all “rules” about art, none of these are absolute. you can make an illustration that conveys a strong context. you can write fic that favours describing facial expressions and leaves the intended emotion ambiguous. i’m generalising to make a point here.)

I guess the other thing is that it’s pretty easy to do writing in bed on my phone compared to my art setup, lmao. Convenience and timing also play into it probably.

#jitxt #long post #word on the street is that if you send me enough asks i'll start replying with kuwagami art /jk #......and a table and like 1000 unnecessary words attached #fellow artists if you saw me admit to manually masking my work in this post no you didn't #(i try to strategically use selection tools when i can but i don't fully trust them. since my lineart is Like That)#but yeah the process itself is not super different #the main things are 1. my ability to judge my own work as i make it and 2. what medium is better suited for a situation #fun to go back and find examples for this one #about judgment: it's still new to me that people might enjoy my writing. whereas with my art i'm like Yeah I Know It's Good.#perspective's a funny thing #thank you everyone for being nice. and thank you sunday six #my enjoyment for writing has really grown since i've been able to talk to other people about it #might have to come back to this kuwagami sketch later. i like it a lot!#certainly worthy of its own post #for now it's a treat for those who scrolled far enough #thank you for the ask i've been wanting to go on a tirade about how i find writing and drawing different

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moe-broey · 10 months ago

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LIKE..

#alfonse and mani relationship/my feelings about lif and thrasir in reverse but ALSO. a thousand other things.#it's less about the ages in this case and more about the time periods. what moe was (supposedly) like at that time #also all my mani lore never escapes containment but it's also important. that alfonse did NOT have a good first impression LMFAO #it takes a long time to understand it and even longer to make peace w it.#another core important detail though. is at the end of the day alfonse prefers moe. exactly for who it is.#i think there are qualities about moe he actually envies. in all of moe's Difficulties. it's incredibly self-assured.#it knows who it is and what it wants. it's grown into itself a lot at this point.#mani most likely reflects a moe who was 18 or 19. but the way it Is. in its desperation and posturing #alfonse is surprised to hear that age placement from moe. since to him it read more like a scared kid.#ALSO JUST... THE DYNAMIC... of moe carrying itself silly/rough around the edges vs #mani who carries itself more formally and Perfectly. and how in alfonse's eyes moe reads as the more mature one.#he never questioned its age always assuming (correctly) it's either his age or closer to sharena's.#meanwhile he was mistaken about mani's placement. bc SO severely. to him. it just seems like a kid #trying to act older than they are.#IDK last time i talked ages i accidentally started a Whole Thing LMFAOOO DON'T. WANNA DO THAT AGAJN.#but mani is a study in so many things. in growing up too fast. in unrealistic expectations.#in the gender role it was assigned at birth and just how badly that went for it. even though it Seemed #to encapsulate it Perfectly. it's also a study in compatibility and preference esp w alfonse at the other end #it's a study in just how Wrong. horroring and painful. traditional/conventional 'romance' Is for moe.#it's a study in autistic masking. and how damaging that was for it as well.#mani is a study in all the ways moe had to protect itself.#mani is just.... such a loaded fucking character LMFAOOOOOOOO #put that thing back where it came from OR SO HELP ME‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️#mani tag #* horrifying. typo LMFAOO #typing too quickly....

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navydoves · 2 months ago

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Mermaid!Rafayel and his strange affectionate habits

being in a relationship with a mermaid is pretty weird, rafayel has some weird habits!

✎ᝰ a/n: alright, back by popular demand (somewhat), we have the rafayel version of this. i could make this into a series… i could just not gaf… i could also make a “habits while in heat”, but idk!

dragon sylus version

⭐︎

❥ he chirps! mermaid rafayel trills and chirps in various patterns as a subtle way of communication. you’ll hear soft, cute squeaks come from him when he’s happy or deep in thought. or when you pet his tail, he trills from the feeling of your warm hand on his cool scales.

you didn’t understand where the noises came at first until you realized rafayel was the one making them. the sounds are so different in pitch than his normal voice that it was surprising he could make them. but they were so cute that you never really questioned them, instead you took the time to learn what each chirp meant.

❥ he brings you many gifts. a common trait amongst mermaids is that they’ll go out of their way to collect trinkets to either court someone or make their current mate happy. rafayel isn’t really sure what you like as a human, but he definitely tries to figure it out!

he’ll bring you lost shoes or baby crabs or pretty candy wrappers in hopes that you’ll take some liking to them. but when you stare a bit confused at the piles of scrap that he gifts you, he decides he has to try harder. he learns that human women are not that different from mermaids—in that they both like shiny, pretty things. so rafayel’s makes it a habit to find coins and jewels buried in the sea and bring it up to you frequently as he can. you have no real use for these miscellaneous items, but you can tell rafayel is trying really hard to please you so you accept graciously. he chirps in excitement!

❥ he quite literally, suffocates you. never intentionally, no, but rafayel doesn’t know his own strength. human bodies are comprised weaker than lemurian bodies, making you the victim in rafayel’s affectionate embraces. it’s during these times that you’re reminded of just how big rafayel is. 8 feel tall in length, you’re constantly reminded that you’re a peewee who could be crushed by this mythical being at any moment.

rafayel does try to be gentle with you, though. he intentionally tries to tone down how passionate he is so as to not knock the air out of your lungs. he really can’t help it though, you’re so small and adorable he just wants to cuddle you and eat you up.

❥ he stares at you. rafayel isn’t too adverse in the human body, so at the start of your relationship he was very very curious as to what a human female looked like. it’s for this reason he the hates the fact that you wear clothes. all he wants to do is stare at you and ask what certain things are. to rafayel, this is a normal thing to do when you’re curious. to you, this is a little embarrassing.

the especially embarrassing part is when he stares at your intimate parts. he pokes around at your vagina with a curious look and the intent to investigate what the hell was going on in there. sure, mermaid anatomy was similar to human anatomy, but he’d never really seen a human female up close until you. the weird part is, he think it’s all completely innocent.

“so… this is clit right? lot smaller than i what expected…”

lick.

“rafayel!”

❥ he sings to guide you. it’s no secret mermaids have beautiful voices. you’ve heard some distant melodic voices from the sea in your time dating rafayel—but nothing compares to rafayel’s voice itself. the first time you heard it you felt like you were floating on air and transcending your body. it was that powerful. now that you’ve grown accustomed to the hypnotizing sound, though, rafayel uses his voice as a way to guide you.

when you’re on the beach looking for him or under the sea by the grace of his power, he sings melodiously to guide you in his direction. every time it happens you feel as if you don’t even need to think about the direction you’re going, that your feet just automatically know where to go even if you’re unfamiliar with the place.

❥ he has a cycle problem. rafayel goes through many physical changes throughout his lemurian life and that makes him constantly be in kahoots. one day he’s whiny and splashing everything with water, another day he can’t get his hands off of you and is extremely clingy, maybe one day he’s just really depressed and needs to be alone. it’s hard to tell what’s coming next with him.

but it’s also not just an emotional problem, it’s a physical problem too. sometimes, you’ll meet him and see that he’s two times bigger than usual (god almighty). other times, you’ll go in for a cuddle and feel his skin is all slimy and sticks to you. every time you ask about his issues, he always has a different explanation. it leads you to think, just how many cycles do lemurians go through?

❥ he has many nicknames for you. whenever you’re upset, he’ll laugh at you and call you a “baby pufferfish.” if you’re look extra pretty that day, he’ll call you “my pearl.” if you’re struggling within his grasp he’ll call you a “cute little minnow.” rafayel is incredibly affectionate and loyal, so all the pet names he uses on you he doesn’t use with any one else—even the human ones he’s adopted like “cutie” or “darling.”

one of his favorites, though, is the one he calls you when he’s in heat. “my nest,” he says whenever he has full intention of filling you with his eggs. it’s his way of telling you that the most precious and vulnerable part of him belongs to you, because you are a nest for his babies <3.

⭐︎

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mephisto-reporting · 4 months ago

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The Engineer's Gravity - Yandere! Caleb

Plot: You're a biomechanical engineer in Caleb's fleet, incharge of repairs of prosthetic parts. What happens when you become the subject of the Colonel's obsession? Based on this request. Pairing: Non MC Mechanic! Reader x Yandere! Caleb Note: This story is with slightly darker themes. I do not want people to come at me saying Caleb isn't like this. Yes, I know. This is a Yandere! version of Caleb. Please keep that in mind. If you want to be a part of my taglist, please let me know in the comments, DMs or inbox. Content warning: Yandere male, implied deaths, mutilation, mentions of blood, possessiveness, gaslighting, voilence

CALEB'S POV

The faint hum of the Farspace fleet’s engines was a constant background noise, a rhythm that Caleb had grown accustomed to. It filled the silence as he walked down the dimly lit corridor toward the engineering bay, his gloved left hand flexing instinctively while his right hand remained eerily still. It wasn’t the arm itself that unnerved him anymore. No, he’d gotten used to the weight, the cool touch of the synthetic skin against his chest when he rested his hand there. What grated on him was the maintenance—the vulnerability of needing someone else to keep it functional.

The first time he’d come to the mechanic for maintenance, he had been indifferent, as he was to most things in his life. The arm was a tool, no more. Just another part of the machine that was Caleb, the Colonel. She was just another cog in the vast machine of the fleet, a means to an end. He barely remembered their first meeting beyond her clinical efficiency and soft voice, far removed from the barked commands of his officers or the detached drone of his superiors. She’d introduced herself simply, a name he didn’t bother committing to memory at the time, and had begun her work without wasting a second.

He’d sat in silence, his arm stretched out on the diagnostic table, his gaze fixed on the wall as she meticulously checked the connections and replaced worn components. She’d asked him questions—about the arm’s performance, any discomfort he’d noticed—but he’d only answered in monosyllables. He wasn’t trying to be rude; he just didn’t see the point.

She had been… different.

No. She spoke with compassion, with a voice that held an undercurrent of something human. When she’d first touched his arm to inspect it, there was no clinical detachment in her touch—no cold professionalism. Instead, there was a softness, a care.

But she kept showing up, week after week, her presence a constant thread in his routine. She didn’t just maintain his arm; she paid attention. She noticed when he was tense and adjusted her tone accordingly. When she worked, she hummed under her breath—a tune he couldn’t place but found oddly soothing. And unlike the professor who saw him as little more than a prototype for their next experiment, she treated him like a person.

Caleb first noticed it when she spoke to the other fleet members. The soldiers and officers with Toring chips embedded in their bodies, their minds augmented for efficiency but stripped of their individuality, were often treated as tools. Most of the crew barely acknowledged them, but she… she smiled at them. Asked about their day. Made sure they were comfortable during her examinations and modifications.

It wasn’t long before Caleb began to see her differently.

Their interactions changed subtly over time. He found himself lingering in the engineering bay longer than necessary, watching her work under the sharp white lights. She was focused, hands deft as they manipulated wires and micro-tools, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“You’re due for recalibration next week, Colonel.” she said during one session, not looking up from the neural interface she was fine-tuning.

“I’ll be here,” he replied. Then, after a pause, “You’re good at this.”

She glanced at him, surprised. “I’ve had a lot of practice.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not just the work. The way you… treat people. You’re good at that, too.”

Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, he thought she might dismiss the comment. But instead, she smiled—a soft, genuine thing that made something unfamiliar stir in his chest. “Everyone deserves to be treated like they matter.” she said simply, turning back to his arm.

He didn’t respond, but those words stayed with him long after he left the bay. Caleb watched her closely, taking note of every smile, every laugh, every time she showed kindness to someone else. It made something dark curl in his chest.

The first time Caleb intervened on her behalf, it was almost instinctual.

He was passing through the mess hall when he heard the sharp edge of Lieutenant Varro’s voice. “You know, for all your compassion, you take forever with repairs. Maybe stop coddling the freaks and do your job faster.”

Caleb froze, his blood turning cold. He rounded the corner to see Varro towering over her, his expression smug. She was holding a tray of food, her shoulders tense but her expression calm as she replied, “I do my job thoroughly, Lieutenant. If you’re unhappy with my work, you can file a complaint.”

Caleb’s steps faltered, his jaw tightening. A cold, simmering rage filled him as he turned to look at the man. He wanted to snap his neck right then and there, but he couldn’t let her see this side of him. Not yet.

So he smiled instead. A cold, calculating smile that sent a chill down Varro’s spine.

“Lieutenant,” Caleb said, his tone deceptively calm. “A word.”

Later that night, Varro didn’t return to his quarters. Whispers spread through the fleet about an "incident" during a routine maintenance check. Caleb made sure it looked like an accident—a malfunction in Varro's own bionic enhancements. No one questioned it, least of all her.

She remained blissfully unaware of the lengths Caleb went to for her.

As the days turned into weeks, Caleb’s obsession deepened. He found himself lingering in her workshop longer than necessary, watching her every move. She would smile at him, her eyes warm and kind, and Caleb would feel something he hadn’t felt since he left home for the DAA. A strange, aching need to keep her close.

“You know,” she said one day, her voice light, “you don’t always have to come here for repairs. You can just... visit, if you want.”

Caleb froze, his gaze locking onto hers. Did she know? Had she figured out how much he craved her presence? But her smile was so genuine, so innocent, that he realized she didn’t suspect a thing.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, his voice steady.

He told her about his family one evening, when the workshop was quiet and the rest of the fleet was asleep. He spoke of the girl he had grown up with, her fiery spirit, and the way she had carved a place for herself in Linkon.

“She is strong…” Caleb said, his voice low. “Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

She listened intently, her expression soft. “You must miss her.” she said gently.

Caleb hesitated. Did he? The memory of that girl felt distant, overshadowed by the woman sitting in front of him.

“I don’t think about her much anymore.” he admitted. “There are... other things on my mind.”

He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t press.

But Caleb couldn’t stop thinking about her. He thought about the way her hands moved over his arm, the way her laughter echoed in the workshop, the way she seemed to light up the cold, sterile corridors of the fleet.

And when he saw other officers talking to her, laughing with her, something in him snapped. He didn’t like the way they looked at her. He didn’t like the idea of anyone else getting close to her.

Caleb began to manipulate things behind the scenes, ensuring that no one spent too much time with her. He assigned officers to tasks that kept them far away from her workshop. He spread subtle rumors, casting doubt on the intentions of anyone who showed too much interest in her.

She never noticed. She never questioned why the workshop seemed quieter, why fewer people came to her for help.

And Caleb made sure it stayed that way. In the privacy of his quarters, Caleb would sit in the dim light, his bionic hand flexing involuntarily as he thought about her. She was his. She didn’t know it yet, but she belonged to him.

And he would do whatever it took to keep her safe. To keep her close.

Even if it meant destroying anyone who stood in his way.

YOUR POV

Lately, you’d noticed something strange.

The crew didn’t treat you the way they used to. At first, it was subtle—an officer averting his gaze when you greeted him in the corridor, a technician hurriedly ending a conversation when you approached. Then it became more blatant. People gave you a wide berth in the cafeteria, whispers died the moment you entered a room, and the occasional sidelong glances you caught were laced with something unspoken.

Fear.

It didn’t make sense. You’d always prided yourself on being approachable, on treating everyone with the respect they deserved. Sure, your work was demanding, and your position as the fleet’s biomechanical engineer meant you often had to be firm when it came to protocols, but you weren’t cruel. Far from it. You treated the crew like people, not machines.

But now? It was as though you carried some invisible aura that screamed danger.

And then there were the... incidents.

The first time, you brushed it off as coincidence. Lieutenant Gregor had been reassigned to another fleet without warning, just days after he’d mocked you during a team briefing. You’d chalked it up to bad luck or his own poor behavior catching up to him.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Officers and fleet members who dismissed your concerns, who snapped at you during high-stress missions, who made snide comments about your methods—they all disappeared. Some were reassigned to far-off posts, others were suddenly discharged for disciplinary reasons, and a few even suffered freak accidents that left them unfit for duty.

The pattern was impossible to ignore.

The only constant in all of this was the Colonel.

Or just Caleb, as he’d asked you to call him when it was just the two of you.

“Colonel” felt too formal, too distant, he’d said one evening as you adjusted the fine motor controls on his bionic hand. He’d leaned back in the chair, watching you with an intensity that made you feel both self-conscious and oddly comforted.

“Just Caleb,” he’d said, his voice softer than usual. “When we’re alone.”

You hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Over the past few months, he’d become a steady presence in your life, someone you found yourself looking forward to seeing.

And lately, he seemed to be around you more than ever.

It wasn’t just during maintenance sessions anymore. He’d stop by your workshop for no apparent reason, lingering by your workbench as you tinkered with your tools. He’d accompany you on supply runs, his tall frame a protective shadow at your side. When the fleet docked at Skyhaven for shore leave, he invited you to join him for coffee or walks through the market district. He’d cook for you and bring you meals to your residence in Skyhaven, unprompted.

It felt... nice.

You couldn’t deny that you enjoyed his company. Caleb had a dry sense of humor that never failed to catch you off guard, and there was a steadiness to him that you found grounding. Still, there was something about him—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

The way he always seemed to know when someone had upset you. The way his gaze lingered on you just a little too long, as if he were memorizing every detail. The way his voice dropped when he said your name, like it was a secret only he was allowed to keep.

You tried to push the thoughts aside. Caleb was your superior, your colonel. He’d never given you any reason to distrust him. And yet...

One evening, as you recalibrated the sensory feedback in his arm, you decided to bring it up.

“Have you noticed how people have been acting lately?” you asked, keeping your tone light as you adjusted a tiny screw. “It’s like they think I’m some kind of... I don’t know, threat or something.”

You glanced up at Caleb, expecting him to shrug it off with one of his usual dry remarks. Instead, his body tensed, just for a moment. If you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you might have missed it.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“It’s just a feeling.” you said, turning back to his arm. “People avoiding me, whispering when they think I can’t hear. And then there are the reassignment orders. It’s like anyone who crosses me is... gone.”

There was a long pause.

“It’s nothing.” Caleb said finally. “Tensions have been high since the last Deepspace tunnel exploration. People are on edge.”

You frowned but didn’t press the issue. Maybe he was right. The fleet had been through a lot recently, and stress had a way of making people act strangely. Still, something about his explanation didn’t sit right with you.

“Yeah,” you said, forcing a smile. “That makes sense.”

But it didn’t. Not entirely.

Still, you knew better than to poke your nose where it didn’t belong. You’d learned long ago that asking too many questions could lead to trouble, and trouble was the last thing you needed.

So you stayed in your lane, focusing on your work and pretending not to notice the way Caleb’s presence seemed to permeate every aspect of your life. You told yourself it was fine, that his increased attention was nothing to worry about. After all, you trusted Caleb. He’d always been kind to you, always treated you with respect. And if his gaze lingered a little too long, if his touch was a little too gentle when he handed you a tool, if his smile held a hint of something darker—you ignored it.

Because Caleb was the only person who hadn’t changed. The only person who still treated you like... you.

The ship was silent at night, the hum of its engines a low, constant thrum beneath your feet as you walked through the dimly lit corridors. You’d been restless, the bitter taste of Lieutenant Reese’s words still fresh in your mind. The new Lieutenant had been transferred to Caleb’s fleet three weeks ago and was already causing tensions within the hierarchy of how things ran in the fleet.

“Guess even engineers need quotas filled, huh? They really let anyone take up space on this ship these days,” he had sneered during a systems check earlier. “Bet you’ve only kept this position because someone up high likes the way you look.”

His smirk had twisted into something crueler as he leaned closer. “Face it. You’re not here because you’re good—you’re here because you’re convenient.”

The humiliation burned as much now as it had then. You clenched your fists at the memory, your footsteps echoing softly against the metal floor. You’d worked too hard, poured too much of yourself into your work, to have it dismissed so callously. And yet, his words lingered like a stain, refusing to be scrubbed away.

You were so lost in thought that you almost didn’t hear the sound.

A muffled grunt. A crash.

And then—a sickening crunch.

You froze. Every instinct screamed at you to turn back, to return to your quarters and pretend you hadn’t heard anything. But your curiosity—or perhaps some misplaced sense of duty—compelled you forward. Quietly, you padded down the corridor, following the noise until you reached a maintenance bay.

What you saw made your breath catch in your throat.

Caleb stood over Lieutenant Reese, who was slumped against the wall, blood smeared across his face. The lieutenant’s arm hung at an unnatural angle, his body trembling as he let out a pained whimper. Caleb’s hand was clamped tightly around Reese’s throat, his grip firm but not enough to choke.

Not yet.

“You thought you could get away with it?” Caleb said, his voice low and steady, each word laced with venom. “Insulting her. Undermining her. Disrespecting her.”

Reese tried to stammer out a response, but Caleb’s hand tightened, silencing him.

“You signed your life away the moment you opened your mouth.” Caleb continued, his tone almost conversational, as if he were discussing something as mundane as a supply requisition. “She’s worth more than you’ll ever be. Do you even understand that?”

Reese’s legs kicked weakly, his breaths ragged. Caleb tilted his head, his expression shifting from cold fury to mild disappointment.

“Pathetic!” he muttered, releasing the lieutenant’s throat. Reese crumpled to the ground, wheezing and coughing. Caleb watched him for a moment, then raised his foot and brought it down sharply on Reese’s hand. The sound of bones breaking echoed in the bay.

The lieutenant went limp, his body a lifeless heap. Caleb crouched beside him, his expression one of disdain. “Weak,” he said, his voice barely audible.

And then he turned his head, his gaze locking onto you.

The moment seemed to stretch, the air thick with tension. Caleb’s expression shifted from cold to shocked in the blink of an eye, but his eyes—the ones that had always been so warm towards you—now seemed empty, calculating.

He stood still for a moment, then took a step toward you, his movements slow, deliberate. His voice was a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

“Don’t be scared,” Caleb said softly, though there was an edge to his words. “I’m just protecting you. I would never let anyone hurt you, never.”

Your mind raced, your pulse quickening. You’d seen this side of Caleb before—quiet, intense, protective—but this? This was something else. He was different.

“Protected me?” you repeated, your heart pounding. “From what?”

“From him,” Caleb replied, gesturing to Reese’s motionless form. “He disrespected you. He questioned your worth. He hurt you.”

His gaze softened, and he took another step closer. “I won’t allow that. Not from him. Not from anyone.”

“This—this isn’t right,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Caleb interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. “And I will. You may not see it now, but this is what’s necessary.”

You stared at him, searching for any hint of remorse, but there was none. Only conviction.

“I’ll always protect you.” he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Even when you think you don’t need it. Even when you don’t understand why.”

You took a step back, your mind racing. But even as you tried to process what you’d seen and heard, a cold realization settled over you.

He closed the distance between you, his steps soft but purposeful, until he was standing right in front of you. His face was close, too close, his breath warm against your skin. “You’ve been through so much,” he continued, his voice soothing, almost affectionate. “You don’t need to worry about the people who don’t understand you. I’ll always protect you.” He repeats. “Even when you don’t ask for it.”

You swallowed; your throat dry. You should have been afraid, terrified even. But you weren’t. A part of you was frozen, caught in the web of his words, of his gaze. He was so sure of himself, so confident, and it was hard not to believe him when he looked at you like that.

His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“You’re mine,” Caleb whispered, his words not a command but a promise. “No one will ever take you from me. Not ever.”

You should have questioned it, should have asked him what he meant, why he was doing this. But you didn’t. Because in that moment, you realized you couldn’t escape.

Not really.

You knew who Caleb was. You knew what he was capable of. And you knew that the resources of the Farspace Fleet, the professor, and Caleb’s power meant there was no running, no hiding from him. You’d seen what happened to those who crossed you. And now, you didn’t doubt for a second that Caleb was behind it.

But what unnerved you most was the way he looked at you now. Not with malice, not with cruelty, but with something softer. Something almost tender.

“Stay.” he said, his voice coaxing. “I’ll keep you safe. You don’t need to worry about anything else.”

You swallowed hard, your mind screaming at you to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there. And yet... you nodded.

Because deep down, you knew he was right about one thing.

Caleb would never hurt you.

As long as you stayed.

He would never let anyone touch you. He would never let anyone harm you.

You were his, and he was yours.

At least, that’s what you told yourself as you stood there, the weight of his gaze heavy on you.

And as Caleb stepped back, his eyes softening, a reassuring smile tugging at his lips, you knew one thing for certain: you were far past the point of no return.

And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so bad.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace @sinsodom

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rememberwren · 11 months ago

Text

Skin Deep

Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand your horizons, you get your first tattoo from an enigmatic artist deemed “Ghost”. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.

Sequel here.

“I bit the bullet!” you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friend’s ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.

“You bit what?” she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep.

“The bullet,” you laugh. “I called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!”

She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. She’d been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped you—encouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to ‘make more mistakes’, to live life more fully. Now she’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head and it’s the one doing the talking.

“What guy I recommended?” she asks.

“Kevin!”

“Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?”

You frown. “You said you went to Kevin.”

“It wasn’t a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! He’s a creep; there’s a reason why I never went back.”

You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. It’s not just the tattoo. It’s the icing on a shitcake of a day.

A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life.

“You conveniently left that out. Ugh. I’ll cancel it. What am I even fucking doing—thank you—” you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. “—none of this is like me.”

Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. “You were the one who said you’d always wanted a tattoo. You’re an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions you’re old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and he’s highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?”

“Alright,” you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesn’t work out with this next tattoo artist, then you won’t be getting one at all. You’ll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all.

What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it.

The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to people’s disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isn’t until you’ve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand rings—and it’s him.

“Hello?”

“I’m free Wednesdays for consultations,” says a baritone voice from the other end of the line.

Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. “I work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?”

He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him.

“Name a time. I’ll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,” he says.

Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isn’t trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that you’ve already made an impression so foul that it’s incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted?

“Alright,” you answer cautiously. “How’s five?”

“Five. Don’t be late.”

He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.

You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itself—a tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagram—is locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesn’t help. How are you supposed to get in?

All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost.

Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting.

Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize.

“I have a consultation,” you blurt out. “At…five?”

He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. He’s so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.

“Sit,” he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sip—of tea, judging by the smell. “Name?”

You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek.

“The water is for you,” he says.

“Oh!” You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. “Thank you.”

“This is your first tattoo.”

“What gave me away?” you ask with a weak laugh.

He doesn’t laugh. “Everything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.”

“What? No, of course not. I want this, I’m just, I’m an anxious personality. I promise.” You hesitate and then add: “I probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.”

His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as you’re comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.

He asks what you want and God, that’s a harder question.

You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silence—pausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair.

He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing.

He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and you’re just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book.

“I think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and we’ll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?”

“I mean, it hurts?” you offer.

He stares. “Two sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.”

You think that maybe he’ll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you can’t help but watch him.

He’s handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. It’s almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again.

“Here.”

You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didn’t make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean.

His thoughtfulness touches you.

“I love it. I want it,” you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you.

“This is just a first sketch,” he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. “I’ll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?”

“Yes,” you say, nearly buzzing. “I really want to book.”

He’s expensive—but judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, he’s got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldn’t bore him to death.

“Thanks again for meeting with me,” you say as he sees you out. “I’ll be waiting for your text.”

“You’ll get it.” He glances past you out the window. It’s dark. “Did you walk?”

“No, my car is just there.”

“I’ll wait.”

And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears.

You didn’t tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend.

GHOST? Cute? I’ve never even seen his face lol. He’s always wearing one of his masks.

You chew over this information. Yes he’d been wearing a mask, but he’d lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something?

Masks are cute, you say.

Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe he’ll ink you for free.

You’re terrible.

You’re…thinking about it.

Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. It’s from GHOST.

The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness.

I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think that’s the one.

Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate.

And fuck, you didn’t even think of that.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another.

“You are,” your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. “Your tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.”

The look you give her is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after, surely. She doesn’t even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. You’ve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed.

“Be glad you’re not going to creepy Kevin anymore,” your friend says.

“Very glad of it.”

You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a word—it didn’t embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions.

“You should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. He’s been doing this for years. I’m sure he’s seen it all,” she says—the first good idea she’s had all night, miles ahead of ‘Just let Ghost see your cute tits’.

That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you aren’t overstepping some weird artist-client boundary.

I’m a little nervous.

You can cancel, is all he says. I’ll refund your money.

It’s not that.

What is it?

Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true.

But all he said back was: how can I help?

I don’t know, you admit. Then; sorry. I’m probably bothering you with this while you’re working.

I’m not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you aren’t going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. I’ll let my piercer know I’m with a client and not to walk in. I’ll keep you covered every moment I can. Better?

Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better.

You bring the pasties anyway.

The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase ‘knees knocking together’, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghost’s hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass.

When it does, he’s like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in place—typical for him, if your friend’s words are to be trusted—but his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasn’t been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs.

You’re horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friend’s words echo in your mind—fuck the tattoo artist, maybe he’ll ink you for free.

“Hi,” you squeak.

Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.

“I’m still nervous,” you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesn’t.

“That’s normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if it’s still what you want.”

It’s exactly what you want, and more.

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.”

He huffs a little, like you shouldn’t have said such a thing.

The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once he’s gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years.

You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. There’s just something about a person who knows exactly what they’re doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.

“Ready?” he asks at length.

You nod, hoping your nerves don’t show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt you’re wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. He’s not watching a strip tease, he’s looking at a canvas.

Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you.

“Am I hairy?” you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way.

“Yes,” he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. “Everyone is. Everywhere. It’s normal.”

“I’m just teasing you.”

“Didn’t think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,” he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. “You’re nervous, I mean.”

“Would you take the mask off?” you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face.

“No,” he says. He adds: “Sorry. It’s more sanitary f’you if I keep it on.”

You get the feeling that he really is sorry—and that’s well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax.

After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. It’s sexy. You’ve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than you’d ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadn’t expected. You feel so…badass.

“Good?” He asks.

“Very good,” you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.

But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. “I’ll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.”

“I’m not backing out.”

He clicks his tongue as if to say, It’s your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line.

It burns more than you expected it to. There’s a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a cat’s tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isn’t overwhelming. In fact…a strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe it’s the rush of endorphins.

“Good?” He asks.

“Good,” you squeak.

You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.

“Let me know when you need to break.”

You don’t know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs.

“Alright. Break,” he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. “Take ten.”

He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it.

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, offering him an out.

“No,” he says. “I make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.”

It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up.

“Good for more?”

And so it repeats.

At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. It’s too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through.

His thumb gently strokes your sternum.

“It’s rough. You can take it,” he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Good girl.”

Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast.

“You can do it. Just a little longer for me, and we’ll break.”

“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again.

He hushes you, surprisingly tender.

“This is the worst of it.” This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear.

“Break. Ten minutes,” he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain.

You call out: “Hey, wait—I’d rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.”

“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.

You duck your head, feeling silly. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He vanishes again.

He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoic—what bits of it you can see from behind the mask—as he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again.

This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breasts—a fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail you’d give your life to follow).

“I think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,” he mutters at length.

“Eager to be done?” you wonder.

He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said.

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply.

So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently.

“Go take a look. I’m going to cover it up.”

It’s beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.

“I love it,” you choke out. “Thank you.”

“Can I take a picture of it?” he asks. “For Instagram.”

“Sure!” It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are covered—the very far edges—but you can’t deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way.

After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: “Let me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Don’t do anything stupid to it. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“And if you have any questions—text me.”

You get home to find that Ghost’s personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental ‘likes’). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable.

Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you don’t text him like he asked you to. You call.

Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much?

The internet doesn’t help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.

With shaking hands, you don’t even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring.

He’s going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone else—except he doesn’t. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering.

“Yes?” Ghost says into the phone, as if that’s a decent hello.

“There’s something wrong with my tattoo!” you cry.

“Wait—get out of my goddamn way.” There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. “Say it again. Now I can fucking hear you.”

“There’s. Something. Wrong,” you say through your teeth. “With my tattoo!”

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s falling off, for one!”

He snorts. “That’s normal. That's why you called?”

“It’s all swollen and hot. And it hurts.”

Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. “Hurts how bad?”

“Worse than getting it.”

“Fuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop in…twenty?”

“Twenty minutes from now?”

“From when else?” He hangs up. Man doesn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye.

The night is cool. You don’t bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop.

Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow.

He’s dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your tits—or resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes.

“Well. Sit. Show me.”

You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. “What, just flash you?”

“Nothing I’ve never seen before.”

Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands.

“I was smoking,” he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation.

“You’re worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?”

“Fuck my lungs,” he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. “Can I?”

You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. “Any fever?” he asks.

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“You feel warm, but I’ve felt warmer. I don’t think it’s infected. Have you tried icing it?”

“No,” you admit.

“Ice will help. Just use something clean, for fuck’s sake.” As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. “When you called, I thought it was for me.”

“It was for you,” you say, brow furrowing. “Who else?”

He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. “Forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”

You groan, tossing up your hands. “You’re impossible.”

He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttons—you end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one.

“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry it was for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “And I wasn’t doing much.”

“You were with friends,” you insist.

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”

“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.”

“Nosey.”

“I could buy you a drink sometime,” you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out? “Make up for the ones I lost you tonight.”

“Maybe.”

God, it’s like he’s not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt.

“Would you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to be…positive?”

He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You don’t cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off.

“Maybe you should look closer.”

His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”

Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”

“Can’t get much closer than I am.”

“You could—if you wanted to.”

“If I—“ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: “Closer.”

“Mhm.”

The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want this—and whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already you’re aching—have been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the street—but he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat.

“Pretty little tits,” he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly.

“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair.

“Be still,” he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. “Let me play with you.”

“Please,” you gasp. “Play with me—even if that’s all you want—just don’t stop, please.”

His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I—“ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. He’s so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattoo—and then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness.

You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex.

“Driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple.

You gape at his admission. Had you been? He’d been so closed off and cool…though now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind.

He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until you’re no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. “You the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?”

“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing.

He buries his face in your neck. “Good. I won’t last when I’ve got my cock in you. I’d like you to cum at least once before then.”

“Oh god,” you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips.

“What else do you need?” he asks.

“My—touch me—“ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly.

Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Fucking perfect.” You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. “Look at me. Look at me.”

You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure.

He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth.

When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. It’s probably a good thing too. You aren’t sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.

Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh.

Fingers enter your vision—your own—reaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. He’s so bloody tall, too…but he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola.

“No,” he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. “You can play with it.”

You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite.

“You’re so—“ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: “—hot.”

He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You can’t help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. “You broken, or can you take more?”

“I want more.”

“Want my cock?”

You nod, feeling like a bobble head.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I want your cock.”

His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artist’s hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps.

He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief.

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

“No gods here,” he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art.

“Can’t believe you let me ink you,” he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. “Practically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. They’ll know who touched you.”

“Good,” you breathe.

His sigh is shaky. You’re learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means he’s pleased with you. You’ve said something right.

He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to you—for inspection, you realize, though you’ve had so few one night stands (try zero) that you’ve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length.

Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily.

“Relax…there you go. Let me in,” he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretch—he’s thick everywhere goddamn it—but it’s a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure.

“Ghost,” you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.

“I think you can take it,” he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. “But what do you think?”

“Your cock—want it—please—“

“Alright,” he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. “No need to beg.”

He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until you’re clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when you’re pinned beneath it.

“Stay still,” he mutters into the juncture of your neck. “Stay still or I’ll cum and this is all over.”

“Can’t,” you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. “Have to move, ‘m so full—“

“Fucking hell,” he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. “Roll onto your side.”

He gives you instruction but isn’t shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit.

You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat.

“Want you to cum again,” he says, stilling your movements so that you can’t fuck your self back against him. “Give me one more. Then it’s my turn.”

“Ghost—I can’t—“ you’ve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms.

“If you can’t, then don’t,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit.

You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you aren’t the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex.

“Oh fuck,” you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again.

He hums behind you, a smug sound.

“Not sure I want you to cum now,” he says. “Hold it. I’m thinking it over.”

“Ghost!”

He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead.

He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you.

The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you.

Sooner than you’d like—but he’d warned you, hadn’t he?—his thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispers. And again: “Fuck, fuck. You broken?”

“Yes.”

He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he can’t see.

“Sorry about this,” he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. You’re still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself.

“Regretting it already?”

“Yes,” he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: “Should have at least taken you to dinner first.”

“Dinner?”

“You owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.” He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasn’t relaxed, he says: “I don’t regret the sex. Do you?”

You shake your head.

He scoffs a little.

“I mean it,” you insist. You touch your tattoo. “I wanted it…the day you did—this.”

He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” you admitted sheepishly.

“I jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,” he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. “I was interested.”

You laugh; you can’t help it. “Dinner, then? Or drinks?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Get dressed.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #skin deep

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maruflix · 4 months ago

Text

MEA CULPA #oneshot #squidgame #therecruiter #thesalesman

The Salesman knows that love is truly the most dangerous game of all, and there is penance in yearning for someone who can never be yours. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa.

feat. the salesman / the recruiter　　⎯⎯　wc. 2.4k

cw: female reader, recruiter!reader, cheater!reader, language, the salesman is probably ooc, unreciprocated crush, one sided love, friends with benefits, cheating, kissing, choking, face-fucking, hair pulling, unprotected sex, slight frontman x reader, no beta we die like gi-hun’s mom

Busan is so hot this time around.

You plop down with a sigh. Thankfully, having met your daily quota, you can go home early tonight. There are lots of desperate people nowadays, so finding ten people to join a game with a prize of 45.6 billion won isn’t really that difficult.

The clacking of shoes snaps you from your trance.

Without having to look up, you immediately figure out who it is. The scent of expensive cologne comes first, followed by the rustling. You grumble and slam your briefcase down, using it as a wall to separate the two of you. “Hey, not-so-friendly reminder: you’re on my turf.”

The Salesman blinks at you, feigning surprise. “Oh? I was under the impression that this was a team effort.”

His innocent tone makes you want to hurl, so you choose to ignore him completely. Instead, you stare at him in annoyance and wonder how he’s able to look so perfect in that cashmere suit of his. Not a single hair out of place, his tie straight and his shoes laced.

“You’re done for the day, aren’t you?” Your colleague tilts his head to look at you, a smile adorning his features, “Let’s play a game.”

You scoff.

He ignores your obvious displeasure and inches his whole body to face you, one arm shooting forward to grip the side of your bench. “Say, should we play ddakji? I’m in a good mood today.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of smacking paper squares?” It’s hard to keep a straight face when his handsome face keeps getting closer to you, “Get your ugly face away from me.”

The Salesman doesn’t budge. “Not until you say yes.”

He has a certain charm to him, you had to admit— he is so assertive, with just the right amount of pushy but not to the point of being obtrusive.

“Fine,” you exhale, “what do I get?”

II.

When you agreed to play a game with your fellow Recruiter (specifically, the totally unhinged one you’ve grown to dub as ‘The Salesman’), you didn’t expect this to happen.

Your colleague’s body pressed on top of yours, both your suit jackets thrown away somewhere in his fancy condo—he doesn’t even bother to wait for you to finish unbuttoning your shirt before he captures your hands and pins them on top of your head.

“Fuck,” you rasp out when he pushes himself into you agonizingly slow, savoring the way you tighten around him, “s-slow down—”

He chuckles breathily. “Darling, I’m barely moving. Besides,” eyes clouded with lust, he revels in how defenseless you look under him, “you lost our game, so you’re in no position to tell me what to do.”

With that, he sloowly drags himself out before slamming his full length into you, causing you to moan loudly. Greedily, he drinks in the sight of you, sprawled on his bed, legs open, taking all of him like a good, good girl.

“Who knew you were hiding all this underneath that suit of yours?” He teases, running a hand over your breasts, “I should’ve done this sooner.”

“I can, ngh,” Pushing yourself up on one elbow, you use your other hand to grip his chin, yanking him closer to you, “say the same about you.”

His smirk widens. “Always has to get the last word.”

He grips your throat, pushing you back down to the bed as he picks up his pace, thrusting in and out of you mercilessly while you mewl in pleasure.

“F-fuck-” you struggle, clawing on the hand that lodges itself around your throat like a serpent, “ngh,”

Your panic excites him like no other. “What’s wrong, darling? Having trouble breathing?” straightening his back, he keeps his hand securely wrapped around your neck, eyeing you down as he continues drilling into you, “Do you realize how wet you are?”

You wanted to look away, but his strong hand firmly keeps you in place. It’s not like you can hide yourself away, not when the sounds of plap! plap! plap! keeps echoing around the room—a testament of how much your cunt is drooling, soaking the bedsheets. His constant pace feels so good, and the way he gazes at you makes you feel lightheaded.

“You’re- haah, so tight,” he feels how you’re spasming around him and groans, “enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” he’s all out of breath now—you feel so good when you clamp down on him like that, so right, like the two of you are made for each other.

“Fuck! Yes!” You whine, your nails digging into his back, delicious jolts of electricity running along your spine when his girthy cock hits your sweet spot over and over, “Don’t stop, I’m, ugh, close-”

He doesn’t miss the way your legs wrap around his waist, preventing him from pulling away. Raising an eyebrow, he loosens his grip on your neck to bend down to your eye level, “What’s this? You want me to fill you up?”

His thrusts never decelerates and you’re too fucked out to even muster a reply, your moans nearly drowned out by the sloppy sounds of skin slapping against skin.

“You want that, huh?” Although his voice drips with arrogance, he’s also reaching his limit—the sight of you with your cheeks flushed and mouth hanging open drives him to the edge of insanity. He throws his head back, groaning, shooting his load deep into your womb.

You’re still shaking when he lets go of your neck, falling on top of you. Before you can think about the consequences of your actions, the fatigue catches up with you. Your body feels heavy, like it’s being pulled to the center of the earth—and your world goes dark.

Sensing that you’re not moving, The Salesman takes a glance at you and finds out that he’s quite literally fucked you unconscious. “Hey.” he shakes your shoulders a bit, but you’re unresponsive, your chest heaving up and down.

He huffs and rolls down to your side, studying your sleeping figure with a smirk. You look so beautiful in your afterglow, your hair framing your face like a halo. Like a man possessed, he moves to your ear, mumbling—

“I like you.”

III.

You groan loudly when the scent of your colleague’s cologne invades your nostrils again, ignoring the weird looks you got from strangers boarding the oncoming train.

The Salesman bats his eyelashes at you innocently.

“No, I don’t want to play with you again.”

“Aw,” he straightens his tie, “even though you told me that you had such a good time?”

At a loss for words, you can only stare at him.

The motherfucker has the audacity to cross his arms over his chest, gasping, “Stop ogling me!”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Come on,” He scoots closer to rub the back of your hand sensually, “I know you want me.”

It’s always a game with him. You just don’t know what kind of game it is right now, and why he’s so hell-bent on having you as player two.

“Nah, I’m good. I have two bags of groceries to carry home, so good bye.”

The Salesman keeps a trained smile on his face, but his heart clenches—he doesn’t know when he started to view you differently. It was fun to pick on you at first, but he’s slowly started to feel weird around you.

Like watching an oncoming crash, he can’t bring himself to stop.

“Wait! Let me help!”

IV.

Looking back, you probably should’ve stood your ground. But it’s hard to say no to his stupidly handsome face.

Your groceries are forgotten, your apartment still dark. You probably should start cooking dinner, but instead you’re on your knees, your back pressed against the wall.

“Open up,” his eyes are as cold as ever, his lips pulled up to form a victorious smirk as he guides his leaking cock to rest on your mouth.

You find yourself obeying, allowing him to fill your mouth full of his cock. He doesn’t wait for you to adjust to his size, already thrusting his hips, making you gag almost immediately.

“Just like that, baby,” he takes hold of the hands that’s trying to push him away and pins them against the wall, quickening, smirking down at you as you struggle to wrap your mouth around him, “You feel so good.”

Meanwhile, you’ve finally adjusted to his throbbing length. In an act of protest, you hollow your cheeks, deciding that it was your turn to dominate this man. You move your head to his pace and even quicker, your eyelashes wet with tears when you look up to glare at him.

He feels like he’s going to explode—your adorable defiance is so cute and your crying face—oh, don’t get him started on your crying face.

“Mmngh?!”

He jerks his hips sharply, moaning at how good it feels when the muscles of your cheeks tightens at the wide stretch of his cock. Oh, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you—

“Mmfh—?!”

Your muffled exclaim makes him halt and he looks down at your shocked face. Only now does the realization dawns on him that he’s accidentally said his thoughts out loud.

IV.

You no longer look up when you sense a presence sitting down next to you.

“This was a mistake.”

He’s silent, so you turn to look at him. The Salesman has a poker face on, but you can tell that he’s thinking. Contemplating.

“Honestly, stop it. I... I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

You sigh in frustration. “Look, I..” squirming in your seat, you finally confess, “I’m already in a relationship.”

“So?”

The genuine confusion in his tone makes you look at him in incredulousness. He doesn’t back down, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not asking you to love me, I’m asking you to let me love you. I don’t care if you’re married—hell, I don’t care if you have kids.”

“Wha-” You flinch away from his touch, shocked, “W-well, I care!”

“Do you?” He shoots back, his gaze sardonic, you felt like you might crumble underneath it. “Is that why you begged me to cum inside you?”

“I-”

“I know you want me.” His smile is confident, “so stop acting. You suck at it.”

You tremble, but lets him guide you away.

You’re whimpering, your hands shakily unbuttoning his dress shirt. In front of you, he chuckles, bringing his hands up to grip your waist and pushing them up and down.

“Wait, fuck,”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he murmurs, rocking you back and forth, “a purely physical relationship?”

The Salesman keeps his grudges, and right now he’s punishing you by rutting into you, sending you gasping and moaning, but he’s unrelenting—one of his arm circles your waist as he pulls you closer, his thumb starting to circle the nub of your clit.

“Fuck, please, please-”

“You want to cum?” He stops touching you and you whine in despair, leaning on his broad chest.

“Yes, yes, touch me-” you grab his hand and aligns it to your sopping wet hole, but he easily yanks his hand away.

“Say it.”

You’re close to crying now—your nerves are ablaze, but he refuses to let you reach your climax. “W-what?”

“Say you love me.” his hand hovers above your clit, “Say it.”

You know what you’re doing is wrong—but right now, all you wanted was release.

“I love you, fuck-” your body quivers when he instantly rewards you by a sharp thrust followed by his finger deliciously circling your sensitive nub, “I love you, I love you-”

He’s moaning with you now, shutting you up by kissing you sloppily on the lips, his free hand reaching to grab your hair, pulling it. You gasp and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue inside, tasting you fervently.

“‘m gonna-” Before you can finish, your orgasm shakes your whole body. You can feel your walls clenching and unclenching around his length, trying to milk him dry. He groans in response and buries his face on your neck, pushing his hips up and down to chase his own high. He fucks you through your orgasm, making you scream, pounding into you raw until he shoots his load. It trickles down your pussy onto his own shaft, coating it with a thin layer of cum.

He kisses the top of your head and lays you down on the bed, your body shuddering in his arms. “Now, was that so hard?”

You look away as he wraps an arm over your naked body, pulling you close to him.

The first ray of sunlight peeks through the curtains and you realize that you only have about four hours to sleep.

VI.

It’s unusual, but you were a special case: recruiters work on the outside world so there’s really no need for them to visit the game venue, but you’ve received a special invitation.

Your heels clicked against the hardwood floors as you pass by the guards. The Salesman follows you closely, ignoring the stares that he got.

“Ah, you’re finally here.”

The Salesman stops in his tracks when he sees a man in a black mask standing several steps away. The masked man puts away his mask to reveal his face and his heart drops.

“Oh, you’re here too. Have you come to watch 456 play?”

The Salesman stays silent when you smile and walk away from him to the direction of his boss, thinking— ‘so you weren’t lying after all.’

The Front Man instinctively wraps his arms around your waist, his lips claiming yours. “Long time no see,” your lover smiles as you rest your head on his chest. “I’ve been busy, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you mumble. You miss having him by your side—so much so that you let another man hold you in his absence.

“Come on, the games are going to start.” None the wiser to your actions, he guides you away, taking one last look at his other subordinate, “Don’t stick around too long, the VIP’s are going to arrive soon.”

The Salesman smiles and nods, watching as you disappear behind the double doors with your lover in tow. His heart feels like it’s being stabbed and ripped to shreds—deep inside, he has held out hope that you’re lying; making up excuses to ignore the obvious chemistry between the two of you.

Now, when he closes his eyes, all he can see is the image of you kissing another man—but can he blame you? You told him the truth, he was the one who chose to keep loving you like a fool; dancing to the beat of your rhythm, losing himself in the process—

You are not to blame, he is. He’s the one at fault; he’s the one to blame.

As he turns away and walks to the direction of the exit, all he can think about is this: Your lover may have you now, but when the games are over—oh, his turn will come.

Patience. Patience. Your turn will come. He repeats it like a mantra.

Patience.

note: ok this is probably the most self indulgent fic i’ve written. first time writing smut i hope i did okay 😭 anyway english is not my first language so please be gentle with me 😭

#maru writes...#squid game #squid game x reader #squid game fanfic #squid game salesman #the salesman #squid game the recruiter #squid game recruiter #the recruiter #the salesman x reader #the recruiter x reader #the salesman fanfic #the recruiter fanfic #salesman x reader #recruiter x reader #the salesman smut #the recruiter smut

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thegreatyin · 18 days ago

Note

What, precisely, is fallen London, and how can I play it? Ive been told it's a browser game, will it work on my phones browser or only my computer's?

SWEEPS EVERYTHING OFF MY DESK. SLAMS MY HANDS ON THE COUNTER. you're in luck because advertising this game is apparently my specialty.

fallen london is a free browser game that works on anything with an internet connection!! laptops, phones, tablets, the decade old 3ds you have stashed in the back of your closet- if you can open a web browser, you can run fallen london. the UI obviously differs between desktop and mobile, and desktop has the benefit of extensions that can make your life marginally easier, but that's all a strictly optional affair.

as for the game's actual contents; fallen london is a text-based horror game closely reminiscent of classic "choose your own adventure" books. you play as a new arrival to an alternate history version of victorian london that now flourishes in a deep, dark, marvelous (and more than slightly eldritch!) cavern known as "the neath", with the goal of making your name and ultimately pursuing one of the four possible ambitions that brought you here to begin with. along the way you encounter a wide variety of strange and inexplicable things, including but not limited to;

men with the faces of squid (who are not truly men)

actual real soul-stealing devils (who originate from Actual Real Hell, which is also london's next door neighbor)

snakes that are eternally bound to the realm beyond mirrors (who have an infamous feud with sapient talking cats)

treacheries of time, law, and all that which the gods hold dear (including the ability to bypass death itself)

sirens who are convinced they're dead (in a place where, as stated, death is easily bypassed)

sentient landmasses that get REALLY annoyed if you don't pay your taxes on time (and are also single and ready to mingle)

fabric that is not fabric (which is held in quite high value by certain giant bat monsters)

spiders that eat eyeballs (but are, fortunately, easily distracted by shakespeare)

genres of colors you didn't think possible (in seven fantastical flavors!)

batkissing (not canonically, but in our hearts)

batfucking (this is, somehow, marginally more canon than the above thing)

batmarriage (no.)

batdivorce (in comically large spades)

The Hat Man (who's in love with and yearns to become like a sentient island)

gay people (a lot of them)

trans people (also a lot of them)

doomed love, in all possible forms (as well as those who try and collect it)

this thing (this thing)

and last- but certainly not least-

a pitiful hope that perhaps, just perhaps, all shall one day be well. (even when you know it won't be.)

it's a game with lore as deep as the ocean, and a staggering wordcount (4.5 million!) to boot. it's not perfect, but it's something i've grown to love deeply, and in my experience? if it doesn't click for you, that's understandable. but if it clicks for you, it really does click for you. i recommend it to anyone and everyone who so much as looks its way. who knows! it may just surprise you 🦇☀️🦀🌃

as a further incentive, here are some out-of-context items and excerpts:

as stated, you can play it right now for free at fallen london dot com. there is a subscription and a small bounty of microtransactions on offer if you want to support the development team, but at no point is this ever required, and you will be playing for years before you reach the end of stuff to accomplish. all major content updates are free and available to all players, and FOMO to this day remains virtually non-existent. as once again stated, the browser specs are non-existent. if you can run google, you can run fallen london.

so head on down!! give the neath a try!! follow admiralty orders and dump a bunch of bombs directly into the zee (underground sea) whilst accidentally waking up a giant grieving sea urchin that screams fire and violently pursues your demise!! (that's what we're all doing right now, anyway.)

if the browser game isn't for you, there's also other outlets with which to explore the universe. you can find the spinoff games Sunless Seas, Sunless Skies, and Mask of The Rose available to purchase right now on steam, and there's recently been a very successful kickstarter to adapt the game into a TTRPG. it looks very cool so far. im very very very excited for it :)

in lieu of having to come up with a conclusion for this ask, im instead going to direct you to the MoTR stupendium song (which you'll find linked below). it says far more and advertises far better than i could ever dream of. also, it's a straight bop, and "all ends/swords pens" has lived rent-free in my brain for months.

youtube

welcome to the neath, delicious friend. we hope you enjoy your stay ❤️

#ask #fallen london #long post

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voidhope · 2 years ago

Text

The Other Woman

(Part 2 FINALE)

—

Synopsis: Miguel had left Y/N for another version of his old wife in hopes of getting his old life back. To only realize the mistakes he’s made.

Link to Part 1

Pair: Miguel O’Hara x Spider!reader

Warnings: very heavy mental health, ANGST LIKE A LOT OF ANGST, ALL OF THIS IS ANGST, mentions of death/almost dying, long term establish relationship, cheating, swearing, therapy, physical fight, blood, feral protective miguel?

—

A/N: hello again! this one is more heartbreaking and longer than the first part oof… Very low dialog up until closer towards the end! wanted to just get through telling the story itself and the emotions. It’s just a very heavy storyline!! I want to say thank you so so much for showing so much support for part 1 i had no idea it would receive that much attention :O !! i wrote this out kinda fast as i didn’t want to loose the momentum of the idea. so apologies for any mistakes! all feedback is greatly appreciated ~

—————————————————

You used to make Miguel coffee everyday, with one cream two sugars, and he would nag about how he hated the taste. It was to your liking, not his. As you would sneakily take sips out of his mug while working next to him. Why didn’t you just get your own coffee? You claimed you could never finish it and just wanted a taste out of his. Miguel would roll his eyes at you every time he caught you but he adored it. He had secretly grown to love the way you made it and had become his only way of making coffee after meeting you.

Now as this version of his older wife made it the way he is suppose to like coffee, bland and straight, he found himself bothered by it. Going as far to correct her even though this was what he had been claiming to have missed so much. He was now seeing himself teaching someone else how to love him like you did…

He was only a shell of the man he was when he had Gabriella. Even though the copy of his old wife has her same personality, the relationship couldn’t be exactly how it was before because he had changed so much. You had helped him become whole again. His tastes and likings had all switched to everything about you. The charm he found in his old wife doesn’t hold a light to you now and he was getting frustrated. He had wanted this so badly. He felt like those babies who whine and cry wanting to eat a lemon and once they get their way they realize the sour truth.

Miguel never truly realized what it was like to loose you until three weeks after he told you the truth. Over the years the idea of losing you terrified him but he only ever thought of it being in death. He never considered separation when everything was perfect for both of you then. There were times he believed that you were made just for him and he treated you like his queen. Which you truly were to him in his spider society. Why would he ever throw that away? Look at what he did.

He gave himself every excuse in the book before you knew he was cheating on you. ‘This is only for research.’ he would think every time he found himself back in that universe. As everyone knew he was so serious about his work, obviously this is just him getting to know more about certain universes and canons. Lyla was the only one seeing straight through him knowing where he was actually going. Things kept tumbling and the more he found out about the place and spent time with her the more his grief and yearning returned. It was all just there, so reachable.

There was a time his mind tried to snap him back out of it while cheating on you and made him realize the guilt. The first time he kissed this woman you were there in his mind. He came home right after and held you without saying a word. You never questioned him, just showed him comfort as much as you could. Lightly stroking his back, you never over stepped or pushed him when he was vulnerable with you. He only closed his eyes and held onto you tighter processing how you were always too good for him. He was converting to living two different lives; his old self during the day and then coming home to you. He didn’t want to let go of either at the time.

Once he found out he could safely have Gabriella again was when he became distant with you. The shame of using you for research made him become stoic. He didn’t want to admit how wrong he was treating you. All while you were always being so loyal and trusting towards him. Things were slowly slipping through the cracks and he knew he couldn’t up keep it. He wished he could have had that conversation with you so much differently but it was over. Now he had his old life back, a dream he had his mind set on.

He ignored the shakiness in his hands when he returned to her after letting you go. ‘It’s all for the best.’ is what he would repeat in his mind as a mantra. His new girlfriend truly had no idea who he really was or what his background was. Miguel continued to feed her lies to the point where he even started believing them himself getting too lost in avoiding what he’s done. He believed he was happy as he spent time with her.

When she got too close to finding the truth after finding his wedding ring in one of his pockets, he set her off course from it by revealing his spider identity and taking her to HQ. This was the day that everything felt like it was crashing around him. Being reminded of his marriage, having to face his friends with his new lover, sharing his personal spider life, his work with someone who wasn’t you. He excused himself rushing to an unused office room while his chest was tightening. Pupils dilating as he realized it was his first time having a panic attack.

Nevertheless he continued to push it all aside and act completely normal with his girlfriend. He was feeling your absence the most while working. You had became an extension of him. He had trained you from scratch and you helped him build this society he has now. You knew the ins and outs of everything and fought perfectly alongside him. Now that he was on his own he let his girlfriend be there for him when he got stressed, but there always was a knot in his stomach he never could get rid of.

The more his mental health ate at him late at night the more he considered searching out for you. There was no closure between both of you and he never got to listen to how you feel. What was your opinion on all that happened? Do you hate him?

He wanted to speak with someone so badly but he dug himself in a hole too deep. You were gone, he was lying through his teeth to this poor woman he’s kept for some fantasy, he felt too ashamed to say anything to his friends, he would rather die if all his workers found out how big of a piece of shit he is. Anytime Lyla tried peeping a word that wasn’t work related he would snap. He had pushed everyone away and now he just felt alone.

Regardless he would wake up in the morning and swallow all his dark feelings. He would remember his grief of when he lost his family and it would put him back in the moment. He has another chance. He was happy with the direction he was going in now.

Right?

—

The day he found out you were at HQ he felt his heart stop. He was mid mission trying to call for Lyla but she wouldn’t answer. Frustrated he tried looking into what was happening only to see her busy having a conversation with you. It felt like something took over him when he opened a portal in less than a second. Without thinking nor wasting a heartbeat he rushed back. Just a glimpse of you, maybe just to hear a word out of your mouth. The feeling of having you back in HQ was making him ignore all his insecurities. How he would coward at the thought of trying to reach out to you before. You were in his home, your home, and the thought drove him wild.

You were already long gone though. Lyla stared at him not saying a word. The quietness in the room making his ears ring but his thoughts were screaming in his head. He stood there frozen still trying to recollect himself. He was the one that left you, what is wrong with him?

Again he went back and forth in his own head trying to convince himself ‘You wanted this.’ but if he did why is he feeling like someone just killed a puppy in front of him? Why is he here fighting with his self if this is really his dream? Why did he try chasing after you? The wounds of his past grief were too deep. He never took the time to properly heal and now look at what he’s become.

“Miguel, what’s this?” He was startled turning around seeing his girlfriend holidng your watch and skimming through the divorce paperwork addressed to him.

There was no more hiding, no more lying. He swallowed hard even though his throat was dry. He let everything he had kept away rise to surface. It hurt him to see the beautiful face his old wife shared contort into such anger and pain while finding the truth.

She didn’t stay, but for some reason he wasn’t upset. Though he longed for his daughter, he knew it would have never been the same now. He finally closed the door on his past. His heart had made the choice this time but it’s too late. Now grasping onto the divorce papers left by you, emptiness spread through his soul.

—

You on the other hand did not find yourself crying by yourself on a rooftop for long. The shift in the air from your arrival alerted the local spider-man immediately.

“It didn’t work out, did it?” He crouched down next to you as he noticed your watch gone and your missing wedding band.

Peter Parker knew both you and Miguel. Your husband had come to do many rounds of research in this universe when he took you. Eventually offering this Peter a spot in the society, which he politely declined due to just being busy enough here. You both never spoke much but always had an appreciation for each other.

“Do you need a place to crash at?” He continued while trying to get you to look at him. Reaching his hand towards you.

You had absolutely no one and you had been gone so long you couldn’t even go back to the little you had. When you met Miguel you didn’t hesitate to never look back and now it filled you with regret. How naive were you to put all your trust and reliance on him.

You took Peter’s hand. You were ready to start your own life and be your own person now.

—

Peter Parker was nice enough to let you stay with him as long as you needed it. You both had became ‘besties!’ as he would love to poke at you. The first month with him you were a disaster really but he showed you how he liked to cope using his spider abilities.

The first thing he helped you with was getting a new suit. Your old one resembled too much to Miguel’s and you felt suffocated every time you put it on. Peter had taught you to use your current emotional pain on whichever sad little villain was making trouble out in Brooklyn that night.

“Come on, we got multiverse spider-woman helping me keep these streets clean now!” He would taunt at the men while watching you easily take them out a little bit too aggressively. His feet kicking up and down while he sat on the side of a building watching you. The crime rate did go down a bit once word got around how strong your punch was. Peter’s just happy he can now spend some nights to himself.

You got yourself a job at the mart on the corner to help cover bills for Peter and save up. You were grateful enough the owners never batted an eye when you would disappear during a shift to either suddenly go cry uncontrollably or beat the shit out of someone at a nearby robbery. Next thing you were enrolling yourself back in university, wanting to finish that degree you never did.

It wasn’t too long that some of your older spider friends would stop by to check in on you. Seeing them was difficult sometimes, you were internally itching to ask about Miguel. Things were going okay for you on a very slow path of breathing step by step. You never wanted to feel that hurt again and so you very well pretend like Miguel didn’t exist if you could.

You couldn’t ignore the hurt resurfacing when you passed couples on the street. Or when you found yourself going to fidget with your wedding ring just to remember it’s gone. You can’t just move on from a relationship that was so deeply apart of you and lasted so long. You gave everything to him and it will take you much time to get yourself to build trust again.

After two semesters, you finally had your graduation. All the things you learned while in Earth-928 paid off as you barley had to study. Passing top of the class, you immediately got an offer for an internship opportunity with Alchemax and was able to get an introduction tour of the building beforehand.

What you hadn’t realized was that Alchemax had been looking for that girl who snuck into their offices a couple years ago. Who made another dimension’s spider appear and then went missing herself soon after. They had kept as close tabs on you as they could and how foolish you were to think your little break in wouldn’t come back to bite you. The moment you stepped foot back in their building, it was over for you.

—

Miguel had spent a whole year in much deserving therapy. Nothing could stop the embarrassment he felt when Peter B signed him up with HQ’s best spider-therapist after 3 months of constant out bursts. No one could come near the man when he felt like he had lost everything. Those first initial months were difficult for everyone around him.

Therapy did help, he hates to admit it, but it was a very rough ride. He finally was able to understand his deep inner term oil and heal his issues but moving on from you? No, he could never.

You were the only one who had sincerely stood by his side, always rooting for him. He never fell out of love with you despite of everything that he did. He just pushed everything down too deep and was blinded by obsession. Till now he could never deny that he still loves you. Maybe if he just would have went to therapy years ago instead of acting out on unsolved grief none of this would have happened. The guilt always making him toss and turn at night.

He would have big temper tantrums when he would find his coworkers going to visit you time to time and not sharing any details. He needed to know if you’re okay. Did you already move on? He longed to find you and speak with you but he knew he wasn’t ready yet. He was so self destructive and this was what he deserved.

Everyone avoided him completely when he overheard someone saying you were living with Peter Parker. Fighting crime with him and having a cute little home life. Peter followed you around now like a puppy. Miguel did not take the news well at all. Let’s just say, the large bill replacement for his monitor screens was what snapped him out of that rage.

He also wanted to strangle Hobie Brown every time he saw a glint in his eye when your name was mentioned around. Yet Miguel couldn’t hate the kid either, as Hobie was one of the people to try help repair the damage he did to you. How badly he just wanted to hold you and shield you in his arms from any other people taking you from him as if he wasn’t the idiot to let you go in the first place.

Everyone’s big, powerful, scary boss was really just a grumpy, wallowing-in-self-pity, sensitive, lonely man now. Mention your name too much to him and watch him start crying or take it out on whatever he could find nearest to him. He would some nights scroll through your wedding photos while listening to your last tracked log with Lyla. Your words cutting through him deep like long sharp knives. How he urged to go tell you it was all wrong and how guilty he was for making you feel like this.

Despite it all, he still believed in being the best of the best. He used his work to distract himself from his sorrows, to become numb. Even though his divorce paperwork were set next to him on his desk to remind him the pain. He never signed it.

—

“We can’t tell him!” Jessica gritted through her teeth. Small group of spider-people were hovered around Lyla taking in the new found information.

“Her canon events have always been uncertain, we can’t just stop and fix this one?” Gwen Stacy suggested in hopes.

“We have never prevented a canon event of hers or the people involved in it. It could be even more dangerous than a regular canon.” Peter B spoke grimly.

“When ‘as danger ever stopped us?” Hobie spoke up.

“Everyone get your gear.” Lyla added to the stress of the situation.

—

You couldn’t open your eyes properly with a strong blinding light being held above you. Arms and legs secured on top of a metal surgical table. You could feel the warmth of blood scattered on certain parts of your body, slowly starting to dry. It was a mix of yours and the people you had tried fighting through to get out of here when you realize the trap you were reeled into. Different people in lab coats poked and pried all around you while you were tied. Your mask was thrown on another table and your suit had large gashes across it.

Soon you also could feel the presence of Peter Parker being brought to the room, thrown slumped in the corner breathing heavily. They had gotten you too good. They knew everything and had planned this so detailed.

“Now you’re going to help me open the multiverse.” Kingpin loomed around you. All you could feel was searing pain as a laser aimed right at your chest.

—

Miguel was already staring out the window to the glowing night lights of Nueva York when he saw a big hole appear in sight of the skyline. His eyebrows furrowed while he was trying to process what he was looking at. It wasn’t a second later when all alarms started going off in his office.

“Qué carajos?” He exclaimed seeing the alerts of a possible universe collapse. “Lyla! Why wasn’t this being taken care of already?”

“I already sent people.”

“Then what are they doing?” He yelled. His confusion and anger only furthered when he saw a red alarm for a canon event.

“Canon event?” He whispered to himself. He always knew when these were happening, there were none scheduled for today. There was no way he would let one passed him, it’s not like this could magically appear? His jaw dropped in realization… a new canon event.

“Lyla, tell me the truth. Why wasn’t this reported to me?” He made the atmosphere turn cold. She knew he already figured it out.

“A new canon event was received this morning being given to Peter Parker. Of Y/N L/N’s death.” The words from Lyla made Miguel’s body go still. His eyes raced side to side while he processed it.

“No!” He roared, a fist slamming into the nearby desk. His massive strength breaking it in half.

“Boss, you can’t go on this mission only using your emotions.” Lyla warned. However Miguel was already half way stepping through a portal to find you.

He appeared, watching his team struggle to shut down the machine causing the collapse. Outnumbered by the amount of Alchemax puppets. A different kind of rage filled him as he saw you, for the first time in a year, suffering. Miguel was never one to act reckless while on missions but he had no plan here and just ran off the pure adrenaline the fight or flight had hit him with.

His claws tore into the backs of his enemies as he jumped beast-like across the room. Not hesitating spilling blood across the wall while he took everyone down as fast as he could. His team could only watch wide eye with an unsettling fear as they saw Miguel lose himself to his spider sense. While he fought they took the opportunity to take apart the machine.

Miguel was panting heavily, pupils blown wide glowing red, and fangs dripping with venom as the room slowly silenced. Kingpin laid on the floor slowly trying to drag himself after being beaten to a pulp. It was over. Peter B stopped him from doing anything further. Knowing Miguel would kill the man, Peter B let the team finish up to give Kingpin to authorities. Miguel turned frantically to look at you seeing the other spiders step away. Peter Parker was hunched over you in tears. Miguel fought the urge to snap at Peter and grab his hands off of you.

Your vision was too blurry and everything felt like it was burning. A shape that seemed too familiar came into your peripheral vision and you tried to push yourself up.

“Miguel?” Was the last thing you croaked before slumping back passing out. Miguel catching you in his arms before you could hurt yourself further.

“It’s her time.” Jessica spoke behind him. Yet he was refusing to let go. He had never defied the way the timeline worked since he created his society. He would never break the rules and you both had promised each other before not to. If there was a situation like this you both agreed to save the universe first. How stupid was he to think he would listen to that now facing it in-front of him.

He never got to tell you what happened. He never got to apologize. He never got to tell you one more time that he loved you. Even if you in result just spat in his face, at least he was able to talk to you one more time. You were never a placeholder or someone to fill a hole in his heart. His whole heart belonged to you and he couldn’t let you go thinking you didn’t mean anything to him. No matter the consequences, he needed to tell you.

“Call all the teams to control the damage of a possible universe collapse.” He turned to Jess with Y/N tightly in his arms. The spider-people watched speechless as he opened a portal and disappeared.

—

Two weeks you laid motionless in the HQ’s medbay.

The clean up after breaking the canon was a little intense. They were able to get it under control as the event started to fade from your timeline once you were returned and starting to heal in Earth-928.

The spider society would remain silent near the medbay. The lights always being dimmed and hushed whispers between staff to not bother the distressed O’Hara. He refused to leave.

Your Peter Parker had now joined the team, much to Miguel’s dismay. Everyday your friends would come in and check to see how you were. Some telling stories about their day or any gossip updates you missed, in hopes that it would get you to wake up. They would ignore the gloomy Miguel who was basically glued to the seat next to you not saying a word to anyone.

At night Miguel would play with your fingers and softly stroke your hair all while pleading “Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me. Por favor mi alma.” He knew it wasn’t his place to beg this after what he did, but he didn’t mind the words falling on deaf ears.

Miguel hadn’t eaten in days, he felt too nauseous from anxiety to even try anything. Pavitr had done the favor to bring you and Miguel’s favorite empanadas from a small street vendor downtown. Hoping to get Miguel to at least try the food before he ended up in a hospital bed next to you due to starvation.

You started to blink open your eyes, spots surrounding your vision. You could hear a soft breathing to your right side and you slowly felt your sense come back one by one. It felt like you just had a really rough nap.

“Oh my god that smells so good.” You moaned, sitting yourself up to try to look at where the smell of food was coming from.

You were met with a wide eyed Miguel holding a box of empanadas. His jaw slacked open acting as if he’s seen a ghost looking at you. Confusion hit you first for a second and then you start to panic.

Why was he here? Why was your ex-husband sitting right here? You started to push away from him and Miguel caught on to your panic.

“No, no, no mi amor stop.” He tried calming you. “You’re hurt, you’re going to open your stitches.”

You suddenly remembered everything that happened right before you blacked out. At that moment you forgot the hurt you had towards your ex-lover. Gathering yourself you just stared at him. “I’m suppose to be dead.”

Tears rimmed your eyes. Why did it feel like life just hated you so much?

Miguel engulfed you in his arms as you started to cry. You didn’t care right now. You had ached for this feeling again, so alone, with the comfort Miguel used to bring you. Just for a moment you could pretend like how it was before.

“We can’t do this Miguel.”

He knew what you were thinking. He didn’t want to let you leave his arms yet, as he let his self hold harder and push your head closer into his the crook of his shoulder. The tickle of your breath on his neck, he just wanted this forever.

“She left. Almost a year ago.” He let out to you. A big weight coming off of his chest. You pulled back from him and looked up into his eyes while you watched him avoid your gaze. You felt bad to say you could feel a bit of satisfaction bubbling in you.

“Good, she deserved better.”

“So did you.” Miguel sighed playing with his hands. Your eyes widened when you saw the ring still on his finger. He let you stare. “I-I could never. I couldn’t.” The emotions struggle to come out of his mouth. You understood him though. You always did. Placing your hand on top of his you just nodded.

“Please stay here.” He whispered.

Miguel had broken you in so many ways. Yet he almost ruined another universe just to keep you alive. You both needed time to talk and coming out a coma right now isn’t good timing.

“I finally became my own person when I went back in my universe. I enjoyed my independence.” The words pelleted at him. He could only hold his breath as he waited for you to continue. “I’ll stay… but not for you.”

It wounded him deeply; but he deserved it. This place will always be a home for you even if he wasn’t apart of it. Before he can tear his gaze and turn away, you reached out to hold his face close to yours. Your fingers gently rubbing on his cheeks as you slowly look at him properly after so long. You let your thumb smooth over his frown lines and he leaned into your touch closing his eyes.

“Let’s give us time.” Was the words you blessed that opened every door of hope he could find. He would take it, he would absolutely take it. He has to fight for you, he has to prove to you. He would do anything but for now he’ll be on his best patiently waiting for you.

Both of you sat comfortably without speaking, only the faint background beeps of the hospital monitor making up for the silence, while passing small glances. For once both of you felt a missing warmth you didn’t realize you needed. Sharing empanadas with each other, just maybe it will be alright…

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The end!!! Thank you so so much for your time in reading my story. i really really was so happy with all the comments and feedback on pt 1 it really meant a lot!!!

i hope this was ok ~ i apologize for how long it was i was thinking of doing another part but just wanted to finish this up. I was in such a conflict how to end this. i hope it wasn’t too cliche or anything i’m just a sucker for very wanty needy dramatic stories. It’s a hopeful ending tho~ i couldn’t pick with just happy or sad.

So many of you had tons of amazing suggestions which I appreciated so much. I was such a mess trying to figure it all out. Many of you wanted to see Y/N move on with another person but I ended up going this route. I used Peter Parker as an obv character in y/n’s universe but it’s not tied to any specific one and you guy can think of him more to your liking if you want to!

If any of you would like a small drabble or imagine of another route of this story or just anything angsty/possessive and rarwrarwbarkbark miguel. I’d be glad to help lol!! My request box is wide open~ i had so much fun writing this!

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galene-gothic · 1 month ago

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𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨’𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇

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⊹ ! ೀ Pile 1 ꒱

꒰ What makes you heavenly ? ꒱

You’re the closest thing to heaven that one has ever seen because of your youthfulness and humility. You’re a possessive person but you seem to have learned many lessons in regard to that possession. In the past, you’ve given away a lot to others in hopes of having them in some way. Back then, you weren’t as possessive or at least you hadn’t stepped into your possessive nature, or even tapped into it properly yet so it was not about having them, it was more about giving for you. You’ve always been a giver and due to this desire to give, you ended up giving to the wrong situations. Back then, you seem to have been kind of detached in this way, as in, you were okay with giving even if you weren’t necessarily receiving anything. You wanted to receive as well but despite this desire to receive, you continued giving away without much if any returns because for you, simply just having someone to give to and the hope of having them during your hard times, even if it’s just in spirit or presence without any support was enough for you because you’re a giver. Basically, back then you just wanted an excuse to give but it could have led to you having felt at a loss? This is when your possessive side came to life because you realised that even after having given so much, you weren’t respected let alone valued or well regarded. It’s like others just took whatever you could offer and left, and you felt used. There was this feeling of “am I that easy to let go of?” I’m so sorry that your generosity was abused and taken for granted. Also, despite being a giver, there’s another side of you that you may or may not be aware of. You have a deep desire to be desired. You really want to have someone’s passion, heart, love and body. Overtime, you’ve grown to learn that it is not about possession, it never has been, it’s about devotion. People don’t belong to you and that’s the beauty of it because it means that when someone does belong to you, it’s because they want to. You’re someone who wants to devote yourself to someone. I just heard “make me your servant, humble and meek.” You’ve developed a certain peace within yourself with the knowledge that it’s not wrong of you to want to have someone who devotes themself to you when you literally want to do the same thing. You think that in order to experience your devotion in its highest and fullest extent, you deserve and need an equal who does the same thing so that you have the space to express this side of you wholeheartedly. You’re someone who’s so generous but also very private. I don’t know if even you realise it but you’re someone who despite your giving nature and open, and wholehearted ways are very private. It’s not a bad thing because only those who truly see you will see these sides of you and get to experience you in your true sacredness. Think about how people pray and devote themselves to a certain god in order to attain heaven.

They’re not sure if it even exists, it’s just their belief, their faith that it does and they put their all into the attainment of it. You’re someone who gives so much to others that they may take it for granted but they don’t realise that they’d get to experience true pleasure, heaven itself in the form of you if they’d only be able to love you and open you up by devoting themselves to you but once you stop giving to these individuals. Even if not immediately, overtime, they feel the loss. Overtime, they start searching for the love and generosity that they left at your doorstep. They might try to find it elsewhere but the thing is it’s difficult to find someone who’s willing to do and give so much. Even if they do find someone like it, it’s not you so something feels missing. What I find to be particularly amusing is that others seem to take from you and act as though they don’t owe anything to you, as if you’ve never given them anything, as if you’re of no value. This seems to be more of past energy though. You’ve always held certain parts of yourself for people who would matter the most to you in this lifetime. In fact, even as you were giving to others in the past, you were very private. I feel like many people might not know how deep, private and stingy you are with certain things, yourself and a place in your life due to how generous, open and wholehearted you seem on the surface but those who try to get close to you while you don’t feel a connection to them seem to know of this side of you. Many others can pick up on how selective you are as well. It honestly just depends on who you’re around and how their mind works. You’ve let go of a lot - people, issues, insecurities, wondering if your generosity makes you easy or is the reason you’re not valued, or if you’re not enough no matter how much you give. You’ve realised that you can’t control other people’s feelings and actions no matter how much you give. You’ve also learned that many people won’t even have the decency to be grateful and express appreciation for all that you’ve been for them, done for them and given them, and that that’s okay. You’ve gained courage and have learned how to be extremely giving while still not being at a loss, possibly by expecting less to nothing from others or by learning when to stop giving, or by giving to those who actually need and therefore, appreciate it but you still seem to be a giver. Many of you have also realised that you are a private and personal person who holds many sides of you to be sacred, and doesn’t let just anyone into your life in that way despite being giving, generous, and wholehearted. That you’re not easy, that you’re not someone to take for granted and that people who like you just because you withhold your energy, just because you restrict your true giving nature are just as ‘not your people’ as those who do nothing but leech off you and take what you give with no returns, and no appreciation or gratitude. With those who are fortunate enough to step into your inner circle, feel you and experience your life, you’re very open and vulnerable.

You’re also someone who can overspend at times because you pay for others especially those close to you. I honestly think that some of you even pay for those who aren’t close to you if you sense that they don’t have money. You’ve let go of wounds when it comes to giving and have accepted, and are living by your authenticity i.e. your giving, and generous nature in which you are open and wholehearted while still being private, and having a side of you that you only show and give to those who are extremely close, and dear to you. Your existence is only proof that nothing is more heavenly than authenticity. You make people stop and think, you cause them to feel as though they’re taking a pause with you, and there’s a feeling of them not being completely in the air about/with you but not completely on the ground either. You have sacrificed and done a lot for even those who weren’t sure about you. These people didn’t add meaningful into your life, they were just passively there but when it came to taking from you, they took as if they were an active part of your life. You changed their perspective in many ways, providing them with many valuable insights but it’s like they completely missed it. They were just viewing the world very differently than you were. However, these people are not exempt from your effect on them. You made them feel suspended in time, you still have this effect on people and you’re someone who has undergone self improvement so this energy has only grown stronger. You make people see things from a different perspective and because you seem to be so at peace with yourself, people feel as though letting go of certain things, not giving into instant gratification and simply just tweaking their perception of things a little or even deciding to drastically change it could help them. “A sacrifice for the higher good” is the energy that I’m getting here. Those from the past are learning from all that you were and all that you did instead of passively enjoying the benefits of your sacrifices, and willingness to give them so best believe, it was not for nothing. They seem to know that why you had to let go and that they’d never have been able to attain the knowledge, wisdom and insights that they’ve gotten if you were still around. You guys were in a stalemate of some sort, these people were passive and had a distorted view of you, and approach to you while you were still there. Many of these people seem to have treated you as if you’d always be there and were functioning egotistically, not leaving this state of a limbo, simply just enjoying the benefits that you were offering them while not being present in your life and offering you any benefits. These people seem to be the kind of people to take your help but when you need help, they’re nowhere to be found or they’re just observing you struggling instead of helping you, or they outright act helpless, not even trying to help, possibly by making an excuse.

I’m getting a certain sense of ignorance, neglect and passivity from them. They haven’t gotten away with it, they’ve been punished, your absence was a great loss for them, they do not have much of a perception of time, you still affect them. They still learn lessons from you and because they couldn’t attain necessary wisdom from your presence, and instead grew complacent, they’re having to do so in your absence. I’m not sure how it’s relevant but I just heard “someone who moves on first, moves on worst” and also ‘you’re losing me’ by Taylor Swift is coming through. You were a big sacrifice, a great loss but it was still for the highest good because they were not able to learn in your presence. These people could never understand you when you were still there because they were viewing you through a very distorted lens. However, enough about them, focusing on the present, you make people feel as though they’re floating in some way. Time is relative and with you, time passes by differently, so fast yet so slow like they’re just suspended in the air with the rest of the world continuing to function as it is except the two of you. You make them feel as though they’ve received insights that will help them grow even if all they’ve done is spent time with you and true growth will only be tested when the time to apply what they’ve gotten from you will come. These people still are in half air, half ground when it comes to you because you just have that effect on people, you’re so real and authentic yet so dreamy, and your insights are so original, so different. Most people don’t use independent thinking and don’t even bother reasoning but your ideologies and insights are so unique, it just makes people wonder where you got that from, how you can be so intelligent, how you can look at life this way, etc. They’re in awe of how you’re not only dreamy and flighty yet grounded, and real but also intellectually deep, and have such original thoughts, philosophies, beliefs and insights. You’re someone who follows the ‘let them’ theory, when someone is mean, you let them be, you continue being passive, humble and don’t let it affect you negatively instead you attain wisdom from it, and learn practical as well as philosophical lessons from it to apply to your life. Therefore, growing and progressing in the process. When people think back about you, the memories that greet them are the beginning of knowing you, how curious you were, how willing you were to learn about them and life itself, and how much you desired to improve. They otherwise think about how humble and curious you were throughout the time that they knew you, how you truly tried in practical ways to make the connection grow and save situations. They remember how much hard work and effort you were willing to put in. The people who know you more recently remember you as someone humble, who’s always learning, has a youthful side to them but is consistently learning, growing and improving, and is constantly trying to do so. There are also people who remember you as someone who can’t be pushed out of this energy because you seem to be firm and grounded within your own humility, character, curiosity and youthfulness, and have found strength within it. These are the qualities that make you heavenly. Thank you for reading, much love and take care 💕🫶🏻.

⊹ ! ೀ Pile 2 ꒱

꒰ What makes you heavenly ? ꒱

You’re the nearest thing to heaven that one has ever seen because you’re compassionate and pure. As a kid you were someone who used to like when dogs licked the palm of your hand. You seem to have been sensitive back then due to your kindness and compassion. Possibly the type to cry easily when someone you loved and felt for was being treated or talked to poorly. Gosh, this is so sweet. You had a lot of love for dogs and cats growing up, maybe now not as much for some of you but most of you love these animals. Even those of you who have grown out of this pure and excited kind of love in which you play, coddle and cuddle with animals, you care about them in a very mature, and grounded manner. For example, wanting to provide food for them. You tend to feel very guilty if you’re eating something like meat and a dog or cat is just staring up at you, you try to give them at least a small portion of whatever you’re having. Even this guilt and practical nurturing come from a very pure hearted place. It’s not just felines and canines that you love, and take care of in such practical ways, you’re like this with humans too. Every connection for you is an investment and I do not mean it in a “you’re opportunistic” way. What I mean is that you’re someone who naturally has a long term vision, I’m not sure if you’re aware of it or not but anything casual is NOT going to work out for you. When one is investing, they put in as much as they can with the hopes of returns, if the investments are long term they continue doing so for a long time but if they don’t see returns or experience loss of some sort, after a certain point they stop investing onto that particular thing, that’s the way you go about people. I think it’s unconscious for most of you, something that just comes so naturally to you that you’re not even aware of it but the beauty of it is that you’re someone who reaps great fruits for anyone who invests in you and values you. Some of you may literally look like a puppy in some way, if not, you give off such vibes. This does not have to be the case for all of you but even if it’s just a single feature, some of you may have it - downturned lips, puppy eyes, a certain kinda head tilt, etc. You’re someone who’s really pure and treats connections as sort of an investment which is why if someone puts in effort and invests, even if it’s not a lot, you tend to return it tenfold or at least double it, and give it back to them. This quality may have bit you in the ass in the past because despite your pure, well meaning and mature nature, and way of giving to others, and giving back to them, they ended up taking a lot in a more opportunistic manner and then started acting like they don’t need you anymore. “Don’t you think I loved you too much to be used and discarded? Don’t you think I loved you too much to think I deserve nothing?” ‘Enough for you’ by Olivia Rodrigo could either already be or end up being a very personal song for you if you listen to it.

However, you end up experiencing rebirth through such moments but no matter how much you change and grow, even if you feel like and turn into a whole different person, you only become more pure and more yourself, if you know what I mean. Every time that you’re used or feel used after giving out a lot, every time you hurt this way, every time you’re left behind after people get what they wanted from you, you grow and somehow things start materialising for you. You’re someone who has a lot of potential and is always attracting, and when you work through these tough situations, you end up attracting more and making the most out of whatever you attract because your potential becomes activated. You’re someone who consciously, unconsciously and subconsciously has a very long term mindset. You’re a dedicated individual and you are always looking for a place to pour your dedication into. Due to how pure you are, this dedication is more like devotion. You’re not someone who gets scared and runs away at the first trial or tribulation. In fact, you have an ability to value things, people and connections so deeply, and devote yourself to them with utmost dedication that you stick around and continue staying dedicated even through really hard times but the thing is that once you’re discarded or have to walk away for whatever reason, have to stop dedicating your all and devoting yourself wholly, you become very grey about it. In the past, you used to hurt when things went this way, you still might but the more times that you have dealt with this, the better that you got at dealing with things in a stoic manner. You understand that you put your all into it so it feels like a waste when you don’t get anything out of it so you make sure you attain wisdom through it. However, you look at things very neutrally when you’re done, your ethics and wisdom matter more to you, and you do not let emotions have you connected to the past. “Nostalgia is far more deadly than any virus.” - Stephen Holstrom from the Netflix series called the ‘Pantheon’. Many of you seem to have dealt with nostalgia that almost killed you, that had you not functioning properly as a human being. So you’ve experienced indulgence in nostalgia, its effects and its consequences, and you’ve thought a lot about it too which is why you’re never going to do that to yourself again and that has turned you more heavenly. You value and treasure the present, and grab opportunities that make your future look good and not just that, you have also learned how to enjoy the process of things instead of just the end result. You make people feel competitive and envious. You trigger them in such a way that they want to undermine you. There are also people who see you as someone who lacks commitment to growth and might see you as unmotivated, and lacking in skill but the more that they observe you, the more that they spend time with you, the more that they talk to you and the more that they get to know you, the more that they feel like they’re the one who’s lacking.

You’re someone who is unknowingly very secretive and individualistic. People may not see what you’re working on or get to be a part of your life very easily. In the past maybe but now, you seem to have lost respect for multiple people and are unwilling to share your life with just anyone leading to them not having proper understanding of you so they may just assume that you’ve got nothing going for you but you do and if they manage to get close enough to you or close to someone who’s close to you, they find out about it and it just causes them to think. There are people who don’t hold any respect for you and assume that you’re inexperienced but in reality, you’re so experienced, wise and respectable that you know how to be by yourself, build things in solitude without anyone knowing about it and be yourself at all costs even if it means not having people in your life. In the past, you were overextending to someone or some people who were not prioritising you because they perceived you as someone who they could not work with, almost as if they were looking down on you. They were still using you to their own advantage but they didn’t respect or value you. Even so, you were doing so much for them because you were really prioritising them. It was not satisfying for you and you felt discouraged at times but you continued pushing yourself out of responsibility, and you had many mood swings but you still tried your best and they remember that. People tend to remember their loss of you. I feel like people remember you as someone you aren’t anymore. You used to be a disorganised mess back then and had messed up priorities (which is why you prioritised them in the first place) but they think that you’re busy now and don’t have time or energy for them anymore. The way you were so pure, dedicated and the way they didn’t even meet you halfway, the way there was no teamwork but you were still doing everything by yourself for them, they remember it. It was something that they took for granted in the past. However, it has stuck with them because such an unconditional way of giving is beyond divine. Even God wants you to worship him for a place in heaven but you gave them access to heaven, to your world, to your life just because you have a strong and pure desire to give, and remain dedicated to something, to someone. They’ll never find this again, not even in you because you couldn’t care less about them anymore. You’ve changed enough to know that you do not need to be alone in connections i.e. putting in all the work, that you do not need to overextend yourself and balance everything, that you do not need to prioritise those who aren’t doing the same for you and instead have started gatekeeping yourself, working by yourself, staying alone, carrying out responsibilities and managing time.

You prioritise working, resources and time a lot, and it is especially very important for you to have time for yourself, to have free time for yourself so you spend most of your time working and focusing on your current priorities including resources, and other than that, you spend most of your time by yourself or on yourself in some way. You do not free yourself up for others as much as you used to in the past. This leads to others feeling left out or like an outsider, some may still see you as inexperienced and not respect you because you do not show them all that you’ve built by yourself, within yourself, for yourself and for others because you express more of a youthful, compassionate, and pure side of yourself but that’s what makes you the nearest thing to heaven. You don’t show all of yourself to just everyone but you’re someone of a lot of substance. By this point, you do not have any desire to prove anything to anyone either, you’ve stayed alone for very long, you’re very comfortable by yourself, you work by yourself and have grown by yourself, and know your worth. You may seem disorganised and all over the place, also very youthful and inexperienced which is why people may underestimate you, try to undermine you, and disrespect you but you’re so firm on your character, instead of standing up to them or even letting them get to you, you continue doing your thing and your chaotic persona makes you very difficult to figure out. Like, when you’re around people, you sometimes end up acting as though you really prioritise them and you kinda do. Like, when you’re around them, it’s only them that you’re around, especially if you’re meeting them for the first few times because you see them as someone with whom a lovely connection could flourish but once you don’t find what you’re looking for, you aren’t as flexible anymore i.e. if you’re not around them, you stop engaging with them and become very busy. When you meet them again, you may act like normal but they don’t feel like a part of your life anymore. You’re someone who’s naturally giving and growth oriented but has learned how to be self focused and growth oriented overtime. However, you’re still giving where your generosity is needed. You’re the nearest thing to heaven that one has ever seen because you’re of so much value that you do not try to prove it to anyone because you think that anyone who does not see it is fooling themself and also, you work by yourself and grow without showing off, you’ve achieved so much alone, and others do not even know about it. You do not try to exert yourself and instead let them disrespect, and underestimate you because that does not take away anything from who you truly are. You also continue being a pure, compassionate, mature, grounded yet youthful person. You do not let anyone turn you into something that you’re not, you do not let them make you as miserable as them, you do not let anyone take you away from your own essence, truth and character. I’m not sure if I did you justice with my description but thank you for reading, much love and take care 💖🫶🏻.

⊹ ! ೀ Pile 3 ꒱

꒰ What makes you heavenly ? ꒱

You’re the nearest thing to heaven that one has ever seen because you are a very deep person. You’re someone who has taken a deep dive into your subconscious already. It’s not even just subconscious, you’ve also stepped into your unconscious. In fact, you have the kind of personality in which you’re naturally drawn to your own depth i.e. seeing it and understanding it, even if it means seeing the uglier sides of yourself. Some of you may be interested in psychology or anything that has to do with human behaviour. It includes various topics ranging from attraction to sex to habits to the darker sides. You’re especially interested in all of this because you’re interested in gaining deep self understanding and you want your relationships to be eerily deep as well, it’s a need for you to experience relationships with an overwhelming amount of depth. You could never do anything casual, if anyone of you has ever tried, you’ve felt suffocated and like something was going terribly wrong, and pulled yourself out of it before you lost yourself or you had to learn the hard way by losing yourself. Either way, there has been a moment in your life, likely in the past that triggered something very deep in you causing you to be exposed to your subconscious and unconscious aspects, even the ugly and scary sides, and it made you very uncomfortable. You felt scared, there were illusions, you didn’t know what to believe, you felt overwhelmed and extremely emotional. Imagine, you’re just chilling and then someone puts a bag over your head, puts you inside a sack, ties the mouth of it and throws you into the deep, dark ocean but you still somehow manage to get out of the sack, but you’re drowning and not sure what’s going on, who threw you there, what’s coming next, how to get to the land, etc. It’s difficult to even breathe, see and understand what’s going on. That’s the kind of feeling that you seem to have experienced and navigated at some point in the past. In fact, you’re still someone very deep and take this dive into your subconscious, and unconscious very often because it’s something that is a deep part of you at this point. You’ve gotten used to it and not thinking enough, not getting to the depth of things is unfamiliar to you, it does not feel right, it feels like ignorance. You have tamed aspects of yourself and you have wild aspects of yourself, and you’re deeply familiar with both because you have been driven to insanity quite frankly but when you were diving so deep into yourself and your psyche, you didn’t just find that which you found to be dark and ugly about yourself, you didn’t just find that which you didn’t like, you also found that which happened to be beautiful, that which happened to be precious, that which you happened to love about yourself, that which made you understand and love yourself deeply. It also greatly increased your capacity for love and connections.

You’re able to meet people very deeply but it’s a secret that only those who deeply connect with you know about or will know about. Most people even though they can make out that you possess of depth, you don’t give them much to work with. You’re mysterious, private and secretive. You may not realise it but you have a way of keeping things very vague despite saying and doing things that suggest that you possess a lot of depth. People seem to have many different versions of you in their mind and I think that most of them don’t have an accurate image of you. Even if they do, they don’t have enough depth in their perception of you even though, even on the surface, you’re very deep. At the depth at which you understand and accept yourself, most people aren’t able to meet you even quarter way through it. In the past, you may have thought someone understood you but then when the connection ended, you realised that they didn’t? Doesn’t have to be the case for every one of you but it definitely is, for many of you. I’m picking up on a very hyper feminine vibe here and not in the way you dress or look but instead in the way that you are, in the way that you feel and deal with emotions, and life at large. You’re very dreamy and are always doing some sort of shadow work. Like, for example, if there is a group of people who are friends with an individual who lives life in a way that you don’t agree with. Like, their values, priorities, actions, treatment of others but you still decided to engage with the rest of them despite being cautious but they left you out, mocked you, disrespected you and made you feel bad, you’re not going to show them how affected you are, you are likely not going to show it to anyone but you’re going to analyse the situation by yourself and understand your role, your mistake, you’re going to be able to recognise a pattern and break it in the future. It’s just your natural trait to find deep psychological patterns and reasoning behind your actions, and emotions, and even attach philosophy to it. Your emotions are high but so is your understanding of them. You’re very emotional because you can pick up on energy very easily. You can pick up on other people’s emotions as well. Due to how much you understand your own psyche, you understand theirs as well. You can pick up on the slightest emotional, mental and social shifts due to how intuitive you are but you still do not trust it enough yet. Compared to the past, you trust it much more but there’s a desire that you have to not act on confusion and illusion. You like to see situations through, give them the chance to prove themselves but I think this has changed greatly, you’ve started following your intuition better, if not, you’re learning the lesson of how to do so. You make others feel all sorts of ways. There’s something so beautiful, almost orgasmic (that’s just the word I heard in my mind, I’m sorry) about connecting to you but it’s so scary, confusing and overwhelming at the same time.

With you, their buried and subconscious as well as unconscious trauma, and painful memories come to their awareness and they feel emotions at a heightened state. It’s very confusing because they don’t even understand what is happening or why it is happening but it’s like, you tap into the deepest parts of them and understand them, and connect with them in an almost psychic manner. You’re a living fantasy and you cause people to feel, think, and act irrationally. You even appear in their dreams 💀. You make people feel very unstable yet understood, you bring up and touch their softest, most vulnerable sides as well as their deepest, ugliest and darkest sides. This is the most beautiful and touched they’ll ever feel but this is also the most tainted, ugly, and dirty they’ll feel but one thing is for sure, they feel seen and touched. Again, this is not the effect that you have on everyone because even though the effects are present, you’re more secretive, vague and private but those who have the privilege of experiencing you, and your energy in such a way are never the same again. They continue being confused about you, themself, love and life for years, for decades even. Due to how much you bring up and all at once, they feel burdened. It’s not like they don’t try to work through it but it’s overwhelming. I feel like you have already accepted it or at least know it by now but if you ever feel like you’re hard to love, easy to forget or have felt like such, just know that that’s not the case. In fact, it’s quite the opposite, you touch people so deeply, just anyone could not handle being with you. They need to be willing to responsibly shoulder whatever fears, traumas and awareness that you bring up, even of their uglier sides, and work and grow through them. The pressure that they feel is so intense that they just feel extremely stressed and they do try to push forward as much as possible but they just can’t. Also, I think you don’t notice it but you unknowingly put a lot of pressure on people to be and do better, to be as deep as you, to be better in their daily life, to be better in the way they think, to be better in the way they talk and act. I don’t think that it’s deliberate. In fact, you’re quite accepting of them, the good and the bad but it’s just that in order to match you, they do need to be a certain way. They need to be deep, they need to know how to deal with their most intense emotions in a deep manner in order to develop a deeper and more sound understanding of themself, and life, they need to be resilient even under all this pressure, they need to be responsible and willing to go, and grow through everything with you. Anyone who is unable to take on the pressure of everything that you bring out from within them, your standards and your depth is an unfit match for you. You make them feel exhausted, not because you are exhausting but because you bring out sides of them that need to be seen, felt, understood, worked through and healed but most people aren’t able to take on such pressure.

Most people would rather remain ignorant than grow through what they feel, think, see, understand and experience. However, you do awaken a desire for people to try but even on trying to the best of their abilities, they usually fail. People remember how original you are and how you change their views. In this world, you may have beliefs that only a few people possess. Like, for example, these days hooking up is normalised, situationships and all are normalised but you may hold beliefs that seem a bit outdated, and old fashioned but you seem comfortable and confident in them. Also, you don’t exactly fit into any end of the spectrum, you’re too modern to be considered traditional but you’re too old school to be considered modern. You’re someone who’s open minded and willing to understand but you’re also someone who reasons well, and will not bend into just any belief that’s presented to them. Like, for example, you’re christian, you may read a bible verse and think “well… in this case, I’d rather follow what the Bhagwat Gita says.” You’re really different. Also, some of you may attract those with pisces and aquarius placements. This seems to be a pattern. Like, a pisces sun with aquarius placements or an aquarius sun with pisces placements. If not, some of you possess these energies in your own chart. There’s possibly neptune, uranus, 11th and 12th house energies that may be present as well. I don’t want to go too much into placements and stuff because it’s not going to resonate for everyone here. You’re a true individual, you rebel against traditional ideas and practices that don’t make sense but you also rebel against modern ideas that don’t make sense. You have a belief system of your own that is a mix of everything and especially because you know yourself so deeply, it is true to you. People remember you as being true to yourself but you’re so difficult to figure out. However, all of this makes you divine - your depth, your understanding of yourself and others, your intense emotions, your secretive and private ways, the way you trigger others and make them feel confused, overwhelmed, and burdened but also make them feel seen, understood, felt and change them forever regardless of whether they can take on the pressure or not. Also, the way you are so different and maintain a balance between tradition, and modernity. The way you’re so ethical and cultured but also open minded but not open minded to the extent of normalising vulgarity, objectification and ignorance. You’re someone who would look at someone with an amused, disappointed yet straight face if they told you something like “feminists fought for our right to sleep around.” All of this, the way you’re so refined, the way you know yourself so deeply, the way you feel and experience life so deeply makes you the nearest thing to heaven that one has ever seen. I hope that you liked the reading and that it resonated. Thank you for reading, much love and take care 🫶🏻💕.

#pac reading #pac #tarot pac #pick a card #tarot pick a card #pick a card reading #intuitive readings #pick a photo #pick a deck

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ch3rrybbie · 3 months ago

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Hi lovely, I want to request Ivar from Vikings! I hope that's okay, if not, that'll be totally fine! 🤗

I wanna request Ivar x saxon reader who came to Kattegat as a slave and who was sold to Lagertha. In her hometown she was forced to wear a blindfold made of black lace so no one could see her eyes because they were deemed as demonic from the church. Like her eyes are really crystalline and were unsettling for Christians, and she continues to wear it even in Kattegat. Perhaps the young Rangarsson finds himself to wonder about her and one day a jealous woman rips it from her face during a festive in the main hall when she was serving ivar...?

I know it's a lot but I've been thinking about this all week. 😭✨ Thank you so much!

Angel eyes

summary: Ivar thinks your eyes must be Gods-sent.

warnings: Margrethe being Margrethe, vikings scaring reader, Ivar being Ivar.

ch3rrybbie says: love the request bby, I changed it a lil hope you don’t mind🩷 sorry it took so long lol

———

It’s been three whole moons away from England. Away from the cruelty you knew, but that cruelty was yours. It was home.

Kattegat wasn’t too dissimilar to England but it wasn’t the same.

You trudged through the thick mud of the central market. People didn’t stare at you and you reveled in the anonymity. The thin cotton you always wore around your eyes shielding your oddities was nothing to the people of Kattegat and you had grown to love it during the few days you’d spent here.

Lagethera had brought you along wanting to show you the ways of her culture. After being sold to her she declared you free yet you refused,you would not settle to a life here. You wished to serve her in hopes you could make enough money to flee home.

Slave to handmaiden.

Handmaiden to home.

You refused to learn to fight, to speak her tongue comfortably, to like the viking life. The foolish hope of home held strong within you. And yet you knew you’d never return to England you’d seen what they’d done to the village of those who’d ostracised and belittled you. Luckily your family was away selling the spoils of their labour at market.

They would’ve come back to an empty village stinking of death. The thought makes your heart clench and your steps falter.

Lagertha had playfully commanded you go out and see Kattegat, to see her ex-husbands lands. And to bring her seawater, its purpose left you clueless but you obeyed.

The heathens were strange people after all.

And yet your own had forced you to learn to squint through your blindfold to see shapes and sounds.

To live life veiled.

———

Lagertha was repulsed by the idea. The Christian rigidity that had left you believing in the need to hide your eyes.

She watched you from afar, leant against the entrance of the great hall. You were a sweet girl yet you could be so much more.

And she would see to it.

Ragnar follows her gaze, “what is so special about this slave anyways?”

Lagertha’s head whips towards him, “she is no slave Ragnar, she is blessed by the Gods”

Ragnar’s laugh almost shakes the great hall itself, he walks off still chuckling.

———

Later as the moon begins its race to the crest of the sky you braid Lagertha’s hair. The bucket of seawater stuck out in the corner.

“Why did you ask for the seawater?” You break the gentle silence and she turns smiling at you softly.

“Bring it here” she gestures towards it a sly smirk emerging upon her face.

Standing in front of her seawater at hand she starts to command you.

“Smell it”

“Taste it”

“Feel it”

You end up giggling at the foolish tasks until she asks.

“What is the difference between this seawater and England’s?”

The smile drops from your face and you set the bucket down and return to your tasks bring her dress to ready her for the great feast.

“My sweet girl this is your fate do not run from it, you will come to love Kattegat as much as England as there isn’t much difference”.

“To you, there isn’t much difference to you, my lady” the words bite bitterly at her.

She sighs and you step back from her outstretched arms. You didn’t understand her fondness of you.

“We must go to the hall” you turn on your heel and march into the frosty air, she follows carefully.

———

You pause outside, the noise reminding you of the nights spent around a fire at home.

Perfumed with smoke and stories of old.

You shake the thought away and wait for Lagertha. She come to you a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gently.

“You ready?”, you nod and clench you fists at your sides as she pushes the door open.

Truth is you’d never be ready for a feasting hall full of vikings.

“Mother!” A thundering voice cuts through the rowdy masses.

Bjorn comes thumping over sweeping Lagertha into a crushing hug. Once their greetings are finished he turns to you inquisitively

“And who is this little birdy mother” you manage to grasp from your basic understanding of their tounge.

He reaches to peek under your eye covering and instinctively you slap his hand away. Your breath catches as you wait to be struck to the ground.

Instead a sharp laugh cuts at your action you turn to see someone with eyes almost as striking as yours. He regards you a cruel smile and glaringly sharp beauty confronts you. You hold back a gasp and turn from his gaze. Bjorn is also bellowing out a laugh.

“I am sorry bird, ignore Ivar” he plants a kiss on his mother’s cheek and is gone into the crowd of hedonism.

It was going to be a long night.

———

Refusing to sit by Lagertha’s side you stood ignoring the curious looks from Aslaug.

You couldn’t stop thinking about Ivar. It was so strange, he didn’t seem to mock you.

“Hello birdy” a gruff tease voice floats out behind you.

You whip round to see a man that looks exactly like an older Bjorn, Ragnar you conclude.

“Why do you stand here all alone, hmm? Lagertha tells me you are a free woman, here free woman can do as they please you should try it!” He chuckles and it takes you aback, he doesn’t know you yet he treats you like he has for years.

You don’t speak and turn to watch the crowds further, eyes searching for Ivar.

He’s looking right back at you, with a gasp you turn away.

“You know, I had a friend like you once” Ragnar whispers, voice taught with emotion. The pain in his voice pulls you from thoughts of Ivar.

At that you turn and take him in. Towering next to you he looks deep in grief. Eyes watery and gone to distant memories, you recognise it all too well.

“I’m sorry for your loss” you murmur, their language is crude and harsh on your tounge.

Your voice pulls him back, he grabs your shoulder and thanks you with a smile.

And once again you’re alone amongst heathens.

———

“Girl! Come serve me wine” a voice throws its self against you cutting through the bustle of the hall.

Ivar.

“Ivar do not command her like that!” Lagertha bites at him.

You frown at her remark and make your way over.

Aslaug is watching you as though you are a mirage, you ignore her stares and focus on the task at hand.

“She is no servant, please sit down” Lagertha implores you and you ignore her, Ragnar watches on curiously.

Fingers clasping over the mead jug you come closer towards Ivar ignoring the way he drinks you in.

“Surely she’s just a servant” a pretty blonde remarks from a group of boys, the rest of Ragnar’s sons you presume.

“You will watch your tongue upon my mother’s friend Margrethe” Bjorn booms at her, seemingly tired of her presence.

Lagertha frown and you lean to pour Ivar more mead.

“Thank you” he grins up at you, ignoring him you turn to be met by Margrethe.

“Why do you wear that silly cloth on your face?” She giggles and takes you in.

Everyone watches with bated breath.

Someone cuts out her name as another warning.

Attempting to step past her you don’t make it far.

“Here let me help you slave”

Her nails scrape against your skin, harsh in its endeavour.

The room brightens and grows in life as you see it more clearly.

An outraged roar emerges as Margrethe is chastised greatly. Everyone turns to look and the same whispers you’ve heard your whole life break out.

“Blessed Freya” sounded in a wave of murmurs.

The seer shuffles over parting the crowd and you retreat slowly. His interest peaked at such an odd display.

“My child you are kissed by the Gods, you shall see to their vision” his words curl through the fog of fear.

Embarrassed you flee the hall into the icy night and collapse in a heap by the fjord.

Finally you have peace.

They hadn’t cast curses or spat at your feet. They were almost reverent in their discovery of you. Perhaps they truly believe you were someone sent or blessed by their heathen Gods.

A repetitive click and shuffle sounds behind you and you whip around to see Ivar approaching. Embarrassed you turn back to look at the still waters, struggling to think upon his intentions. He groans as he lowers himself aside you.

“You know you didn’t have to run off so quick birdy” he chuckles cruelly

“You would do well not to mock me” you bite back and he simply laughs in your face.

“Maybe you really are sent by the Gods, no other woman in the whole of Kattegat would speak to me this way” he seems to grow serious and take you in.

Fixated on your eyes he stares into them, “They really are beautiful you should not cover them anymore, I command it so”.

“You command it so!” You can’t help exclaim incredulous. Dragged from home and commanded by the bratty son of a king.

“Yes I command it so!” He giggles and watches your perplexed face. You resort back to silence and the pair of you just sit there until he coaxes you to talk of England.

So you do.

You tell him of its fields and wildflowers. How the moon feels different and the sun is sweeter. How the grass will always be greener to you and the songs louder.

And for once he just listens and he knows you were meant for him. Every laugh and lilt makes his heart climb. Without telling you he makes a prayer to the Gods commanding you be by his side every day till death do you part. That you may tell him what you please and speak how no woman ever had to him.

And for the first time you’d found something wholly dissimilar to England and you wouldn’t compare it for all the homesickness in your heart. You could not have found Ivar in England. You would never have found the appreciation of your beauty there.

With the intermission of his laugh at your tales, you thank his Gods and yours for kissing your eyes.

———

Lagertha and Ragnar watch your silhouettes from the mouth of the great hall. They needn’t speak the thoughts they share but they know the nights they’d spent together talking till the sun kissed the fjord had seemingly come to life in front of them.

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solarismoons · 3 months ago

Text

Astronomy (Prologue)

‘It’s astronomy, we’re two worlds apart’

Wally Clark x fem!reader

Summary: After suffering a near-fatal fall off the school roof, you started seeing things that weren’t actually there. Or- people who weren’t actually there.

Warnings: mentions of suicide, addiction, drugs, lots of angst.

next chap.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Your legs dangled off the roof, the moon's dim light illuminating the grass below. Tears filled your waterline and your eyebrows pulled together. Silent sobs filled the night air, getting lost in the whispers of the wind.

There was no sugarcoating it, no easy way to say it–Your life fucking sucked. Drugged out Dad, your Mom out of the picture, the whole nine yards. If your life were a shitty low-budget movie, you and Nicole would’ve laughed at the lazy plot of it all.

Nicole.

The poison of her name ran through your veins and tore a hole through your heart. You’d grown up with her, she was there through your worst moments, and you were there for hers. But when you hit middle school, it wasn’t you and her against the world. It was always Maddie.

Maddie. Maddie. Maddie.

You truly had nothing against her. You had nothing against her, or Simon, or even Xavier of all fucking people. But everything in the past few years was always about her. The two of you were simply friends by extension. Two separate people pushed into the same friend group. But still, it seemed like the whole world revolved around her.

Nicole always had an obsession with Maddie. What she ate, what she wore, how she decorated her locker…Down to how she fucking spoke. Nicole copied every. Single. Part of her. You never knew if she wanted her, or if she wanted to be her. Whatever it was, it drew you two apart. You slowly started losing your best friend.

The pain and loneliness was beginning to be too much. You felt so suffocatingly alone, the only person you could confide in being lost in a la-la land of infatuation.

So, you found yourself on top of the school roof at 2 in the morning. It wasn’t high enough to die. Maybe high enough to make you hurt. High enough so someone would actually care for you. The thought of jumping crossed your mind- just for a split second. It was a fleeting thought, soaring quickly through your head like a turbojet.

Tears began to spill harder, gushing out of your eyes like a fountain. Your sobs became louder. You grounded the meat of your palms into your eyes, desperate to stop the tsunami from streaming down your face.

Behind you, words faded in and out of the breeze, and heavy whispers echoed across the silent roof.

“Is… she…”

“I….do- know…”

It was bits and pieces of phrases you shouldn’t have been hearing. Phrases that broke through the barrier of life and death itself. You didn’t know it at the time, though. Still, you whipped your head around, your lip quivering just slightly. Shadows faded in and out across the roof, the air seemingly moving in the wrong direction.

Your sobbing quickly died down, and you squinted, your head beginning to swim with confusion. The shadows shifted in and out of reality, almost. You would not have noticed them if you hadn’t been looking so meticulously.

The phantom-like whispers snuck closer as if reaching out for you. Your heart began to pick up speed, beating against your chest painfully. Breath hitching in your throat, you hastily stood up. Palms slick with sweat, goosebumps bursting across your skin, legs trembling, you yelled out, begging them to stop.

You couldn’t comprehend the gravity of your situation, couldn’t comprehend what the hell you were seeing. You took a step back, your heel hooking on the lip of the roof. Gravity took control, yanking you down over the edge.

The last thing you saw was a large hand stretching out towards you.

────────────

Wally loomed over you, his head tilted. Eyebrows knitted together with concern, he glanced over to Rhonda and Charley, who seemed oddly standoffish.

“Is… Is she okay?” He questioned.

Rhonda rolled her cherry lollipop against her cheek, “I don’t know Moose, maybe she’s just sleeping?”

Wally narrowed his eyes at her. Why couldn't she understand the urgency of the situation? Here was a girl, lying half-dead on school property with a puddle of blood pooling beneath her head.

“What if she dies?” Wally slid his hands into his pockets, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. His teeth sunk into the plush skin.

Charley frowned, wringing his hands together. “I mean… We can’t really do anything, Wally,” He reasoned. Wally knew he was right. If you died, you died. He couldn’t stop it. But it didn’t stop him from feeling any less awful. He felt… Drawn to you–in some incomprehensible way.

The group whipped their heads back down to you when you stirred. A soft groan escaped your lips. They watched with bated breath as you brought a shaky hand to the back of your head. You pulled your fingers back to your eye line, your pupils dilating at the smear of crimson.

The back of your skull throbbed with a searing, blinding pain that drew out another groan. You scrunched your eyelids together, fuzzy dots crowding your vision. At the same time, Wally crouched down next to you, fingers sprawled out on the soft grass.

Soft earth rustled beneath the soles of Rhonda’s boots as she turned on her heel. Charley glanced at you, then at Wally, then back at Rhonda. Confliction flashed across his soft features. As bad as he felt, there was nothing he could physically do.

“We should probably go,” Charley grumbled.

Still, Wally looked back down at you. He brought his fingers a feather’s touch away from your jaw before drawing them back. As much as he wanted to reach out to you, to help you, he couldn’t. He sat back on his haunches and took one last look at your pretty face.

Charley and Rhonda were halfway across the field when your eyes slowly cracked open. Wally’s eyes widened as you looked at him. Your eyes didn’t look through him. They looked at him. Your gaze pierced through the noise of the wind around you. It locked onto him with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn’t possible. You were living. Breathing. Your soul was still tied to the land of the living. You still had a fucking pulse, a heartbeat.

“What the fuck…” He whispered.

You don’t remember what happened next. Only that you scrambled up, despite the agony in your head and the strain in your bones, and found yourself at home just minutes later, shoes caked in mud.

You don’t know what the fuck you thought you saw. It was a hallucination. Your brain had conjured his image up, projected him in front of you. You fell off the roof, for fucks sake.

Still, your eyes glided over to a picture on the wall of your living room. In it, stood your dad and his high school best friend--Who died 40 years ago.

#school spirits #milo manheim #wally clark #wally clark x reader #wally clark fanfiction #school spirits fanfiction #milo manheim fanfiction #fem!reader #fanfic #split river high #astronomy

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uranometrias · 1 year ago

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nobody ever loved me like you do, spencer reid

just a little prompt i couldn't get out of my head. this is majority fluff, it got kind of heavy towards the end, but no smut because i'm a coward, reader is a university student, there's an age gap between reader + spencer, unspecified, but reader is over 22. based off of 'pov' by ariana grande.

this absolutely got long as shit, i don't know how to be normal. (5.6k wrds)

"what's on your mind?" you hadn't realized you'd gone quiet until you feel the dip of the couch. it takes a moment to snap out of the little moment you've dug yourself into, but when you do you're pleasantly surprised to see your boyfriend on the couch next to you. he grabs hold of the book you'd haphazardly discarded, and flips it over. you imagine internally he's tsking at you, he was always reminding you to be careful of the spine of the books you read, but you're happy he doesn't make a move to scold you about it now. instead, he closes it, and places it in his lap, letting his eyes trace all over your pretty face.

"is everything okay?" he prods, and in truth, you were fine. you didn't really know why you'd gotten so lost in your head, it just happened sometimes. domesticity was still fairly new, and despite the fact that your relationship with spencer had gotten to the point where you both were comfortable staying at each other's places for long periods of time, you still kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. spencer was the first guy you'd been with that was older, already established, had a 'big boy job' as you so eloquently labeled it. he had security.

not that you were some lazy, unprepared individual letting your life slip by, but you were still figuring things out. you were in university, and you had big dreams and hopes for your future, it just felt like it was taking forever to get there. to your future. everyone was always telling you not to wish away your youth, but by law you were no longer a child, you hadn't been for a while. your twenties were meant to be for 'figuring things out', finding yourself all over again, or that's what you were always hearing. over time it felt easier said than done.

the point was when you were still uncertain about what you wanted to spend the rest of your life doing, it was hard to feel grown up. especially when you had a boyfriend like spencer who was always doing something to raise the bar for humanity. he was a genius, he worked for one of the most prestigious units in the fbi, he was in the fbi... that in itself was an accomplishment. he had phds, bachelor degrees, and an extensive knowledge of literature in numerous languages and texts. to top it all off, he really was a great boyfriend.

you supposed it was just you feeling a bit insecure. you didn't believe that he expected too much of you, but that didn't stop you from putting unnecessary pressure on yourself. "everything's fine." you promise, and you tack on a warm smile to really sell it. the action triggers an involuntary smile from spencer, and you feel a bit faint, just because he's so pretty. "i was just watching you read." you admit, and it was true, you had gotten a bit lost in how quickly spencer was speeding through his own book. it didn't trigger insecurity, it just left you in awe at how absurdly lucky you were to have bagged spencer.

"yeah?" and he's got this edge to his voice that he usually gets when he's tired, sleepy, content. it was comforting, knowing that he was comfortable being here, like this with you. "are you sure that you're alright?" and he's leaning forward, hand cupping your cheek as he rubs his thumb over your jaw, and you lean into him. "you know you can talk to me about anything." he adds, and he's perceptive. you're certain that part of this has to do with his job, and the other part has a lot to do with the fact that he knows you so well.

"i know." you answer instantly, and you bring your hand up to hold over top his. "trust me, i know. that's why i like you so much." you beam brightly, and you lean in and press a quick kiss to his lips. it's a peck, and it sounds like one with the way that your lips smack together. you note his disappointment when you pull away just as he moved to kiss you a bit more fiercely. you find yourself giggling a bit as he pouts at you, and you lean in to offer him another kiss.

"like?" he asks, and you know he's fishing, but for what you're not sure. his eyes never look as bright as they do when he's sitting across from you. it offers you a bit of an ego boost to know that someone as handsome as your spencer consistently looks so enamored and enraptured with you. "i thought that we were a little past like..." he says, and your nose scrunches up at his big doe-eyed stare. "am i wrong about that?" and he holds his breath.

"no, you're right." you promise, and he relaxes. "we're past that." spencer looks relieved, and you wonder sometimes what's going on in his mind. he doesn't say anything for a while, he just looks at you, his thumb continues to draw soothing circles on your face, and you think you might be convinced to fall asleep if he keeps it up. "i'm sorry." you offer, and spencer's immediately shaking his head at you.

"don't apologize." he presses, and he's peeling his hand away from your face. now it's your turn to be disappointed. "and if you don't feel like we're past the 'i like yous'... that's okay too." and he looks sad now. it's your least favorite expression on him, and you wonder if you've done something wrong. "i don't want you to feel like you're rushing yourself, okay? or like you're forcing yourself to feel anything that you don't." he says, and your eyebrows furrow inward, face contorting.

"i don't feel that way." you deny sternly. spencer's head tips to the side, curls following along, and the urge to run your hands through his hair almost chokes you out. "spencer, i don't feel that way." you reiterate, and you hate that his expression doesn't change. you hate that he looks like he doesn't believe you. "i have too many feelings for you." you admit, and you shake your head. "all of the feelings." you insist, and the problem is that you haven't managed to fully verbalize what that means. spencer's told you that he loves you, often.

you haven't managed to say it back, but not because you don't believe it. it's more so out of worry that once you tell him, things will get too real. you'll grow too comfortable, and by-proximity expose parts of yourself that spencer might not be ready for. things that'll make him run for the hills, and take his sweet i love yous with him. "that's a lot of feelings." spencer replies, and he sighs deep, chest moving with the action. you smile, mostly to ward off the tension.

he doesn't return it, and you suddenly feel anxious. "do you want-" he trails off, and he looks conflicted. "if you wanted to break up..." and your heart sinks. "you would tell me, wouldn't you?" he asks, and you immediately reach out for him, his hands curling into yours as you interlock your fingers. you want to slam your head into a wall, mostly for worrying him in this way. The last thing you'd been thinking about was a breakup, in fact, you'd finally resided yourself to the fact that you were in this relationship as long as spencer wanted you.

"do you think that's what this is about?"

"isn't it?" his quick retort makes you frown, and now you're facing one another with matching pouts. "i just want you to trust me with your feelings... all of them." he explains. "even the ones i might not enjoy the most." he treads lightly, and you find that there's nobody in the world who could matter more to you. "and i'm sorry if i haven't been doing enough to let you know that." and you huff in annoyance, but not with him. never with him. with yourself for overthinking.

"you've got it all wrong." you tell him, and you hope your words sound as definitive as they feel. "a breakup is the farthest thing from my mind." you shuffle a bit on the couch, mostly to invade the space he just took. you don't stop moving until he's back in your orbit, your knees brushing against his leg. "i've never met anyone like you before." and it feels cliche, but you suppose you've earned the right to quote the words, because they're true. "i think as far as expectations for boyfriends go, you managed to smash through them all."

spencer finds himself nervous under the onslaught of kind words. he can't look away from you though, because it's so rare when you let him into your head. despite all his profiling skills, you were still almost completely a mystery. he understood your physical cues, but the emotional ones were still hard to pinpoint. "i think sometimes i still keep waiting for you to realize how amazing you are..." and he has that annoying feeling of giddiness in his stomach. it feels childish, but he adores the rush loving you continues to give him.

"i think i'm a little aware." he says, and you laugh. your hands reach out, and now you're the one holding his face. he thinks it's a comfort thing of yours, the way you like to hold onto him when you're talking. his apprehension towards touch was no match for the way your hands on his face brought him a feeling of comfort like nothing else.

"and you still want to be with me?" you ask, and you don't sound bashful, more confused than anything else. spencer's confusion soon matches your own, his eyebrows furrowing as he recites your words over and over in his head. what sort of question was that? "i just mean that there's so many types of women out there... you work with so many." and your mind drifts to his closeness with the girls he worked with in the fbi. namely jennifer jareau.

you'd only met her a few times, you knew she was married with sons, but you couldn't shake the thought that if she wanted him she could have him. she was older, more confident, disastrously pretty. "i just don't understand why someone like you would want to be with someone like me." you express, and spencer is flabbergasted. he forces you to peel your hands from his face, instead choosing to hold your hands and squeeze them gingerly.

"someone like you?" and he wants you to get it all out, every last bit of it, mostly so that he can correct every incorrect notion about yourself that you expose.

"someone who's immature, naive, inexperienced, uncertain about almost every major decision... you know? someone like me." you divulge, and he winces. "you've got so much going for you, i just don't want you to feel like i'm holding you back." you admit. "so when i saw you reading... i don't know-" you trail off, and spencer's eyes shoot across the room to his own discarded book. "i guess i just remembered how incredible you are, and how severely inadequate i must be in comparison." and your voice gets quieter as you finish.

"you could never hold me back." he states firmly. "and even more than that... i don't think it's actually possible for someone to really hold you back." he admits, and you feel him beginning to start on a tangent, though you don't mind. they were far and few in between these days. "to me it always seemed more like an excuse people use to place blame on someone else for their shortcomings." spencer's let go of your hands, and you watch them as he gestures boisterously. "for everything i'm good at, there's so many areas where i fall short."

you don't think you've ever loved him more.

"and who says phd's and fast reading skills are what make a person better suited or fit for anything?" and he knows that you want to rebuttal, so he continues so you don't get the chance to. "my skills help me with the job that i do... we can agree that's true, right?" he asks, and you nod your head. "right. but, you don't want to have my job, do you?" he asks, and your nose curls up. you thought that what spencer did was admirable, you loved celebrating the victories with him, you knew it was important, but you don't think you had it in you.

"no, i guess not." you disagree.

"and you don't need to be called 'doctor' or hold a gun, or kick down doors, in order to be... a suitable life partner."

"you're not kicking down any doors, spencer." you crack a joke, and you like that he laughs, it's the kind that morphs into a toothy smile.

"maybe not, i just mean that out of the two of us, you're not the one who needs to worry about not being adequate... i don't think there's anything in existence that would make me not want to be with you." and you feel bashful, but know full well that you can't pull your eyes away from him. "you're a lot to lose." he exhales, and you blink. "and you don't need doctorates or much of anything for that to be the case." spencer beams a little bit, "you captivate people without even realizing it sometimes." spencer's hand moves to rest on your thigh.

"you think so?"

"sometimes i try and figure out how i got so lucky, and i hope that i keep doing whatever it takes to make you stay." he admits. "does that make sense?" he asks, and you feel your heart wanting to burst out of your chest.

"it makes a lot of sense." you agree. "and i can guarantee that as long as you want me, you'll have me." you promise.

"and if i want you forever?" he asks, and you smile despite yourself.

"then i guess you're stuck with me forever, doctor reid." and he likes the thought a lot more than he anticipated. he thinks that's why he can't ignore the urge to kiss you. he leans forward, lips overtaking yours like a magnet being pulled towards a kindred force. you almost pounce, finding yourself rooted on top of his lap, fingers finally finding solace in his hair, as his hands scope out your waist and the curve of your hips.

you hum when his lips peel away from yours, landing on your neck as he peppered the space with kisses and small bites. kissing spencer was a surefire way to get you both started down a path of insatiability. it was dangerous, but you supposed with the conversation context in mind, it made perfect sense for this to be the end result. still, it feels like there's more to say, and you suppose that it's why you tighten your hold on his hair just slightly, craning your neck to give him all the access he needs. "spence?" you gasp.

he doesn't verbally acknowledge you, instead his arms loop around you, bringing you closer as he proceeds to leave hickeys in areas that would be much too difficult to hide. "spence..." you try again.

"i'm listening." he promises before he's placing a kiss just behind your ear. it makes you squirm, suddenly feeling lightheaded as his grip on your waist tightens slightly.

"can you tell me again?" you ask, and you don't want to ruin the moment, especially after he just sweetly poured his heart out to you. "tell me how you feel about me..." you instruct a bit more impatiently. spencer's more interested in leaving more marks on your skin, but he also enjoys the vulnerability that comes with expressing himself to you. he pulls away from your neck with one last peck, before his lust-filled gaze is locked on yours. you've taken to raking your nails through his hair, gently dragging against his scalp.

"you still don't know?" he asks, and part of you thinks he's doing this on purpose. it's not until you register the slight upturn of his lips that you recognize that he's teasing you.

"is it so bad that i want to hear it again?" you press, and you're feeling a bit impatient, mostly because you're itching to finally spit the three word phrase out, but you want him to say it first.

"no." he denies, head shaking. "it's not bad at all, and i don't mind telling you, but, can you ask me the right way?" and you feel the shift, the way his fingers finally slip under your shirt. it makes you jump, the way his fingertips trace over the skin of your lower back. "what are you fishing for, pretty girl?" you don't have the courage to stare at him anymore, instead you find your head glued to his chest, eyes squeezed shut, as your arms looped around him.

"i'm not fishing." you deny, and spencer presses a swift kiss to the top of your head. despite the desire to 'get to the good part' that you know you both feel, you still enjoy this part. the clinginess, the way he showered you in attention and affection that you had never believed yourself worthy of. he loved you so openly, so easily. it never felt like a burden, it never felt like something he had to try too hard at. you liked that, you liked that he made falling in love so easy.

"no?" he doesn't sound convinced. "what are you hoping i'll say then? i know you have an idea." he says and his chin is resting on the top of your head as he adjusts you on his lap. the tension still rests in the air, but he's holding you like he's comforting you almost, arms looped around you in an almost-hug that feels warm and comfortable and familiar. it's the kind that you could get lost in, fall asleep in. maybe you will, just as soon as you get through this last little emotional hoop.

"you don't know everything."

"did i say that?" he corrects you lowly, he's not impatient with you, and you wonder how long it took him to garner enough stamina to keep up with your sass.

"no." you deny, and he hums in agreement. you've taken to running your hands up and down his back, palms closing and opening as you try and quiet your anxiety. "i want to hear you say that you love me again." you admit, and it feels like a lump is forming in your throat. "i know that you do." you add a second after. "but sometimes i like to hear it anyway..." you clear your throat. "it makes me feel-" and you trail off, because you haven't really gotten over this hurdle.

spencer's smiling, and you know that he is, because as much as he knows you, you think you know him a little bit too. "how does it make you feel?" he asks, and you shake your head, eliciting an amused sort of exhale. "you can tell me anything." he reminds you, and of course you know that. "or we could move on... if it's too much to say right now." he offers you an out like the gentleman he always has been. "do you want to go back to before?" and you definitely want to kiss him.

maybe do a bit more than kiss.

"yes." you agree, but when it seems like he's about to move, you hold him even tighter to you. "wait, no." you deny, and he's exhaling through his nose. you cringe, because you know that sometimes you can be indecisive, but you think about what he'd told you earlier. you remind yourself that he wanted you, and you calm down. "i want to kiss you again." you start, and he doesn't say anything, because he knows you're not finished. "but i want to finish our conversation first." you huff, and he's surprised, in a pleasant sort of way.

"we can do that." he promises, "what do you want to tell me?"

"i like when you tell me that you love me." you admit, and you think it's good that you're not looking at him. you also like that he's still lightly dragging his fingers along your waist, it makes you shy, but you welcome it. "it's not something that you just tell everyone, so i like that you tell me, even though i haven't said it back." you feel like you're losing your breath as you rush to get it out. "and i like how what you said earlier makes me feel."

"how's that?" and spencer is spencer. he likes to drag things like this out, he likes for you to elaborate, to explain yourself. you suppose he likes to hear you just as much as you like to hear him.

"i don't know how to express it really, but it feels nice. 'cause you always sound like you mean it when you say it." you freeze when his fingers stop their slow journey, but you don't have time to focus on that right now. "not like butterflies, but it's like stabilizing." you shrug your shoulders. "and it's not the sort of thing that feels like it comes with some sort of price. like i don't hear it, and think 'oh he's only saying this because he wants to sleep with me', it doesn't-" you inhale. "it doesn't make me anxious or anything."

spencer's disappointed that his memory mostly works for things he's seen rather than heard, because he wants to relive this conversation for the rest of his life. it's a bit unheard of, especially in his lifetime. he's seen people in love, he's witnessed incredible relationships, but nothing he's seen has ever compared to the way that you manage to make him feel. he's had girlfriends, one-night-stands, experimentations, and things in between that felt like they could be the real thing, eventually. being with you though feels easy.

even when things go wrong, when you're too stubborn to communicate, and he's too tired to fight for you to, it still feels easy. like the struggles that come with your relationship are struggles he's willing to deal with. you're someone he's willing to deal with.

"it makes me want to stay." you offer, and it's scary, mostly because you've got the world's worst habit of running away when things get too real. you packed your bags at the first inconvenience, it was who you were, who you had been before spencer. you didn't stick around to fight for your relationships, you didn't let anyone fight for you either. "like... like even if things go horribly wrong, it'll still be okay as long as you still sound like you mean it when you say i love you."

you don't think you'll cry, but you do think once you're all finished, you'll want to stay wrapped up in him like this.

"i've just never met anyone that makes life make so much sense." and your leg is slightly shaking, and you're burrowing even deeper into his chest, holding him just a bit tighter. "so please... can you tell me again?" you ask, and your hands have taken fistfuls of his shirt, curling just slightly as you try and will your heartbeat to slow.

"you all done?" he asks, and you nod your head, all done with talking for now. "i'm so proud of you." and your confusion is back, as well as your ability to talk.

"what for?" you inquire, and he unloops his arms from around you. you don't want to move, but you know where this is going. still, you decide you'll wait until he asks you.

"can you look at me, please?" he asks quietly, and you're immediately pulling back, hands in your lap as you take in all the emotions resting on your boyfriend's face.

"oh, spence!" and you hope he's not about to cry. you've never been privy to it, but you can imagine what it'll do to you in your emotionally high state. "i know that was a lot, i'm sorry." you apologize despite the fact that you've done nothing wrong, a bad habit.

"please don't ever apologize for something like that." he corrects you gently. "i'm proud, because i can imagine how hard that likely was, but you did it anyway, so thank you for sharing how you're feeling with me." you look away just for a second, the moment feeling too heavy for you to manage. you're looking back at him just a moment after, his stare something you've always been terrible at ignoring and avoiding. "would it be a let down if i told you that i feel the same way about you?" he asks, and you wonder if this phase ever ends.

you don't want to wake up one day and find that your smile no longer reaches your eyes when you look at him, or hear his voice.

"no." you answer quietly. "i like when you agree with me, especially about your feelings for me." and it's a small joke, one you partially mean. "but, you still haven't told me that you love me, yet." you remind him a bit more sternly than you have been.

"i know." he retorts, and he looks a bit smug. you want to say that you hate when he gets like this, but you know you're lying. "i'm waiting to see how long it'll take you to crack." he admits, and your nose curls. he beams at you, and you want to glare, just for the fun of it. "why are you determined not to say it first?" he asks, and you cross your arms over your chest, busted.

"you don't know what's in my head." you instead argue, and his eyes roll, but he still seems amused. "i can say it first if i very well wish." you add, and his eyebrows raise, a challenge. unlucky for you, because you had a problem with being challenged. you would always walk right into his trap like a fool.

"so then say it." he taunts, and you realize pride is one hell of a killer.

"fine, i will." you retort, voice laced in mock-aggravation. "i love you." you deadpan, you say it like it's a bother. "happy now?"

"not with that attitude. can you try again? say it like you mean it?" he presses, and you're weaker in the knees than you initially believed. all your bravado goes right out the window, and you're suddenly anxious again, with no bite to curb your words, you're certain he'll hear every ounce of emotion you feel towards him if you say it again.

"spence." you exclaim, and he's not moved. you think you hate him just a little. "it's not fair, you're being mean." you express, looking down at your lap, and you know that you're only behaving this way because you're overwhelmed.

"i'm not." he promises, and he ducks just a little so that you're looking directly at him again. "i wouldn't be, especially not about this." he adds. "i just want you to say it again for me, can you do that? please?" he asks, and you hate how absurdly handsome he is sitting across from you. he's got this way of looking innocent even when he's baiting you, and he's always got this intensity in his stare that's enough to knock the wind out of you. it's kryptonite, and precisely why you concede.

"spencer, i love you." he groans, quietly, but you hear him all the same. he's kissing you before you can react, and it's easy getting lost in moments like these. he always kisses you like he's trying to swallow you whole, too handsy for his own good. his kisses are desperate, tongue swiping out just slightly, likely to test the waters. you match his ferocity, and let your own tongue drag over his bottom lip before you press a bit more forcibly, hurriedly, desperately.

"i love you." you don't know why you're saying it again, but it's not as hard as the first time. you kiss him again, grumbling when he's quick to lean out of reach. you shoot him a sour glance, and he's not moved.

"hey, i love you too." he echoes you in the most love sick sort of way. it feels precisely as you had described it earlier, and that makes you happier. the fact that the feelings didn't change, didn't disappear all because you'd said the three words back. you hum contentedly, and then your head is back on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. "does it still sound like i mean it?" he asks, he questions you softly, like he's trying to preserve the moment.

"mhm." you answer quietly, and you strain to kiss his throat once, before your back to resting against him. "did it sound like i meant it?" you mimic his line of questioning, and you're happy when his arms are back around you. he's a lot more respectable this time around, but before long, his hands are finding their chosen place back under your shirt, exploring your waist and hips as you try not to squirm.

"yes." he replies, and you're glad to hear it. "can you say it again?" you suppose in the grand scheme, you do have lots to make up for. he'd probably want you to say it over and over again.

"i love you." it's instantaneous, as is the way spencer's hold on you grows more firm. you hadn't wanted to mention it, the way sitting here like this with him had you itching for more, but it seemed you weren't the only one in that headspace. "spence?" you question, and he's dragging his hand up and down your back, legs starting to bounce just slightly.

"yeah?"

"can we go back to before now?" you ask, and you expect him to be a tease. he could never just give you what you wanted, he always had to drag it out, and make you nervous.

"back to before?" he pries, and he's leading. you huff audibly, and you adjust yourself on his lap, trying to control the way the pit in your stomach seemed to grow warm, heating you up from the inside. "you'll have to be a bit more specific than that, love." he tsks, and you hate him.

"i just-" you frown, hating this part. "i want you." you deadpan. "and you know that, so i don't know why you're being like this." except you do, because it's amusing to spencer to watch you get all flustered and nervous. you don't know why, but it's how he is. you think that one day you'll try your hand at flustering him back, just to see what all the hype is about. "i want you to-" and you're not sure exactly what counts for too blunt with a boyfriend like spencer. "let's f-fuck, okay?" and spencer's got that stupid amused look on his face again.

god, you hate him.

"that wasn't too hard was it?" he questions, and you cut your eyes. you're certain he'll make you pay for the looks, and the smart mouth down the line, but you can't care right now.

"it was excruciating." you correct haughtily. "you should be ashamed of yourself for treating the girl that you love this way." you add, and spencer's got his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he takes you in. you gulp, shuffling just slightly as you realize precisely the predicament you've gotten yourself into.

"do you want me to make it up to you?" he asks, and he sounds breathier than before, which only serves to make you more of a hot-and-bothered mess.

"i-" you blink owlishly, unsure of his intentions.

"yes or no?" he presses, and you think either way this goes, your done for. "you've just got to say the word."

"yes." head nodding, eyes blown to hell, it's easy enough. "you should. you definitely should." you respond, and then he's kissing you again. he's much more intense this time, stealing all of the air out of your lungs as his nails scratch against your skin, you hands moving to cup his face, you hope to keep him anchored to you this way. when he breaks from the kiss again, you're ready to lay into him, only to squeak when he scoops you up, standing up from the chair.

your legs immediately lock around his hips, and you're panting already, he seemed to have that constant effect. all it took was a little kissing, and you were already a mess. "i love you." he says this like it's a reminder, and you are quick to chase his mouth with your own. you could say you were a bit obsessed with the act.

"i know." you reply, and his eyes roll at you, but he still looks as love sick as you feel.

"good. i'm going to need you to remember that, because when we get to the bed, i'm going to do a lot of things that might make you think the opposite." he says this like a definitive promise, and you gasp. "do you understand?" he asks, and you're shivering, the anticipation already managing to strike you down.

"yeah-yes!" you stutter. "i understand, it's okay." you add. spencer's already got this look of pride residing in his eyes, and you know that you're in for it, silly you for thinking love confessions would be enough to get you out of all the backtalk and clear attitude. "i'm ready!" you insist like the eager girl you are.

"we'll see." he retorts.

god, you love him.

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clarii · 5 months ago

Text

Pretty Girl

Summary: After months of teasing and playful banter, Eddie Munson finally reveals his true feelings for the reader. What starts as typical teasing with his affectionate nickname, “pretty girl,” soon turns into something much deeper. Everything gets revealed on New Year’s Eve.

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Reader

Warnings: Fluff

Author’s Note: I wanted to thank you guys for the love by publishing a story connecting with New Year’s Eve in a way. Also, the last phrase had me thinking about High School Musical (if you know, you know).

It was just another regular day at Family Video, the hum of the fluorescent lights and the smell of popcorn from the break room filling the space. You were shelving some newly returned movies when you heard the door’s familiar jingle. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

Eddie Munson.

You had worked here for months, and every time Eddie came in, it was the same routine. He’d walk in with his usual dramatic flair—his leather jacket hanging loosely around his shoulders, his wild hair a little more out of place than usual—and head straight for the counter, grinning like he had a secret.

You didn’t mind, though. Eddie was a good friend, and you’d grown used to his antics. That’s why you couldn’t help but smirk when he called out to you across the store.

“Hey, pretty girl!” His voice rang through the aisles as he casually walked toward you, his eyes locking with yours.

You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “Hey, Munson,” you called back, continuing your work. “What’s the deal? Come to rent the latest slasher flick again?”

Eddie leaned against the counter, his eyes not leaving you for a second. “Nah, I’m here for more than just the movies.” He gave a little wink. “But I’ll take something to pass the time.”

You raised an eyebrow, holding back a chuckle. “You’re always here for something else,” you teased, your voice light. “Got any new drama to share?”

Eddie pushed himself off the counter and walked over to one of the shelves, pretending to browse the titles, though you could tell he wasn’t really looking for anything. “Just the usual chaos. You know, the kind that makes life a lot more interesting.”

His tone was playful, but there was a hint of something else in his voice. Something softer. You caught it but brushed it off. It was Eddie, after all—always a little too loud, always joking, always teasing.

He paused in front of a horror movie box, turning to face you, a grin on his face. “By the way, you look extra cute today. What’s the occasion?”

You froze, your fingers momentarily pausing in the middle of organizing. “What, now you’re complimenting me?” you asked, your tone light but trying to cover up the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

Eddie just leaned in a little, his voice quieter, his eyes softer than before. “I mean it, pretty girl. You always look good, but today… damn, you’re really shining.”

You couldn’t help the heat that rose to your cheeks, and you quickly shifted the conversation. “Just doing my job, Eddie,” you said, shuffling some DVDs around to distract yourself.

Eddie chuckled, walking away to grab a movie. “Whatever you say, pretty girl.” He shot you one last grin before heading to the counter to check out.

Steve and Robin, who were manning the counter together, exchanged a knowing glance as Eddie left. You could tell they were waiting for you to say something, but you just shrugged it off.

“Don’t even start,” you said, rolling your eyes.

Steve leaned on the counter, his smirk not even trying to hide itself. “What’s up with him calling you that? He never calls anyone ‘pretty girl.’”

Robin chimed in, her voice teasing. “Yeah, what’s going on? Is there something you two aren’t telling us?”

You could feel your cheeks burning, but you laughed it off. “It’s nothing. It’s just Eddie being Eddie. He calls everyone weird pet names. He’s harmless, trust me.”

Steve didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t press the issue. Robin, however, was eyeing you carefully, clearly still a little skeptical.

“Whatever you say,” she said, but there was an underlying tone of curiosity in her voice.

The next day at school, you tried to shake off the awkwardness from last night. But it didn’t help that every time you saw Eddie, your heart skipped a beat. As you walked through the halls of Hawkins High, you heard that familiar voice call your name.

“Hey, pretty girl!”

You turned around, and there he was again—Eddie, standing a few feet away, leaning against the lockers with that same devil-may-care grin on his face. Your stomach flipped.

“Can’t you just call me my name like a normal person?” you joked, trying to mask the warmth creeping up your neck.

Eddie laughed, pushing off the lockers and walking toward you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Where’s the fun in that?” His voice was light and teasing, but you noticed the slight softness in his expression as he reached you.

“You doing anything fun after school?” he asked casually, his gaze lingering on you a little longer than usual.

You shrugged, trying to ignore the way your heart was beating faster than usual. “I don’t know. Probably just hang out, catch up on homework.” You tried to keep your tone casual, but something in Eddie’s smile made you feel like he could see right through you.

He took a step closer, his grin widening. “Well, I was thinking of hitting up the arcade with the gang later. You should come.”

You hesitated, a part of you wanting to brush it off, but another part of you—one that you tried to ignore—wanted to say yes.

“Maybe,” you said with a shrug. “I’ll think about it.”

Eddie’s grin softened, and he leaned down a little, his voice lowering. “Alright, pretty girl. Just know the invitation’s always open.”

That night, the gang—Mike, Dustin, Lucas, Erica, Steve, Robin, Eddie, and you—were all at the arcade, the familiar noise of flashing lights and game sounds filling the air. You were having fun, laughing with everyone, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that Eddie was paying a little extra attention to you. He kept leaning in close, making sure his hand brushed against yours when he passed you the soda, shooting you that same playful grin.

“Hey, pretty girl, you wanna go for the high score on this one?” Eddie called over to you as he stepped up to the pinball machine, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. “You know I’ll beat you, right?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “We’ll see about that.”

You were starting to feel the weight of those words. The teasing, the smiles, the way he would call you “pretty girl” so casually—it wasn’t just joking anymore. You could tell he meant it, but you still weren’t sure what that meant.

Just before midnight, everyone gathered at the Wheeler’s house to get ready for the New Year. Music was playing, everyone chatting about the year gone by, but your mind kept drifting back to Eddie. He was sitting next to you, his knee brushing against yours, his usual teasing smile softened into something warmer.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Eddie murmured quietly, his voice low and almost shy as he leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. “May I have a kiss?”

Your heart stopped. You froze, unsure of how to respond. This wasn’t like the usual teasing. This wasn’t just Eddie being Eddie. There was sincerity in his voice, a softness that you couldn’t ignore.

You swallowed hard, your nerves kicking into high gear. “I thought you were just messing with me,” you whispered, your voice shaky.

Eddie smiled gently, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I’m not. I’ve meant it for a while now.”

Your breath hitched as the realization sank in. All those times he had called you “pretty girl,” the teasing, the little moments of closeness—it wasn’t just a joke. Eddie had been serious, and you had missed it.

Without saying another word, you leaned in, your lips meeting his in a soft kiss, the world around you fading away.

The kiss had left you breathless, your heart racing as you pulled away, trying to comprehend the sudden shift in everything. Eddie’s gaze never left you, his expression soft and filled with that same warmth you hadn’t noticed before. His hand, still lingering near your cheek, brushed your hair back as though it were a natural thing to do. But the world around you felt like it had gone still, leaving just the two of you in this quiet, suspended moment.

“Pretty girl,” Eddie whispered again, his voice a little more hushed now. “I’ve been waiting to do that for so long.”

You blinked, trying to find the words to respond, but they got stuck in your throat.

You felt a gentle pressure on your hand as Eddie, sensing your hesitation, took your fingers in his, his grip firm but not forceful. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a silent reassurance.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asked softly, his eyes searching yours, as though he were afraid that maybe he’d made a mistake.

You nodded slowly, still processing everything.

Before you could speak, the sound of voices from the rest of the group interrupted, pulling you both back to the present. The kids were huddled together near the TV, Steve and Robin not far off, watching the countdown to the new year.

“Well, looks like everyone’s about to make their New Year’s resolutions,” you said with a small smile, trying to shift your focus. But Eddie’s gaze didn’t leave yours.

“Pretty girl,” he murmured again, his voice filled with affection, “you’ve already got me making my resolution. Just you.”

You chuckled, feeling the warmth spread through you again. “You’re hopeless, you know that?”

Eddie grinned, leaning in just a bit closer, his lips brushing your ear. “Hopelessly in love with you, pretty girl.”

Your heart skipped at the words, but before you could respond, the countdown began, and everyone around you started to cheer. The noise around you rose as the ball dropped, the sound of “Happy New Year!” ringing in your ears.

“Three… two… one!”

And just as the clock struck midnight, you found yourself pulled into another kiss—this time, longer, more confident, and filled with something deeper than just the spark of the new year. You could feel Eddie’s heart beating against yours, his hand resting gently on your waist as you kissed him back, your nerves dissipating with every passing second.

When you pulled back, your foreheads touched, both of you breathing heavily from the kiss, but smiling widely. “Happy New Year, pretty girl,” Eddie whispered, his voice low and filled with meaning.

“I love you too. Happy New Year, Eddie,” you replied softly, the words carrying a weight you hadn’t expected, a promise that maybe this was more than just a new year—it was the start of something new.

#stranger things #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #stranger things x reader #steve harrington #robin buckley #stranger things x y/n

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mommyslittlebird · 6 days ago

Text

Mama

Stepmom!Wanda x Reader

Summary: After a few months of staying with Wanda, she decides to take you on a vacation, but overwhelming feeling boil to the surface and get in the way.

CW: Stepmother/stepdaughter, unrequited love, mommy issues

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: Happy Mother's Day! This took me forever, and I'm still not sure how I feel about it. Thank you to @wandamaximoffsbadgirl for the help while I was trying to finish this up.

Chapter 1 of Mama

Before Wanda, the term “Mama” had always been a sore spot for you. It was a word that sort of seemed to highlight a wound, a gaping hole inside of you. “Mama” was an absence: not only a thing you could not have, but also a thing you could not know. Even in your mind, which had grown so used to mothering itself, you could not conceptualize a Mama.

You could only glue together bits and pieces of women you had admired throughout your life. You liked the way the after school lady braided your hair. You liked that your neighbor let you pick flowers from her garden. You liked your friend's mom’s muffin recipe. You liked your 11th grade English teacher’s soothing voice and soft smile.

But the flimsy fragments of kind women could not fill the mama shaped hole in your chest. Because, at the end of the day, there were still no soft arms to run into. There were still no gentle hands patching up your scraped knees or neatly folded notes in the bottom of your lunchbox.

That is, until there was Wanda.

Suddenly, “mama” had a meaning again. It was no longer a word of absence or distant fantasies. It was a word of admiration and love and the absolute certainty that you were safe and cared for.

You sat on Wanda’s lap, anxiously fidgeting with her rings. You were allowed to do things like this with Wanda, sit in her lap and play with her rings like a nervous child. It wasn’t frowned upon or chided as a child’s habit. Instead, Wanda gently wrapped her arm around your waist, splaying the hand you weren’t playing with across your stomach. “What’s wrong, angel?”

You shrugged. “I’m nervous. For our trip tomorrow.” You and Wanda had decided on what she called a “girl’s weekend” this week. You hadn’t done a lot of travelling with Wanda. You hadn’t done a lot of travelling, period. But Wanda had planned a trip special for the two of you in… Pennsylvania? She promised to make it a low pressure trip. It was just over a three day weekend, so you didn’t want to do anything too energy intensive. You did have to go back to class on Monday.

She pulled you back against her chest and kissed the crown of your head. “There’s nothing to worry about, baby. I’ll take care of everything.”

“I know. But…” you stammered, turning back to face her. “what if… I don’t know… you know that sometimes I get to not feeling good, and I’m not always up for going out….” You had a really sensitive and unpredictable stomach. You had a tendency to get sick from eating random things, or even nothing at all. It had always been the bane of your existence when it came to plans like this. You dreaded having to drop out of things at the last minute because you started to feel sick all of the sudden. Everyone, even the people who acknowledged you couldn’t help it, was always so annoyed with you when it happened. You could hardly blame them, though, it was terribly inconvenient to have your well thought out plans so consistently wrecked by the same issue over and over again. Wanda hadn’t gotten annoyed with it yet, but you were sure that it would only be a matter of time.

She sighed empathically. She was more than familiar with your health issues and your insecurities around them. She also knew there was nothing exactly she could tell you to make them go away. All she could do was show up again and again, every time you felt sick and needed her. She pressed another kiss to your head. “Then we’ll curl up in bed and watch Full House reruns until you feel better,” she reassured softly. “I know I wanted to surprise you, but…” she crooned, leaning forward and resting her chin on your shoulder, draping her arms around your waist, “I’d like to remind you I planned this trip with you in mind. I know you well enough to know that a weekend full of grand plans and action packed adventure isn’t really your speed.” She rubbed your forearms, gently caressing them up and down. “I’m not taking you to Pennsylvania because I just love Pennsylvania. I’m taking you on a trip because I want to spend a weekend with you, even if that’s just in a hotel bed.”

You took both of her hands in yours and leaned your head back onto her shoulder. “Thank you,” you swallowed quietly. You turned your head to nuzzle her cheek. You weren’t used to someone going so far out of their way to customize something special just for you.

“Of course, baby,” she smiled. “Anything for my special girl.” She kissed your temple and whispered in your ear. “Bring a bathing suit.”

***********

The “hotel” Wanda mentioned actually turned out to be more of a resort. It was right up your alley with a mixture of genuinely nice, elegant features and kitschy, over the top opulence. It was technically a couple’s resort that went really overboard with the Valentine’s Day-esque theme. The lobby and halls all had bright red carpet with gold accents. There were hearts everywhere, from the carpet to the curly trim leading up to the ceiling. It was just absurd enough to be funny rather than an odd place for your stepmother to take you on a trip.

The kitschy opulence only increased as you made your way to your room. The room was unlike anything you’d ever seen before. In fact, “room” wasn’t even the word you’d use to describe it. You walked into a sort of small lounge area with a loveseat, an armchair, and a small tv. But the most notable feature was the wall directly across from the door. It was made entirely of mirrors aside from what appeared to be a giant coupe glass. There was a small doorway behind the mirror that led to a staircase up to the top of the glass. You stepped into the center of the glass, which was about the size of a hot tub. You were shocked to see it had a drain and a faucet.

“Is this a bathtub?” you gasped excitedly.

Wanda giggled and nodded, looking up at you from the lounge. “A jacuzzi. But yes, it is.”

Continuing down the hallway, you found the bedroom. It was a massive, circular bed with a mirror on the ceiling. The white sheets were littered with red and pink rose petals. You jumped on to the bed, sending the rose petals flying. Wanda laughed from the doorway.

“So? What do you think?” she asked, a slight nervous lilt in her voice. She realized how odd it may seem, to bring her stepdaughter to a couple’s resort, but it seemed like the perfect place to take you. It would have more than enough entertainment for the next two days, but it didn’t require you to go out and do things that may drain you. Most of the entertainment was localized to the resort, if not in the room itself. There was a rooftop bar, a few restaurants, a small arcade, a big pool, and even a putt putt course.

“I love it!” you giggled.

Wanda smiled, pointing to the glass door on the other side of the bedroom. “You haven’t even seen the best part.”

You walked over to the door, opening it to reveal a room made almost entirely of glass, overlooking the beautiful forest that surrounded the resort. The room was relatively small, but in the center there was a small, heart-shaped pool.

You gasped. “Is this just ours?”

She nodded. “Just for you and me.”

You threw yourself into her, smiling dopily. “Thank you, mama. Truly, this is… magnificent. Exceeding all expectations.”

She squeezed you tight and kissed the top of your head. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of your coconut shampoo. “Anything for you, my darling,” she said with a smile.

You walked to the window, looking out over the beautiful resort property. There was a small forest, a lake, and a larger outdoor pool. You put your hand to the window, gasping in awe. Wanda came up behind you, wrapping her arms around your waist. She trailed her hand up your arm, drawing your hand back to your own waist. She rested her chin on your shoulder. “I was thinking we do seafood tonight?” she suggested. You loved seafood. “We could doordash it. Have it brought straight to the room.”

You cupped her cheek, nuzzling her face against yours. “That sounds lovely,” you hummed pleasantly.

She kissed your temple. “You want to wash up? Then we can spend the evening in our pajamas, and watch something on the television. You can pick out something on Netflix or youtube.”

You giggled. “You know me so well.”

It didn’t surprise you to find the shower was just as spacious and luxurious as the rest of the hotel room. It had three shower heads so two people could shower at the same time without leaving anyone out of the water. It made for a heavenly showering experience, even just for one person.

You put on your favorite silky pajamas, drying out your hair and clearing out of the bathroom so Wanda could shower.

You laid prone on the giant bed, staring up at the ceiling mirror while you waited on Wanda. You couldn’t stop smiling, still giddy about the absurdly fancy room and the carefully chosen resort. Your preference for more relaxed activities was frequently overlooked when it came to vacations. It’s a large part of the reason you hated traveling. You hated feeling like dead weight in groups of high energy people who wanted to explore and do as much as they could possibly squeeze into a short period of time. It made it so trips were a thing of over exhaustion and stretching yourself too thin rather than a source of joy.

But Wanda didn’t put your preferences and needs in a secondary category that she had to work around. She took them in stride, working with them rather than around them. She wanted to prove that it was completely possible to have a good vacation that catered to your easy going nature. And she succeeded.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she asked, getting out of the shower and drying her hair with a towel in the doorway. She threw the towel in the hamper and came to sit on the bed next to you.

You scooted closer to her, resting your head on her lower stomach “I’m just… happy. Grateful. You did an excellent job to find this place.”

She smiled down at you, carding her fingers through your hair. “I’m really glad you like it,” she said in a low voice. “I was a little nervous, honestly. I know a couples resort is an… odd pick. But I know you like it best when it’s just the two of us. And, well, there’s really no better place for two people to be alone together. Plenty of… privacy.”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “Yeah, I guess they don’t make a lot of self-contained resorts for mothers and daughters to hang out alone, huh?”

She chuckled. “That they do not.”

“It’s okay. I think we can handle a couple rose petals and shoddy sex jokes,” you joked and shifted to lay next to her.

She giggled, tucking your hair behind your ear while she admired your giddy smile. She rubbed your chin. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

There was a long moment of silence while the two of you stared at each other with wide smiles. You had so much joy and love in your heart. And then, something in your brain short circuited.

There were supposed to be categories in my mind that differentiated between different types of love. The way you loved your family is different from the way you loved your friends, which is different from the way you loved your romantic partner and so on. You loved Wanda as a mother, but you didn’t exactly know how to love a mother. There wasn’t a category for this thing you were feeling. There was just love. So you did what you knew how to do when you loved someone. You leaned forward and kissed her.

And she kissed you back, for a moment. It was more out of shock than anything. But the moment her mind registered what was happening, she pulled away, pushing gently against your sternum. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again. There was a long moment before she started again. “Honey… we… I…” she stammered, unsure of what to say or where to start.

You didn’t let her sit in the discomfort long, though. As soon as the paralyzing shock of what’d you’d done wore away, you shot upwards and out of the bed, making a b line for the door.

“Sweetheart… wait…” she said, sitting up to try and stop you. Grab you before you get away. Anything to keep you from leaving. But she wasn’t fast enough. By the time she was on her feet, you were already through the door.

You didn’t know where you were going. The hallways of the hotel were disorienting without any clear signage or direction. The walls, previously hilarious and gaudy, were now overwhelming and suffocating. The red and gold patterned carpet seemed to stretch on infinitely, repeating over and over again with the same diamond shapes under your feet no matter how fast or far you ran. You finally found a stairwell, one that was clearly not meant for guest use, and you rushed down the stairs. Unlike the highly stylized hallways and elevators, the stairwell was a poorly-lit, echoey cement chamber that twisted downwards further than you could see. You only stopped when you hit a dead end: a locked door that presumably led into the basement. You scrambled under the final flight of stairs, tucked your knees to your chest, and sobbed.

You ruined it. You ruined everything. You’d spent your entire life searching for something to fill the mom-shaped hole in your heart, and you just happened to find the greatest woman in the entire world. She’d given you everything you could ever want and more, made you feel whole in ways you’d never dreamed of, and you repaid her with a paraphilic, pseudo-incestous kiss.

You heard the door click open from the top floor, the sound echoing like a gunshot down the stairwell. Then, her voice: “Y/N? Y/N are you in here?” She sounded panicked, out of breath like she’d run through every corridor in the building looking for you.

You would have stayed silent, if you could have, but the flat concrete walls of the stairwell amplified every choked cry by 10. You could already hear her running down the steps. She found you tucked in the back corner under the last flight of stairs, trembling and shaking with the effort of staying quiet.

“Oh baby,” she sighed, kneeling down beside you and wiping the hair from your wet cheeks. “Come here.” She sat cross legged against the wall next to you and pulled you into her lap, gathering your quivering body up into her arms. She kissed your head, resting her chin on top of it while she rocked you back and forth.

You wanted to protest: tell her to go away and wait for you back in the room, but you couldn’t. You just cried harder and harder until your body was heaving with the effort. “I’m sorry,” you sobbed, muffled by the fabric of her pajama shirt. “I’m so so sorry.”

“It’s okay, baby,” she soothed, running her hand up and down your spine. “It’s okay. I understand it was just an accident. It happens sometimes. Our bodies get confused and our feelings spill out in ways we don’t mean. I understand, angel. I know that’s not how you feel about me.”

You swallowed, choking down a sob. It didn’t come as a surprise that Wanda forgave you so easily, but her words twisted up your insides. Maybe because you didn’t think you deserved them, or worse. Maybe you knew, somewhere deep inside of yourself, that they weren’t true. What you had done wasn’t some knee jerk reaction that held no meaning or reflected nothing about how you felt towards her. No. You didn’t kiss her by mistake. You kissed her because you wanted to. Because you loved her.

“And what if…” you stammered, too upset to stop yourself. “What if it is? What if that is how I feel about you?”

Wanda’s hand froze on your back, and she stopped rocking. Her entire body went taut like a bow string about to snap. Then she sighed, relaxing and continuing her movements. She kissed your head again, swallowing hard before whispering into your hair. “Then we’ll figure that out too,” she said finally. “We’ll figure that out too.”

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff x reader #mommy wanda #mommy!wanda #wanda maximoff x y/n #mama series #mama wanda #mama #stepmom!wanda x reader #stepmom!wanda #stepmom wanda

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