#jack boot jump

[age-of-moonknight]

Werewolf by Night: Red Band (Vol. 1/2024), #2.

Writer: Jason Loo; Penciler: Sergio Dàvila; Inkers: Jay Leisten and Aure Jimenez; Colorist: Alex Sinclair; Letterer: Cory Petit

[pulpimpossible]

What the f...?

[specsthesecond]

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°

You wake up in the comfort of your home, snuggled in thick, fluffy sheets. Despite the cold, birds still chirp outside, advising you to start your day already. You stay in bed a little longer today, staring out the window, trying to get a hold of your thoughts.

It's been a good few days since you left that Orc's house, a few days to think about the experience and mull over what to do now.

You jolt out of your thoughts when you see, out the window, quick anxious scampering behind the snow covered bushes. Jumping out of bed, you hastily get dressed, fumbling with your boots, grabbing your trusty bow hanging by the door and a few arrows. You peek outside, sneaking as quietly as possible on the old wooden floor of the stoop, arrow already notched against the bowstring. You can only see the critters ears, twitching, listening for any trouble. It's either a rabbit or a hare, you hope for the latter.

You wait there for a good fifteen minutes, bow strung, waiting for the thing to move just a little to the left of the bush for a better shot. Your fingers burn on the string, didn't have time to grab your gloves. The second it hops slightly out of the bush, you let go of the arrow and send it flying right into the cotton-tailed critter.

When you step back inside your warm cottage, you make a beeline for the kitchen with the hare in your hand. It's quite a lucky catch, a large jack. You use this as an excuse, you actually come up with plenty excuses while you prepare a hearty stew. "There's so much meat here, it would be wrong not to share." "If I don't repay him, it'll weigh on me for far too long." "I need to bring him his flask back." "I need a good hike anyway."

Stupid rationales for the absurd idea you have conjured up. Nevertheless, you get out your fanciest ceramic pot and cook your best hare stew. You fret, far more than you'd admit, over how little ingredients you have due to the winter.

Come afternoon, you're trekking the woods, past the Human territory and into unwelcomed lands. You clutch the handle of the basket holding your steaming pot of stew and his flask tightly inside, which you filled with your favourite Red bush tea. This is just so you're even, and then you never have to think about this Orc ever again.

Somewhere in your mind you know that's not true, You'll never be able to forget what happened. You were content in your woods, pretending you weren't lonely, why has this Orc changed that? It was easy pushing the cravings down before, why is the hunger suddenly so present, so consuming.

You eventually step into the clearing where his home lies, Your thoughts continue to meander as your feet take you straight to the steps into his home. Now, you can't just leave it out for him but you can't just knock on the door and run away either...

You knock on the door three times, taking a deep breath and then cursing yourself for needing to do that. What if he doesn't want to see you again? Sure, he saved you from dying but that doesn't mean he'd want you in his home ag-

The door opens slowly, it takes you a minute to look up from the stone floor of the small veranda but when you do, it's those same dark brown eyes looking back at you. He looks shocked to see you, you expected as much. After a few awkward moments of staring, you hold the basket up with both hands, opening the top to reveal the red ceramic pot and his flask. He looks down at the parcel with a rather blank expression and it makes your skin crawl with anxiety.

You gesture for him to take the basket and he quickly, with frustratingly gentle hands, takes it from you. He takes a peek inside the pot, letting the built-up steam poor out and his eyes grow even wider, you can't tell if he likes it or not and it's killing you.

Of course he didn't want to see you. The last time you were together he woke up to you, a stranger, on top of him watching him sleep! Your face is hot with shame, you turn to leave but then hear him say something in Orcish, you turn around to face him. You're a little taken back to see the hopeful look in his eyes as he holds the door open for you, waiting for you to accept his invitation.

Timidly, you step inside. Being here again sends a shiver down your spine. The Orc gently rests the basket on his little (in comparison to him) living room table, then heads to the kitchen. He comes back with a tray of two bowls, two mugs and cutlery. It shocks you how easily you take his silent invitation to stay for dinner as you both set the table as if it's a normal thing for basically strangers to do. While he dishes up hearty portions of steamy stew in rather large bowls, you pour the red tinted tea into the two mugs he brought.

You sit down on opposite sides of the wooden table and dig in. The spoon, like the bowl, is rather big and made out of what appears to be a hard dark wood. As you taste your stew, doubts trickle into your mind. Is it not thick enough? Is the meat too tough? Do Orcs prefer tougher meat? Is it too bland for him?

The scrape of his chair on the floor interrupts your thoughts and you look up at him. He's scooping up more stew with the serving spoon and plopping it into his empty bowl. You stare at him bewildered when you realise he's already going for seconds. How did he even swallow all that so fast?

He notices you staring and looks embarrassed, like he's done something wrong. You shake your head lightly and gesture for him to continue. He smiles rather bashfully for an orc and plops another spoonful onto his heaped bowl. You hide the smile that creeps onto your face behind a hot mug of tea.

After the pot has been thoroughly emptied and your stomachs are full, he starts clearing up his side of the table. You go to follow, but he swiftly takes your bowl from you, sets it on the tray with everything else and walks off to the kitchen. For a second you sit rather dumbly at the empty table, the sound of splashing water comes from the kitchen as you look around the orc's abode.

Your eyes are drawn to a packed bookshelf in the corner, you try not to be that impressed that an orc would willingly read so many books. You imagine you would be pretty insulted if someone said that about you, and you know full well that reading is a lovely way to pass the time in such a quiet life as yours and his.

He steps back into the room holding two mugs of what was left of the tea, you suppose that means he likes it. He places them on the small table in front of the couch and takes a seat. He doesn't show any indication that he expects you to sit with him but you find yourself sinking down next to him anyway.

He picks up a little book on the low table and pages through it, it's green with bold Orcish on the front. You try to seem uninterested with what he's doing, staring down at your tea until he shuffles closer to you, pointing to a specific page in the book. You scrunch your eyebrows and lean closer, reading the text he's pointing to.

"Thank you."

Your breath catches and you read further down the page, seeing bold Orcish words followed by Human Common words.

It's a translation book.

You laugh (more like wheeze) in surprise and disbelief. The Orc looks nervous, looking back at the book to make sure he pointed to the right word. You gently take the book from him and page through it, searching.

After quite a while, you finally find it, in what you assume is the "Helpful phrases" section, and you point it out for him.

"You're welcome."

He lets out a hearty laugh and you grin at the sound. You made him laugh. His eyes crinkle, deepening the crows feet just above his cheeks, which seem a darker green than before.

After that, you sit together in quiet comfort, drinking the rest of your tea and peeking at the words in his book as he pages through the translations. The book is new, the spine isn't creased from use and the pages are still firm and fresh. Did he get this book because of you?

The thought stirs something strange in your belly and you can't tell if you should invite it in or reject it. Your eyes shift to the window near the door and you jump when you see the sun is setting. How has it been that long?

You rise from the couch and grab your basket, shoving your now clean ceramic pot into it. The Orc looks at you confused, looks towards the window, and then shoots up himself, quickly heading to the kitchen. You shrug your fur coat on at the door and wait patiently for him to return, basket in hand.

He returns with the same flask he gave you the last time you left in a hurry. He may be even more bashful this time he hands it to you and you don't need to open it to know what's inside. You nod your head again in thanks and he smiles wider than you'd think an Orc capable, if you hadn't met him, that is.

You walk out of his house, flask tucked in your basket. When you reach the end of the clearing, you turn around and there he is, standing on the veranda watching you leave. You hesitate for a moment and then give him a little wave goodbye. He returns it with his own.

As you walk through thick trees, you wonder if the nearby human village has a book vendor. Not for any particular reason.

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

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[luveline]

Hiiiiii!!!!!!! I recently got back into criminal minds and devoured all ur hotch fics like a MANIAC (you write. So unbelievably well. Im also in love w ur tasm peter stuff, you are just such a good writer thru and thru) and that one request where Jack calls reader mom for the first time really stuck w me so I was wondering if maybe I could request smth of the opposite? Like not-so-single mom!reader and hotch have been dating for a while and her lil girl calls him dad for the first time :3 🖤🖤

thank you for requesting! 💌 —your daughter calls Hotch dad for the first time. fem, 2k

“Come in, come in!” Hotch says, the door held ajar by his arm, forcing you to squeeze in and save the heat. “Quickly, honey, please, get out of the rain.” 

Sarah bursts in through the door and away from the rain, her vinyl coat covered in raindrops, her boots wet with mud. “Aaron!” she says, pulling it into something softened and excited at once, though her ‘r’s are weak, closer to ‘w’s. “I missed you.” She jumps from one foot to the other. 

He makes sure you’re safely inside before he abandons you. It’s not very kind to you, but he can’t help himself. “Sarah,” he says, without your daughter’s sweetness but heavily fond, “I missed you more, honey. How many days has it been?” 

“Four!” she says, holding up four fingers as Hotch grabs her by the waist. 

He doesn’t mind her wet coat, working an arm around and beneath her to shuck off her muddy shoes. They topple to the ground to unveil damp socks. 

“Oh, no, your socks are wet. I did all the laundry while we were waiting, I have some warm ones for you in the dryer. Should we get you out of this coat?” 

“Where’s Jack?” you ask. 

“Eating. He was starving, couldn’t wait.” 

You kick your shoes off and gather them with Sarah’s to line up by the door. Hotch takes off Sarah’s coat with some one-armed manoeuvring, aware of her smiley gaze following his every move. 

“I,” you say, pressing a swift kiss to his cheek, cold lips to his rough skin, “am gonna go to the toilet really quickly. Hi, handsome.” 

He savours your kiss and watches you go. He owes you a better greeting, he missed you just as much as he missed your girl. For now, he wipes the cold from Sarah’s cheeks and stations her comfortably on his navel. 

He loves her like his own. He’s privileged to get the opportunity, and it’s hard not to feel that low level of awe whenever she’s around, because she loves him the same way. Sarah waits for him to smile before she wraps her arms around his neck, long enough to twine her fingers in the short hair she finds there. 

It’s funny to love someone you had no hand in bringing into the world, but no less real. He’d do anything for Sarah. I miss you doesn’t cover it, but it’s a start. “I missed you,” he murmurs, not well-versed in baby talk but always willing to try for his kids. “It’s so nice to see you. Jack missed you too, should we go see him? I can change your socks.” 

He ushers her back enough to see her. She has such loving eyes, not shy at all as she nods her head. “Can you make crackers?” 

He beams. “Oooh, yes. Crackers and cheese and apple slices, I know what you want, honey. It’s ready for you in the kitchen.” 

Things weren’t easy at first for either you nor Hotch. He works too much, and you both have priorities that can’t be shifted, but the connection between you was easy. Love, undoubtedly, pretty much the moment you met, even if it scared him. He never thought he’d get a second chance and he’s not sure you thought you’d find yours either, and yet loving you has been as helpless as loving your daughter. He doesn’t have a choice and he doesn’t want one. 

In this time, you’ve found routine. He’s introduced the idea of moving in together and you’re excited for it, though concrete plans haven’t been laid. There’s a lot of questions and no need to rush into answering them yet. He has no intentions of letting you go now —Hotch will do anything it takes to keep his small family. 

Today, right now, that’s crackers. 

“Sarah!” Jack says when he sees them, jumping off of his chair to climb on top of it. He holds his hands out and Hotch leans down with a loving laugh to let his son hug her. “You’re back!” 

“I’m back,” she agrees. 

“Do you want some of my sandwiches? Daddy made me two.” 

“Yes!” she says, wiggling to be put down and given what he’s promising. 

Hotch fights to take her to the sink and wash her little hands, to her horror and whining. He says, “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you gotta wash your hands before you eat.” 

He puts her in her own chair, and it is Sarah’s chair, outfitted with a big pillow so she can see the table and marked by a pink star sticker, putting a placemat in front of her. Jack quickly pushes one of his sandwiches towards her. “There you go.” 

“Thank you, Jackers,” she says. 

Hotch smiles. Despite their different interests and ages, they’re quick to get along. 

He shouldn’t pry while you’re in the bathroom, but he worries about you. “Honey?” he calls up the stairs. 

“I’m just changing!” 

“Yeah? Can you bring some socks for Sarah, please?” 

You shout back something incomprehensible. He returns to the kitchen, where Sarah looks over the chair with pleading eyes and asks, “Crackers?” a piece of lettuce stuck to her chin. 

“Ah,” he says showfully, turning to the fridge to grab the plate of crackers, sliced cheese, and apples he’d Saran wrapped an hour ago. He peels off the wrapping and places it in front of her. “Here, sweetheart. Do you want anything else? Maybe some chips?” 

She laughs and grabs a piece of apple without answering him. 

“What about you, sweetheart? Drink?” he asks Jack. 

“Yes please, daddy.” 

Hotch makes Jack a cup of orange juice and Sarah a sippy cup, hers diluted some with water. He places them down in front of the kids, crouching between their chairs, intending to stay and chat. “How’s that?” he asks, tilting his head to the side to listen for your light footsteps on the stairs.  

“Thanks, daddy,” Jack says. 

“Thank you, daddy,” Sarah echoes, reaching for him. Hotch offers his hand, startled, not quick enough to hide it. She doesn’t pay any mind to his expression, pleased to have her hand held and her big plastic plate of crackers to munch on. 

“Why’d you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” you ask, passing him Sarah’s socks, and rounding the table to stand by Jack's other side. “Hi,” you add, ruffling Jack’s hair, “look at you, gorgeous, you got your hair cut.” 

Hotch rubs Sarah’s knuckles, trying to phrase it, not sure how to tell you with the kids still there. Will Sarah feel embarrassed if he brings it up so swiftly? Will she feel like she’s done something wrong? Will you? 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. 

He decides to present you with the situation. He’s not manipulative, but clever. “Mommy got your socks, too. Can we take these cold ones off, is that okay?” 

“Yes, please,” Sarah says.

You watch in confusion. Hotch gives you a quick look. Trust me for a second. 

He eases the socks off of her feet, laughs when she laughs at his tickling, even if he’s not quite sure how to feel. Happy, he gives her toes a squeeze and bunches a sock up to pull it over her heel and up to her ankle. “One,” he says, repeating the process with the same tenderness. “Two. There we go, all warm again, Sarah.” 

“Thanks, daddy.” 

You breathe in. 

Sarah puts some cheese on a cracker and offers it to Hotch, who eats it while you summon him away with silent parent talk. He kisses her forehead and wipes it clean as he goes. 

“Did she do that when I was upstairs?” you ask quietly. 

Hotch knows you. Loves you, but knows you intrinsically. He knows just by looking at you that you’re happy, but you’re worried about something, and it’s not hard to guess what it is: he might not want Sarah to call him daddy, and telling her not to might break her heart, and yours too. 

“She did.” 

“She’s never… expressed that interest to me.” 

“Sometimes they think about things more than we know.” Jack still surprises him as he did when he was a toddler.

“She just loves you,” you say. 

“I love her. She can call me whatever she wants to.” 

You hold his wrist, taking a step closer to him. “Are you sure?” 

“Of course I’m sure.” He murmurs now you’re close, ducking his head to yours, two halves of the same heart looking at one another’s hands. “I love her more than anything in the world. I want to make her crackers for the rest of my life.” Hotch puts his index finger to the soft skin under your chin. “Maybe by tomorrow she’ll forget she called me daddy and she’ll never say it again, but… I want her to. Is that okay?” he asks. 

You lean up to kiss him and you nod into his lips, which makes it hard but not impossible to kiss back. “She loves you so much,” you say quietly. You’d only wanted a quick peck. 

He might’ve said he loves her more than anything, but there’s a level on which he holds her and Jack where you sit too. He loves you. You made Sarah who she is all by yourself, and you’re so lovable standing in his reach. You’re perfect. 

Maybe he’s feeling sweet because Sarah called him daddy. 

“I think Jack confused her,” he says. 

“Maybe. You are, you know, her dad. You do everything a dad would.” 

Hotch slots his leg between yours and leans back to force you into his favourite kind of hug. You laugh slowly, hug the same, your arms sliding up over his shoulders to wrap behind his head, your hand cupping his hair. 

He closes his eyes and feels your waist. 

“You don’t have to worry,” he says. 

“I don’t worry about you and Sarah, I know you love her. I guess I just worry about us. Not that you don’t love me, Aaron.” 

“Big changes,” he guesses in a whisper. 

“Big changes.” 

He encourages you away to hold your face. He hopes that waiting with you in quiet for a while can explain it better than words. 

Your shoulders finally relax. 

[sadhours]

dirty laundry

billy hargrove x fem!reader

masterlist • requests open

cw: 18+ minors dni, established relationship, smut, public sex, swallowing c*m hehehe I missed billy

🧡🧡🧡🧡

it’s kind of fitting. after a weekend of partying, you had to do some laundry. so monday morning, 9 AM, you’re sitting in the laundromat beside your boyfriend. you’re hungover. billy smokes a Marlboro and the smell is making you nauseous. you’re nursing a sprite he’d bought you from the vending machine. he has a coke. you’re somewhat regretting not indulging in the breakfast beer billy offered you but the thought of the booze had made your stomach twist something wicked. the shitty speakers spill a tinny “dirty laundry” by don henley.

“this songs actually pretty badass,” billy mumbles around the butt of his smoke, tapping his scuffed motorcycle boots.

you frown, “i like don henley.”

your boyfriend laughs, it’s a loud bellow and you really wish you had that beer to dull the headache splitting your head. but you love his laugh.

“like him like you’d suck his dick or…?” he teases and you roll your eyes despite the way it pains you.

“no, not my type,” you grumble. “i like his music.”

there’s a liquor store two stores up. you keep rubbernecking out the window at it and your boyfriend picks up on it. he reaches over and squeezes your knee, “regretting not having a beer with me this morning?”

“a little,” you gripe, “the lights are too bright, your cigarette stinks and i’m so tired.”

billy leans close to you with a pout, eyebrows furrowed. he looks adorable, even though he’s condescending you. ��want me to go get baby a shot and a beer?”

“would you?” you ask, all wide eyed in a silent beg you know gets him.

he smirks, leans forward and bites your nose. it pulls a giggle from you which is exactly what you need. “i’ll be back,” he grabs your face and squeezes it before pulling away and heading out the door, it chimes with his steps. you lean back and watch his ass saunter down the sidewalk in his too-tight Levi’s.

once he disappears into the liquor store, you bring your attention back to the washing machine. watching as your clothes spin in circles, which doesn’t do anything positive for the spinning happening in your gut so you look away quickly. billy’s hard to keep up with but you’ve never had so much fun in your life. and he’s so sweet, really, when he wants to be. you’d kind of saved him when you brought up him moving him after only a month of hooking up. you were shocked when he jumped at the opportunity but that was before you met neil. it makes sense now. your boyfriend is free to be himself, and you love every bit of him.

he’s quick in the liquor store, returning and hopping up on the row of unused washing machines opposite the chair you’re sitting in. he opens up the black plastic back and displays a little bottle of Jack Daniels.

“come get your hair of the dog, baby,” he says in a seductive voice, all low as he wiggles his eyebrows. you extend your hand and then his brows furrow, “I got you trained better than that. C’mere, girl.”

you exhale with a frustrated sigh but obey your sexy beyond belief boyfriend. standing up and taking the few short steps to situate yourself between his thighs.

“atta girl,” he purrs, opening the shooter and pressing it to your lips, “head back, foxy.”

you lean your head back, downing the shot in a quick three gulps. he hums, all satisfied as he watches. the whiskey isn’t sitting in your tummy the best but the way billy chases forward and licks a drip off your chin quells any sickness. he follows it with a filthy kiss, tongue dragging against yours as his right hand grabs the back of your head, knitting his fingers into the roots of your hair and tugs lightly. a helpless little whine escapes from your throat but billy swallows it, smiling into the dirty kiss. once he pulls away, he smirks, eyes darker than before.

“better?”

you nod, biting your lip as you look to him. billy retrieves the shooter he bought for himself and downs it easily, like it doesn’t make his stomach curl. then he hands you a tall can of beer, opens it for you before he does. you take an eager sip to get the bitterness of the whiskey off your tongue. billy chuckles, it’s deep and rattles his chest. he nudges his nose against yours, “i know that look.”

“s’your fault,” you mumble, cheeks hot as you admit, “‘cause you kissed me like that.”

billy hums, hooks his knuckle under your chin and tilts your head up a bit. “like this?” he whispers back before pressing his lips to yours hungrily. licks into your mouth like you’re not in public and has your spine tingling, thighs warm and cunt aching. you respond by kissing him back just as desperately, putting your beer down beside him before both your hands move to grip his white t-shirt. his mouth tastes like whiskey, cigarettes and Billy. You get lost in it, moaning pathetically as you make out like a couple of high school kids.

Then the dryer buzzes, loud and jarring. You pull away, groaning softly before strutting over to the machine. You open it, grabbing a cart and wheeling it over. You tug all the clothes into basket, reaching in deep and wiggling your ass because you can feel your boyfriends eyes on it. You don’t even realize he’s jumped off the washers and made his way behind you until he’s kicking the cart away and grabbing onto your hips.

“you missed something,” he tells you, all nonchalant.

“huh?” you peer inside the massive dryer but you don’t see anything. billy’s hips meet the fat of your ass, pushing your upper half deeper into the machine.

“it’s really in there,” he says, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your leggings. his other hand presses on the middle of your back, bending you over completely into the dryer. “almost there, you’re so close.”

you giggle, knowing exactly what you’re asshole of a boyfriend is doing. he pulls your leggings down to your thighs, moving his hand to rub your pussy through your underwear. you moan softly, still playing his game as you pretend to reach for the clothing he says in deep in there. billy’s impatient though, tugs your underwear down with your leggings. feels the slick collecting at your hole and hums, rubbing his fingers in circles at your entrance. his fingers are so thick, you can feel him stretching your hole just from the teasing. hangover suddenly forgotten, you’re spreading your legs and silently begging for him to slide inside you.

billy teases, “aw… keep reaching, baby… you’re almost there.”

his middle and ring finger slip inside your dripping cunt, the stretch delicious and intoxicating in their own right. he drags the pads of his fingers against your walls, pushing in and pulling out. your brains already fuzzy, eyes rolling back before your lids flutter shut. he laughs, soft and sultry as he fucks you with his fingers. out in the open. anyone can walk in here or hell, walk by and see your boyfriend bending you into the industrial dryer and fingering you senseless. the rush of it only make your cunt slicker.

he scissors his fingers, stretching your hole open wider as he smoothes his other hand over the expanse of your back.

“god, you’re so fucking wet,” billy exhales, his voice echoing slightly into the drum of the dryer. hits your ears something fierce. has you pushing your ass back at him. you moan out, nails dragging against the metal of the dryer as he finger fucks you open.

you don’t even hear the sound of his zipper or the shuffle of him pushing his jeans back. suddenly he’s pulling his fingers out and you feel the round, thick tip of his cock pushing at your pussy.

“fuck, billy,” you gasp, arching your back just slightly.

“atta girl,” he purrs, “so wet and desperate for my cock, yeah?”

“yeah— ah!” your response is hijacked by a moan, result of billy snapping his hips forward and completely sheathing his girthy cock in your fluttering hole.

he groans, a vibrating and sexy sound. let’s you know you feel so so so good for him. he doesn’t go slow, a hand on the small of your back and the other on your hip as he bullies his cock deep in your walls. billy always makes you feel like such a desperate slut. knows he can use and abuse your hole whenever and however. and how the fuck could you say no? the stretch is fucking unworldly. his cock is a goddamn masterpiece. crafted by the gods themselves to help please. if there ain’t nothing else to live for, billy’s cock is all you need.

once he’s inside you, you’re fucking gone. cockdrunk in a second. his hands move to knead at your ass as he pummels into you. rough and reckless. so billy. reality slips, you’re not even thinking about how the two of you are in a public place. fucking so filthy, so rough where there’s nowhere to hide. if you get caught, you get caught and you don’t fucking care. both so zoned in on getting off.

your hips slightly ache from where they bounce against the edge of the dryer but the sensation of Billy deep in your cunt dulls any pain. his cock pulsing as it drags in and out of your fluttering walls. you squeeze him, want him buried so deep and dirty.

“that’s it, slut,” he groans, voice deep as it bounces around the drum of the deeper, “taking my cock like a good girl.”

you whine back, not able to do much else. there’s no way you could form sensible thoughts. you ache to tell him how fucking good it feels but it’s useless, would fumble out of your mouth like word soup because billy fucks you stupid.

it’s a fucking joke when he moves his hand around your hip to rub at your clit. his goal is to get you to cum as quick as he can, because once those skilled fingers start strumming against your clit, your legs are shaking and your voice is uncontrollable in the moans bellowing from you.

“you gonna cum for me?” he chuckles, circles firm and quick against your clit, “so easy. such an easy slut for me, ain’t ya?”

“billy…” you cry in a plea, a whiny and pathetic sound. you’re on the edge, you can see it. each little stroke of his fingers and each drag of his cock against your tight walls threatens to toss you over it.

“ya wanna cum?” he spits, fingers working faster, “cream all over my cock, be a good slut for daddy.”

that sends you. a deep breath and sinking over the edge you go, crying out in absolute ecstasy as his cock works you overtime. drags your orgasm out with his fingers not letting up. you’re dead weight after, billy’s hands moving to your hips to hold you up as he barrels his cock faster and faster into your sensitive cunt. he pulls back rather quickly, grabbing your hair and pulling you out of the dryer.

“on your knees,” he instructs and you obey, hands on his thighs to steady you as you stick your tongue out flat. eyes wide and needy as you gaze up at your boyfriend. a curl has fallen into the center of his forehead, blue eyes dark with lust as he fingers move to grip his cock, jerking it in quick and firm strokes. “that’s it, good girl, yeah…”

he busts, spilling cum into your eager tongue. you love the taste of billy’s cum. abnormally sweet for a guy whose diet consists of booze and red meat. and when billy cums, he doesn’t close his eyes. he stares down at you, his lips part and you can see the swell of his tongue against his lower lip as he moans. you swallow, licking your lips so you don’t miss any.

he reaches for the back of your hand, scratching at the back of your scalp as he smiles warmly down at you. after a beat of lovingly looking at each other, you both get dressed. you plant a sloppy kiss on his lips before moving to transfer the load from the washer into the dryer. billy sits on the chairs and lights up another cigarette.

“you’re something else, foxy,” he grins, cheeks flushed all pretty.

[sxcretricciardo]

not the end - DR3 (pt.2)

part one here

•

A whole year had passed since that night in the garage.

Twelve months of sunrise rides, shared breakfasts, tangled limbs under sun-drenched sheets, and a kind of joy Daniel hadn’t felt in years. After a few months of long weekends and “accidental” sleepovers, moving in together just… happened. Like everything with you—it was easy. Natural.

Daniel had traded the roar of the F1 paddock for a slower, dustier rhythm. One that started with your sleepy smile in the morning and ended with your boots next to his by the door. His house had become a home again. A pair of your gloves sat next to his on the bench by the front door. Your muddy bike leaned beside his in the garage. Your laughter filled every corner of the space he once thought would echo forever.

His friends adored you. Max called you “Ricciardo’s better half” with a smirk every time you visited. Jack, the one who dragged Daniel to the track in the first place, still claimed it was his doing that the two of you met. And his family? They adored you. His mum sent you recipes. His sister sent you memes. His dad sent you links to overpriced tools you “needed” for your bike.

Everything was good.

Better than good.

Until it wasn’t.

-

It was a Sunday—your usual track day.

The air was warm, the sky cloudless, and the course was slick from the early morning watering. You were laughing with Daniel at the starting line, helmet half on, teasing him about how you were still faster through the back stretch.

“Oh, we’re lying now?” he grinned. “That’s cute.”

You blew him a kiss before pulling your googles down.

And then the gate dropped.

You always rode clean. Fast. Controlled. But the track was unpredictable that day. A soft rut in the dirt, a mistimed jump. You hit the ground before you even had time to react.

Daniel was behind you on the trail, close enough to see your bike go sideways mid-air, close enough to watch your body slam into the dirt hard, the impact echoing louder than the engine noise. You didn’t move.

He dropped his bike before it even stopped rolling, sprinting toward you with panic bubbling in his throat.

“Hey—hey, babe, I’m here—” His hands were shaking as he dropped to his knees beside you.

You were conscious, dazed, winded. But it was the way your face twisted in pain, your hands immediately clutching your knee—that knee—that told him everything.

“No, no, no, it’s okay,” he whispered, trying to stay calm for you, even as his heart thundered in his chest. “You’re okay. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You shook your head, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s bad. I heard it pop.”

He pressed his forehead to your helmet. “I’ve got you. We’re going to the hospital. Right now.”

The drive was quiet except for the sound of your breathing—shallow, strained. You held his hand the entire time, your grip tighter than ever before. He never let go.

At the hospital, time blurred—x-rays, MRIs, hushed tones between doctors. Daniel didn’t leave your side once, not even when the nurse tried to usher him out during scans. He stood by the window, pacing, fist pressed to his mouth.

When the doctor finally returned, the look on his face told you everything.

“It’s a full re-tear,” he said gently. “The ligaments are worse than before. I’m going to be honest—if you want to have any shot at getting back on that bike, you need the surgery. And it needs to happen soon.”

Silence.

You felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

Daniel was sitting beside you, his hand still cradling yours, but your mind was spinning.

“What are the odds?” you asked softly, already knowing the answer.

The doctor hesitated. “They’ve improved since the last time we spoke, but it’s still risky. Success rate is about 50%. You could come back stronger… or not at all.”

When he left the room, the silence sat heavy between you and Daniel. You stared at the white hospital sheet, unable to speak.

Daniel turned to face you, eyes already glistening. “Say something.”

You swallowed. “I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“What if I lose everything?” Your voice cracked. “What if I’m never the same again?”

He slid closer, pulling your face gently toward his. “Then we figure out a new same.”

Tears spilled freely now, yours and his. He rested his forehead against yours like he had a year ago in that garage—only this time, the weight between you was heavier.

“I don’t want to be useless,” you whispered.

“You’re not,” he said firmly. “You’re not your leg. You’re not your injury. You’re you. You’re the one who got me out of my darkness. You’re the reason I laugh again. The reason I believe in second chances.”

He kissed your temple, then your cheek, then your hand.

“We’ll get through this,” he said. “Surgery or not. Bike or not. I’m not leaving.”

That night, you fell asleep in the hospital bed, your hand still in his. Daniel stayed beside you, head resting against your arm, quietly whispering promises into the dim light:

“We’ll ride again. Maybe different. Maybe slower. But we’ll ride again.”

-

You remembered the moment before the anesthesia kicked in—Daniel brushing his thumb over your cheekbone, leaning close with tears in his lashes.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

You believed him.

Even though you were terrified.

The surgery was long. Complicated.

Your doctor called it a “technical success,” a phrase that sounded cold compared to what your body had just endured. They’d reconstructed the shredded ligaments, cleared the scar tissue from your old injury, and grafted a piece of your hamstring to reinforce the joint. He said it was one of the worst internal knee injuries he’d ever seen on a rider who could still walk.

Daniel didn’t care about technical terms.

All he heard was: she’s okay.

-

You spent the first night in the hospital with tubes and wires stuck into you, your entire leg wrapped in thick layers of gauze and padding.

The pain was relentless. Not sharp, but deep—like someone had driven a drill into your bones and let it buzz there. You couldn’t move your leg at all, and the idea that this was just the start of your recovery crushed you. You tried to keep your eyes open through the haze of morphine and fear.

Daniel didn’t sleep.

He sat in the recliner beside your bed, holding your hand in both of his, whispering things you could barely understand. Things like:

“You’re stronger than this.”

“I love you.”

“We’re gonna ride again.”

-

The first week post-op was hell.

You were home, in bed, with ice packs and elevated pillows. You needed help getting to the bathroom. Showering was an ordeal. Your muscles started to atrophy from inactivity. And the pain meds blurred time, made you nauseous, and still couldn’t dull the throbbing in your leg completely.

There were days you wanted to scream.

There were nights you did.

Daniel became your anchor.

He helped wash your hair over the bathtub.

He made you laugh when you hadn’t smiled in days.

He never made you feel weak. Not once.

He treated your scars like they were battle honors.

-

Week two: physical therapy began.

The first time they asked you to try to bend your leg past 30 degrees, it felt like fire tearing through your skin. You cried through the whole session. Not just from the pain, but the helplessness. Your body felt foreign—like it had betrayed you.

Daniel drove you to every appointment. Sat outside every room.

When you came out with tear-stained cheeks, he didn’t say, “you’ll be okay.”

He just wrapped his arms around you and said, “I’ve got you.”

The months dragged.

You went from two crutches to one. From one to a cane. Then, eventually, no cane—but a deep limp remained. And so did the brace. The pain had dulled, but the fear hadn’t.

Physical therapy became your battlefield.

You’d leave soaked in sweat, eyes red, muscles screaming.

And Daniel?

He brought protein shakes and fresh towels.

Cheered every half-inch of motion gained.

Turned your tiny victories into full-blown celebrations.

You laughed one day when he made a “Level 1 Knee Boss” certificate out of printer paper and glitter glue.

“Don’t make me cry,” you’d warned.

“You already did at 90 degrees flexion last week,” he teased.

-

Month four: you stood on your own again.

Your quad was still weak, your knee swollen and scarred, but you walked into the kitchen without limping for the first time since the crash.

Daniel was chopping onions. He turned. Dropped the knife.

“You’re not limping.”

“I know,” you whispered, eyes filling.

He crossed the room in two steps, arms pulling you in so tight you forgot what hurt.

“God, I’m so proud of you.”

-

Month five: you went to the garage.

Not to ride—just to look. Your bike sat under a dust cover, untouched. You stood in front of it for a long time. Daniel came in quietly, leaned against the doorframe.

“She misses you,” he said gently.

You swallowed. “What if I’m not her anymore?”

He stepped behind you, arms slipping around your waist.

“You’re not,” he said. “You’re stronger.”

-

Month six: your physical therapist cleared you for trial rides.

“Flat trails. Paved roads. No impact,” she warned.

It didn’t matter. You didn’t hear that part.

You heard: You can ride again.

You stood in the garage that night with Daniel, both of you looking at your gear. You ran your fingers over the scuffed helmet, the worn gloves.

And for the first time since the crash, you said:

“I want to try.”

-

Your first ride back was slow. Deliberate.

Every twist of the throttle was cautious. Every bump felt like a risk. But as the tires rolled beneath you, something inside you unlocked. It wasn’t speed. It wasn’t the thrill. It was freedom.

Daniel rode beside you. Never too far. Every time you looked over at him, he was already watching you.

When you stopped on a flat, open stretch of trail, he pulled off his helmet and grinned.

“You did it,” he breathed.

You took your helmet off and laughed—really laughed—for the first time in months.

“I did,” you whispered.

Then, suddenly overwhelmed, you broke. Tears spilled over your cheeks. Not from fear this time—but from release.

Daniel was off his bike in seconds, pulling you into his arms. You buried your face in his neck, sobbing quietly.

“I didn’t think I’d make it back.”

“You did more than make it back,” he whispered, holding you tighter. “You climbed your way out of hell, and you did it with your own strength. You didn’t just come back—you fought back.”

That night, back home, Daniel carried you to bed—your muscles still sore from the ride, your heart still pounding with something fierce and proud.

He kissed every inch of your scars, murmuring, “you’re so damn strong,” like a prayer.

And when he curled his body around yours, one hand resting gently on your knee, you knew—

This wasn’t just a recovery.

It was a rebirth.

-

You were getting better.

That’s what Daniel kept saying, over and over — but you felt it. Every ride was more fluid, every corner a little sharper. The jumps, once terrifying, were now just part of the rhythm. There were days when you could almost forget about the injury, the surgeries, the months of pain. It all blurred into the background, pushed aside by the feeling of the bike under you, the rush of wind, and Daniel’s voice guiding you with calm encouragement.

He had a way of being there without being overbearing. Just close enough, a shadow in your periphery, making sure you never felt alone, but also giving you the space to push yourself.

“You’re doing it,” he’d say after a particularly good run, eyes gleaming. “You’re back.”

“I never left,” you’d joke, laughing even though you knew it was more true than you let on.

Daniel had made it all possible.

He was your rock — steady, present, always looking out for you. And in return, you began to trust yourself again. More than that, you started to believe in the future again. A future where you didn’t have to hide from your past. A future with him by your side, building something together.

-

The plan was simple, and for the first time in a long time, it felt right.

It wasn’t about fame or fortune anymore. It wasn’t about what anyone else thought or expected. It was about giving back, about using everything you’d learned from your own journey — the struggles, the setbacks — and passing it along to the next generation.

“What do you think about opening a school?” Daniel had asked one night, his voice low, the glow of the garage lights flickering on the bikes you two had spent hours tuning together.

You hadn’t even hesitated. You saw the spark in his eyes, the same one that had always been there when he talked about his own racing dreams. But this was different. This wasn’t about his own success — it was about others.

“You mean… a motocross school? For kids?”

“Yeah,” he said, his hands brushing dirt off the seat of a bike as he thought it through. “Maybe a bit more than just teaching them how to ride. We could help with the mental side of it too. I mean, motocross is so much more than just the physical stuff, you know? The mindset, the confidence…”

You could see it all unfolding in your head. A school where kids could come, learn, and grow. Not just to race, but to find the courage to fall and rise again. The thought of giving kids that gift made your heart swell.

“I love it,” you said, your voice full of conviction. “We could help them build confidence, teach them how to ride safely. Teach them how to fall safely.”

Daniel’s eyes softened, the same quiet intensity that you’d fallen in love with flickering in his gaze. “Exactly. And we could start small — just a couple of kids here and there, make it personal.”

There was no doubt in your mind that this was it — this was what you were supposed to do next. Your heart felt lighter, like you were finally moving toward something you both truly wanted.

For weeks, you looked at properties, called contractors, scoured through old, dusty racing journals for inspiration. The dream was taking shape, piece by piece.

But life has a way of throwing curveballs when you least expect it.

The phone call came on a Saturday afternoon.

It was just after lunch, when you and Daniel had spent the last hour going over plans for the track and finalizing paperwork. The sun was high, casting golden light across the kitchen, and Daniel was laughing at a joke you’d told — some silly quip about a racing helmet.

You were smiling, enjoying the quiet. It felt like your life was settling into something wonderful, something normal.

And then the phone rang.

You didn’t know who it was at first, just a number you didn’t recognize. Daniel’s brow furrowed when he glanced at the caller ID, but he didn’t seem worried. Just curious.

He picked it up, his tone light. “Hello?”

You went back to your notes, not paying attention. But then you heard it. The change in his voice.

His words slowed, and you saw his face shift, eyes narrowing, like he was trying to process something. You looked up, wondering why he suddenly seemed so… distant.

“…Yes, this is Daniel Ricciardo… Yes, I’m available….”

It hit you then, the unmistakable weight of what he was hearing. The F1 team. Cadillac. The newest on the grid.

You froze.

Daniel’s gaze met yours, and the slight panic in his eyes caught you off guard. You stood up, making your way toward him, but he held up a hand, signaling for you to wait. His expression was unreadable, the conversation on the other end of the line taking over his attention.

You didn’t know what was being said, but you knew. You could feel the pressure building in his chest. The weight of a decision he hadn’t expected. The F1 team had been interested in him before, but it had been months since he’d heard from anyone. The idea of racing again, of returning to the sport he once loved, had always been a distant thought. After everything with the crash and the way his career ended, he hadn’t wanted to go back to that life. It had felt like closing a chapter that had ended too soon.

But now? The team was offering him a seat.

Your mind raced. This wasn’t what you’d expected — you hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected him to have this choice again. Not when you were building a life here. Not when you were planning a future with him. Not when he’d found peace in the life you shared together.

When he hung up the phone, he stood there for a moment, silent. You could see it in his face — the internal battle playing out in front of you. The longing for the life he left behind. The fear of what would happen if he went back. And yet, the desire to close the chapter the way he’d always wanted — on his terms.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently, your voice steady.

He didn’t look at you right away, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice low. “I don’t know if I should do it. Part of me wants to say yes, but… part of me is happy with where we are. I’m happy with you.”

You crossed the room and stood beside him, your hand finding his. “Daniel, I want you to make the choice that makes you happy. If this is what you want, then I’ll support you. But you’ve always said you wanted to close that chapter with dignity, on your terms. Whatever you choose, I’ll be with you.”

He turned to face you then, his eyes full of uncertainty. “But what if it pulls me away from you? From us?”

You smiled softly, squeezing his hand. “We’ll find a way. You’ll find a way. I’ve always told you, Daniel — I’ll follow you wherever you go. You’re not alone in this, okay? Just close that chapter the way you’ve always dreamed. With pride. With dignity.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You could see the weight lift from his shoulders, just a little. The choice was his. And no matter what, you’d support him.

“I’ve always loved you, you know that?” Daniel said softly, his voice thick with emotion.

“I know,” you whispered back. “And I love you.”

The decision was coming. But for now, you were here. Together. You’d face whatever came next — one step at a time, side by side.

[highhhfiveee]

happy thursday <3 thinking about you know who…

cw. suggestiveness, no smut. this part is purely context to y/n and sae’s relationship 🫶🏽 if there are errors, i apologize 💔

this is technically supposed to be read after these two: 1 & 2 | formal part three: x

meeting at the grocery store had been something neither you nor fwb!sae itoshi had seen coming. you’d played it all wrong, leaving you with enough awkwardness to last a lifetime, yet the opportunity hadn’t passed you by. with the ball in sae’s court, he’d expertly juggled and turned your flustered stammering into an instant connection.

the foundation of that connection had been mutual attraction, though you’d made it known to sae (and yourself) that you weren’t easy. there would be no hopping into bed immediately after you both checked out; you needed to get a feel for this mysterious dairy aisle guy who’d confidently invited a complete stranger to watch him play soccer.

you weren’t a sports person, but you began to understand the hype; the raw electricity floating in the air had your adrenaline flowing, leaving you completely engrossed from beginning to end.

sae was a god; nothing could’ve prepared you that first time you saw him play, running game on the opposing blue lock eleven.

it was a dance that only he knew, his steps a mindfuck to anyone forced to face him. he left those with two left feet in his wake, lowly shadows scattered behind the MVP plastered all over the jumbotron.

you hadn’t stayed back to see him after that first game, eager to beat the traffic leaving the stadium.

you’d heard your phone ping at a red light, reading the text you’d gotten from sae: you still here?

no ): i didn’t want to be stuck in traffic

…

i wanted to see you

your heart had lurched like your car when you slammed on your brakes, and in classic y/n fashion, you’re trying to find the right words to say.

oh…really?

my bad, i thought maybe you’d be too busy for me after

so it wasn’t bc of traffic?

“fuck.” you’d swore into the air, biting at your thumbnail as you tossed your phone into the passenger seat and continued on your way home, leaving sae on read.

both are true

…come down to the pitch next time, yeah?

at least say bye

from then on, you were elbowing your way through the crowds to get onto the turf, overwhelming sae with your zeal. you were jumping in his face, squeezing him with your hugs and spewing out soccer terms that you’d tried to learn and contextualize.

“that was a sick feint!”

“a triple nutmeg????”

“the spin on that ball was atrociously good…”

sae sort’ve hated that he’d cracked a smile, let it travel to his insides, and produce a laugh.

he’d never been the best at making friends, and was surprised that you’d stuck around at all, unfazed by his blasé attitude and lack of interest in most things outside of his own career.

you were no longer the girl he’d met in the store. you’d blossomed into this light, a beacon of all the things sae kept himself away from and yet, you never let him dim you.

he’d asked for your number on a whim, really, ready for you to leave him to his cream cheese search, but after texting with you, watching you run up to him from the sidelines, and hearing you cheer his name, he wanted you to stick around.

he took you to some bars first, always ready to wash away the stress of a game with an ice cold pint. you only ever ordered whiskey and cokes, an unexpected happening to sae. eyeing you and your deep purple faux fur jacket, your knee-high boots and your face made up and pretty as always, he’d admitted, “i thought you’d order something girlier.”

“i drink to drink,” you’d slurred, struggling to catch the straw of your third drink between your glossy lips. “i’d look just as good sipping an appletini as i do downing this jack n coke...” you’d hiccuped before blurting, “i could say the same though. i’d thought you’d order something manlier.”

sae rolled his eyes, dragging his finger around the rim of his half-empty mug. “i like beer.”

“and i like whiskey. bottoms up, babe.”

after a few months of bars, he’d started asking you to dinner.

what if we got mexican food after the game tomorrow

will your body recover

or are you gonna be shitting up a storm

that’s gross y/n

these are questions that friends ask!!!!

you’d tried to drink a beer that night, scowling at the taste but tolerating it for sae’s sake. “you know you can drink something else, right?”

he’d said it after watching you gag and shiver for the nth time, running a hand through his hair and leaning back in his seat, his legs spreading under the table.

“i’m trying to be a good sport.”

“y/n….”

“okay, fine,” you’d been prepared to argue back, but his eyes, always so fucking blue and static, made you uneasy. he was watching you, almost daring you to give him lip.

there had been moments in your bar days where you’d felt yourself pulse at the sound of his short, dry laughs, the timbre of his voice as he spoke, even when a hint of a smile crept onto his face. you’d chalked it up to the alcohol, as it always left you feral and in heat, though you couldn’t use that as an excuse now.

you’d only had half a beer, and that would never be enough to knock you on your ass and have you imagining x-rated scenarios with the one and only sae itoshi…right?

you and sae had learned a lot about each other over those months. it was an effortless friendship, a connection where you felt seen and heard and respected enough to delve into the recesses of your lore. sae had done the same, something so out of character for him. you could tell that he was uncomfortable in the beginning, getting into tales of him and his brother, his time in spain…but, eventually he’d become an (almost) open book. he trusted you. he knew he was safe in your company, free to feel and express and….

“a signed sae itoshi jersey?” you’d squealed when he’d given it to you in his car after dinner at a fancy mediterranean place. “for me?”

“who else would it be for?” he’d deadpanned, but you’d swatted at his arm, huffing, “my god, take a joke, itoshi…” you’d started giggling, turning your eyes back to the white and red jersey. you let your fingertips glide over the fabric, enamored by its quality and the fact that he’d given it to you as a gift.

“thank you, i can’t wait to wear it,” you’d mused, leaning over the car’s center console to give sae a kiss on the cheek. your lip gloss left a mark on his reddening skin, and you’d blurted, “whoops” as you brought your hand up to wipe it. he’d stopped you with his fingers around your wrist, saying, “leave it.”

it was barely above a whisper, so not like him. you’d both been flushed red the entire trip to your house, departing on a somewhat awkward exchange of “see you later/bye”.

that same night, after a shower, you were on the couch when your phone chimed.

you try the jersey on yet?

mhm! i’m wearing it right now (: super comfy

show me

the words had sent you into near cardiac arrest. if his whispered “leave it” had been anti-sae, “show me” was him personified. blunt, to the point, demanding, dominant.

you did as you were told, strolling over to your full length mirror and snapping two photos of yourself, immediately sending them and throwing your phone across the room.

sae felt his phone buzz, but kept himself in suspense for a moment. the “show me” hadn’t been his first choice of response, but felt the most authentic.

he wanted to see you, plain and simple.

he wasn’t sure why his heart had begun to pound as he looked at your attachments.

it was a bit shadowy in your place, but the warm white light from your huge lamp cast you in an angelic glow, the crisp white of the garment popping against your creamy brown skin. you filled it out well, leaving little room for it to billow, and the hem skirted the top of your thighs. sae could see the black lace of your panties peek ever so slightly, but swiped to the second picture for an almost full-reveal.

you’d used the back camera for the first one but the front for the second, and the angle of your arm holding the phone pulled the jersey up past your ass a bit. it was round and perfectly shaped, striped with light stretchmarks and sae’s mind got a bit carried away…

he wanted to fuck you in his jersey.

he wanted to fuck you in general. you’d wanted to fuck him too; you both knew what you craved, but you’d wanted a foundation first. sae respected that, and though he would’ve fucked you without knowing your middle name and favorite book series, he thought the familiarity was nice.

had you two built a strong foundation?

sae loved an image

sae loved an image

we should go back to my place after my next game

yeah, i agree

you’d both say the answer was yes.

chat did i cook

[valacre]

: ̗̀➛ A Merry Tradition Filled with Longing and Warmth

Optimus Prime x Reader - transformers prime

You were practically bouncing as you walked back and forth from your parked car, humming and grinning as boxes were loaded out. You’d refused help, saying that you had arms and legs for a reason and that they’d fall off if you didn’t use them. A quick reassuring to both him and Ratchet later affirmed that that wouldn’t be the case, you’d just been silly, as you’d said.

Still, he couldn’t help but notice the knowing glances his team sent his way, their optics shining brightly as they attempted to stave off their smiles.

When he caught them looking, they’d glance towards you. He did the same.

You were often jolly, all smiles and soft words, but you did look different today. Your car was dripping with melting snow, and your long red hat with white patterns and woollen puff hanging at the end glittered slightly with melting remnants of ice crystals. Your jacket was blue, also with white details, and your winter boots were bright red—oh. Realisation dawned upon him as he stared openly, optics widening slightly as his spark jumped. You were covered from head to foot in his colours.

His optics met your eyes, and you were grinning at him, rosy cheeks growing redder as you finished setting down the last box from your car.

You’d done it on purpose.

Optimus had to look away, though there was no mistaking the small smile upon his face plates.

The trail of thoughts that were filled with you, beautiful and adorable all the same, did not meet any resistance as he subtly glanced back over at you again, watching you as you rolled out a red carpet onto the platform you and the kids often stayed at. You were preparing to surprise Jack, Miko, and Rafael with a Christmas-decorated space for them to enjoy during this cheerful month, so you were going to spend the night at the base – something you occasionally liked to do anyway.

Ratchet had mildly complained at first but had grown flustered and had to turn away as you’d beamed at him instead, telling him how much you were looking forward to spending this festive season with him and the others. You had a unique way of wiggling your way into Ratchet’s spark, and Optimus admired you for that.

You’d done the same with all of them, but more so with him. It was no secret to himself that his feelings had turned from charmed to adoring in too quick of a time, but he’d been too late to notice it. Too late to stop himself from letting it get too far. Then again, he wasn’t sure if he’d wanted to stop it at all.

The warmth that spread throughout him whenever you were near was comforting and as soft as you, but the longing that accompanied it did little to soothe him. He ached to hold you near, to let himself stare without shame, and to gently press his face plates against your soft body.

Those thoughts were for him alone, he couldn’t possibly ever reveal them, but the urge to let it all out whenever you smiled up at him… It was becoming more difficult as the days passed. He would manage it, of course, he was a Prime, after all, but it didn’t mean that it would be easy.

You turned to look at him, garland in hand as you set to prepare for hours of decorating.

“I hope you won’t be too busy today. I’d love to have you around for company,” you said, smiling shyly despite the open declaration.

Optimus could feel the optics of his team turn to him, but he did not look back at them, instead, he kept his optics fixed on you; you, who were surrounded by glittering ornaments and golden detailing. You looked like a lovely piece of art, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“It would be an honour to aid you in your decorating, (y/n),” said he, and the shine that seemed to appear in your eyes as your smile widened helped ease the longing in his spark; for now.

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Nine: white light and holly

tw: none

Just as promised, Simon picks you up the following afternoon. 

Jack Frost paid you a visit last night, leaving intricate, swirling designs on your windows, obscuring the grey cityscape beyond your apartment in prismatic light. It diffuses your vision to the point that you don’t recognize Simon when he pulls up, and you nearly jump out of your skin when he knocks on the door. Shoulders scrunching, muscles tensing; you turn to the door with a grunt as your cramps jolt through your body. They’re worse today than they were yesterday. They always seem to grow more intense with time. You wish it would remit—but it’s a familiar pain you know how to push through now. 

Shouldering on a coat, you open the door only to be immediately scrutinized under Simon’s gaze. Dark eyes flicker over your body, checking for irritated scleras, perspiration, and general fragility. Though you are loads better than when he saw you last week, you’re certain your crossed arms and the slight hunching over your stomach isn’t convincing. Judging by the tight line of his lips, he’s not entirely impressed. 

Mustering a smile, you glance behind him, prodding him into action. “Hey. Ready to head out?” 

He hums before nodding, boots clomping against the floor as he moves out of the way. “Got the car all warmed up for ya, sweetheart.” 

London looks magical around this time of year, especially from the passenger’s seat of Simon’s car. Warm white lights twist up the trunks of every tree, spiraling along branches where stray snowflakes glint in their glory. Evergreen garland adorns street lights with faux holly and winter berries, giving your eyes a break from the otherwise barren concrete jungle. It’s beautiful. Picture perfect. Something you’d expect to see on a postcard or in a movie. The glass of the window fogs up with your breath as you lean closer to get a better look at the streets. 

With only one more week until Christmas, the pavement bustles with last minute shoppers. Children in too-large coats and fluffy caps trot behind their parents as they squeal in delight at window displays in flashy shops. The holiday has a way of illuminating everything and casting a warm, yellow glow on the wonderstruck faces peering through the glass. It bathes the streets until they’re lively and buzzing, banishing the gloom of the city—you almost don’t recognize the foreign scene before you. 

Once Simon finds a place to park, you’re able to step out into that wonderland yourself. A soft breeze nips at the tips of your ears and nose, rubbing them raw with crystalline shards like sandpaper across your skin, but you ignore it in favor of the toy shop display flashing through the window. A model train travels through a tiny village dusted with synthetic snow. Tiny villagers go about their tiny lives as they attend church and visit family or throw snowballs at one another. Each of them are hand painted with care—complete with rosy cheeks and colorful winter attire. 

Simon’s reflection dances in the glass as he approaches your side, looking down at the scene you can’t help but gawk at. His arm brushes against yours as he inspects the paintwork on the figurines, and you glance at him with a smile. His face glows in the light, bringing his skin to life, scars and all. It casts shadows on his face perfectly, defining the curve of his jaw and his cheekbones. 

You can’t help but swallow as he rubs his chin, and you force your attention back on the model village before you. “I wish it would snow more in London.” 

He hums, feet shuffling on the pavement. “Would be a lot of shoveling.” 

“Well, it wouldn’t have to snow a whole lot,” you chuckle. “Just enough to stick around. Thick enough to make snow angels out of.” 

You pause to watch the train travel through the tunnel. A small light fixed to the front of the locomotive cuts through the darkness, and you watch it grow brighter as it nears the exit. In your head, you can imagine its whistle and the huff and puff of smoke as the engine burns coal to transport presents just in time for Christmas Day. 

“My dad and I used to make frost angels instead. The grass at the park would always glisten with frost, especially in the mornings, so we’d lay in the field and make angels.” You laugh at the memory as a fit of giggles erupts behind you. A small group of siblings pass by with toys in hand. For a moment, you almost feel warm. “They never looked really pretty, but he’d always finish them off with halos anyway.” 

“Could always blend up some ice for ya,” Simon patronizes. 

You mock laugh at him. “Oh sure, thanks. Think you can get all of London covered by Christmas?” 

He shrugs. “Anything for you, sweetheart.” 

Ignoring the way your palms begin to sweat, you quickly change the subject, suggesting that you get to shopping before you freeze to death. Thankfully, Simon bites and leads you inside of the toy shop where you’re welcomed by a jovial clerk with a kind smile. A green elf hat sits on his head, leaving the children nearby to gawk and titter. Christmas music plays softly through the radio on the back counter, and it fades in and out as you wander between shelves where spiced cinnamon and pumpkin wafts in a trail behind you. 

A variety of toys adorn the aisles, but Simon appears to be on a mission for something in specific. He completely bypasses the frilly princess costumes, fancy dolls, action figures, and craft supplies in favor of toy cars and model ships. They’re cute; impossibly small. Made perfectly for little hands and fingers. 

Then, you make the mistake of looking at the price tags. 

There’s a special aesthetic that surrounds this time of year. Something beautiful and kind. It lurks in incandescent light bulbs and wrapping paper. It tops gingerbread cookies and their matching homes. There’s a mawkish joy that tugs at your heart and leaves your stomach churning beneath your diaphragm as an orchestral version of Jingle Bells blares on the speakers overhead. 

Despite it all, there’s always going to be something that will separate you from everyone else. You’ll never be the one bringing home gifts to family members. Never be the one to splurge on a desperately wanted present. Each year you can hardly scrounge up enough to give Aelin something. Hell, you’re not even sure if you’ll have enough to buy the sanitary products you so desperately need. 

“What kind of present are you looking for?” Push it out of your mind. You can’t mope forever. 

“Somethin’ my nephew’s been wantin’ for a bit. He’s been talkin’ his parents ear off ‘bout it for the last few months,” Simon replies, eyes scanning the shelf in front of him. He hums as his fingers ghost over the box of a model plane. “Been obsessed with planes lately.” 

“Nephew?” you repeat. “So, you have siblings then?” 

“A brother. Thomas. Everyone calls ‘im Tommy. I like to call him a pain in the arse,” he humors. 

Chuckling, you crouch down to assist Simon’s search for the perfect gift. This movement—curling in on yourself—temporarily eases the cramps that still fester deep in your abdomen, and you sigh. No matter how little the reprieve is, it’s always welcome. 

“Big or little brother, then?” you ask. 

“Older. Certainly isn’t bigger than me.” 

“Yeah, figure it’s pretty hard to be bigger than you.” 

Falling quiet, you put in more effort into searching through eye-catching toys flashy enough to steal away any child’s attention. They’ve got everything from small sets made out of metal, to build-your-own models. It’s certainly fancier than anything you remembered from when you were a kid. 

“Oh! This is cute,” you coo. 

Your hands reach out for a large box padded with smooth cardboard. For its size, it’s incredibly light, so it’s easy work to slide it off of the shelf. A precious, design-it-yourself RC plane, complete with paint and all. The box depicts what you assume is supposed to be a father and his son painting designs on the body of the plane together. 

You hold the box up for Simon to see, giving it a little shake. “Look, he could design his own little plane!” 

Simon’s eyes widen in recognition as you straighten yourself out, box still in hand. “That’s the one.” 

Holding it out for him to take, he relieves you of it. Large hands dwarf the box as he flips it around, reading the description on the back. He smirks, then chuckles before shaking his head. 

“As seen on TV,” he quotes. “They play the commercial for this between his favorite cartoons. Been begging his mum for it ever since.” 

“What’s his name?” you ask. 

“Joseph.” 

Before you have the chance to comment further, Simon slides the box underneath his arm while his free hand retrieves his phone. The screen flickers on, casting a dim glow on his face as he clicks through applications. 

When he turns it in your direction, you’re met with a half fuzzy photo of a young boy and a woman. They’re outside, sitting in a pile of leaves, their dying colors of red and yellows vibrantly declaring the autumn season. A few torn leaves stick to the boy’s bright blonde hair as he attempts to shove a fistful of them into the woman’s hair. They don’t quite stick to her copper locks, but she grins at him anyway. With bright blue eyes and beautiful smiles, they’re near carbon copies of one another. 

“Tom sent me this a few months back. That’s little Joey there, and his mum, Beth,” Simon shares. 

“He’s adorable,” you coo. “How old is he?” 

The very moment Simon answers, an unforgiving contraction rips through your abdomen. Muscles cramp and tighten, pulling so taut you fear they’ll tear each other apart. In a pitiful attempt to soothe yourself, your hand presses right above where your uterus is wreaking havoc on your body. With enough pressure, you’re sure you can phase through your organs and reach into yourself to remove the nuisance straight from the source. Instead, you fight back a grimace as you feel your organs collapse in on one another. 

No matter how hard you try, you’re unable to hide such vicious pain from Simon. He catches on quickly. Sniffs it out like a cadaver dog. His phone shuts off yet stays firmly in his palm as he presses the back of his hand against your forehead. Taken aback, you stare up at him, mouth trying to form words, yet nothing falls from your lips. There’s something about this touch that feels familiar. Something that leaves you feeling empty when he moves his hand away. 

“Sure you’re feelin’ alright?” he asks. “Still a little warm. Don’t look like you’re feelin’ too good, sweetheart.” 

Maybe it’s due to what your body has been going through as of late, or maybe it’s because of the way he’s looking at you, but your mouth grows dry. Like a desert. Devoid of the oasis of words you so desperately need. There’s no use in beating around the bush—or at least you try to tell yourself as much—you’ve followed him out here for a reason. 

“Yeah, I’m just… you know. On my menses,” you explain, trying to make it sound humorous, but it comes off as more awkward than anything. “That’s, uh, one of the reasons I came with you today. Was sorta hoping I could drop by the pharmacy to pick some stuff up.” 

You hoped the concern etched into his face would melt away with your explanation, but if anything it only gets worse. “You shoulda said something. Would’ve dropped by there first.” 

“It’s no big deal,” you attempt to assure. “I mean, it’s not like this stuff goes away with a magic medication or something.” 

God, you wish it would. A simple pop of a pill and a quick nap to have this all fade away sounds heavenly. It would save you from the odd look Simon gives you as he shoves his phone back into his pocket. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made him uncomfortable. Some men get… squeamish around this type of talk. You have a very vivid memory shoved in the back of your mind of one of the cooks getting on Bee for walking in the restaurant with a box of tampons in hand. She told them off with a bravery you can only dream of mustering. They have yet to mention anything since, but the image of their tense faces is forever burned into your mind. 

You wonder if it’s the blood or the body it comes from that disgusts them so much. 

“C’mon,” Simon urges as he nods towards the end of the aisle. “Should be a pharmacy on the end of the block.” 

“But what about presents for your family?” you ask. 

“This was the last thing I was lookin’ for. Everythin’ else is already covered,” he assures you. “We’ll go up to pay then get you what you need, yeah?” 

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Simon Riley over the last few months, it’s that he’s a force to be reckoned with. Of course, you’ve known this fairly early on. He’s the apotheosis of strength. You felt it from the way his hands held yours when he taught you how to shoot pool, how firm and unwavering they were against yours. It’s a force that evolves. One moment it’s as soft as a whisper, and the next it’s sharp enough to send a man as terrifying as Andrei whimpering and running for the hills. 

You wonder if he brings that same heat to Terminus. Doing grunt work in the club, fighting off men gathering around the innocent like flies drawn to rot and decay. How often have those teeth been redirected at him, causing the puffy scars that trace the features of his nose and jaw? Are his claws only razors because someone else sharpened them for him? 

Too many times have you seen men like Simon deteriorate. They shatter; fracture into warped reflection of themselves as they become nothing but self-centered beasts who don’t fear spilling blood. Strength and power corrupts even the kindest of people—turns humans into monsters; into men like Marco. 

Simon should terrify you, but he doesn’t. 

You don’t fully realize why that is until you reach the pharmacy. 

Even with your obvious apprehension about him accompanying you inside, he does anyway. Simon trots behind you like an obedient dog as you weave through aisles with your eyes trained on each item you come across. He doesn’t flinch at the hygiene products. Instead, he watches intently as you peruse, counting numbers in your head and quids in your hand. It’s this counting game again. Barely scraping by—not having enough to buy supplies that will last you more than a few days, forever stuck with travel sized versions of what you require. 

When he catches that disconsolate expression on your face, he insists on paying for you. 

“I’m not gonna let you go without what’cha need. These prices are robbin’ you blind,” he says when you try to argue. 

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” you retort, guilt eating you alive. 

“I’m not buyin’ you a pony here, sweetheart. They’re pads and tampons. Necessities.” 

Stubborn as an ox, he doesn’t budge. Simon is persevering, and certainly has more stamina to argue than you do. Saving yourself from any further embarrassment, you finally allow it. You keep a mental note to remind yourself to buy him something when you get the money. 

If you get the money. 

Bundled up in his arms, Simon carries the items up to the counter himself, even going as far as to sneak some over the counter painkillers in the process. You follow behind him like a wounded animal; or, at least the clerk looks at you as if you are one. A wet stray cat. A fox caught in a trap. Some pathetic, bleeding bitch—it’s like he can smell the blood that stains the insides of your thighs. Shame mixes with the embarrassment coursing through your veins, lighting you on fire until you’re nothing but a boiling mess of a woman. 

Suddenly, the only thing you see is Simon’s back. 

“Get paid to stare, or are you gonna ring us up?” he grunts. 

Simon cares ferociously, you realize. Unabashedly an altruist. That’s why you’re not scared of him. It would be so easy for him to take—to scrape up everything he wants and shove it into his pocket like it’s always belonged to him—but he doesn’t. Simon likes balance. Enjoys peace. When he snarls, it’s done with sharp teeth; just enough to get the glares and smirks to dissipate, and when he looks back at you, they’re dull. He doesn’t speak about the tally. There are no numbers written in the back of his mind. No debt to pay. 

He doesn’t keep count. Simon cares because that’s what he wants to do, and if it’s not, then he is the greatest pretender you have ever met. 

You’re only able to breathe again when you’re back in Simon’s car with your seatbelt fastened and menstruation supplies are in hand. Dusk settles in the sky with a soft lilac hue as you’re taken back home, but the streets refuse to darken. Christmas joy bathes the pavement, illuminating the concrete with bright lights that diffuse dreamily through the car window—they almost look like stars. You squint and try to pick out a constellation—it makes a good distraction for the cramping and humiliation that festers in your stomach. 

“Got plans for Christmas?” 

Neither of you have spoken in so long that you nearly jump at the warm baritone resonating in his chest. Glancing at Simon, you quell your heart as you watch him for a moment. Hands carefully on the wheel, safely maneuvering through traffic—your stomach drops. 

“Oh, uhm, not really. Usually I spend it with John and Aelin, but they’re headed out of the country for the holiday. My parents passed when I was a kid, so… uh, otherwise I think I’ll probably spend it at home? Relax, or whatever,” you explain. 

An eternity passes by as you wait for his response. As the engine hums and the radio plays old Christmas tunes, you feel his words before they even form on his tongue. You try not to grimace before the words leave his mouth. 

“I’ve got family in Manchester. My mum’s hostin’ my brother and I for the holiday. You’re more than welcome to join, if you’d like,” he offers. 

Your eyes flutter as you look at your hands with a sigh. “You know you don’t… have to do all that, right?” you ask. 

“Do what?” he questions, sincere confusion lacing his tone. 

“I know that Aelin asked you to keep an eye on me, and that she’s concerned about me, or whatever; and I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me, truly. But Simon, this is your family. I can’t… barge in. You deserve to spend time with them without having to worry about, you know… me.” 

His head shakes, eyes daring a glance at you as you fiddle with the bag in your lap. “Mrs. Price isn’t makin’ me do anything. And you’re not bargain’ in if I invite you,” he says.

Teeth digging into the flesh of your bottom lip, you feel yourself sunder. Long, spiderweb cracks form in your foundation as your heart pounds so hard you fear it’ll rip itself to shreds. You’re becoming undone in the passenger’s seat of a car, and you swear this time it will be the end of you.

“Sweetheart,” Simon prompts softly, “I’m not askin’ you because of Aelin, or anyone else. She didn’t even mention it to me, I swear it. I’m askin’ because I want to know if you’ll go to Manchester with me. That’s it.” 

Finally, you bring yourself to look at him as anxiety slithers down your throat when you swallow. “Do you… really want me to go?” 

“Course I do. Wouldn’t be askin’ if I didn’t. I’d be chuffed if you did, but it’s up to you.” He pauses as he spares another glance at you. “You can say no.” 

Quiet eudaimonia warms your chest at his words, but you’re not sure which part has done you in. Is it his outspoken wish that he wants you to join him? That it would make him happy if you came along? Or is it his quiet reminder that—despite his desires—you still have a choice? 

“When would we leave?” you ask. 

“Christmas Eve, most likely. Still got work up until then, and we’d have to be back the day after Christmas. It’d be a short trip,” he explains. 

Lungs filling with air, your heart settles as you manage a quiet smile. “Okay. Well… I’d love to meet them. Your family. It would be… nice not to be alone this Christmas.” 

Simon smiles, and you find yourself staring at him longer than you should. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. He is really… handsome. Ruggedness, scars, crooked nose and all—his features come together perfectly as if sculpted by an artist. This is the same man who fought off a blade for you, the man who’s assured you were safe on several occasions, who refuses to be bashful or stationary when it comes to ensuring your comfort. This is the man who always walks you up the stairs to your apartment, refusing to let you out of his sight until he knows you’re safe in your residence. The man who fixed your door, your sink—

—everything. 

As you say goodnight and reiterate your plans for Christmas, your mind repeats that phrase: Simon Riley cares ferociously. 

Simon Riley cares ferociously about you. 

It continues. Repetitive. Never-ending. It doesn’t cease. Not even as Simon vanishes back down the stairs and you shut and lock the door behind him. Not even when you toss yourself face first into your bed, period products discarded on some forgotten counter in your kitchen. Fervid desire swells in your chest to the point you feel your ribs and cartilage threaten to pop. You’ll explode into a mess of viscera until you're unrecognizable, and it hurts. It hurts but feels like the closest thing to freedom that you’ve tasted in a long time. 

For the first time in ages, something finally feels like it’s changing for the better. 

When your phone rings an hour later, you find yourself looking at the screen hoping it’s Simon. You drop everything, pasta nearly over boiling on the stove, just to fetch the device. Your stomach plummets through the floor when you see Aelin’s caller ID instead of his, and then you’re struck with guilt. A palpable tension still stretches between the two of you since your last conversation. You still taste the bile—that stomach acid and soup. 

Your hand shakes as you press accept and turn the heat down on the burner. “Hello?” 

“Hey,” Aelin greets. Her voice is pillowy. Careful. “You sound better than you did last week.” 

“Yeah, feeling a lot better,” you admit. Your laugh is awkward. Tense. It’s as if you’re talking to a stranger, and maybe in some way you are. That’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it? Pushing her away, building walls until you're unrecognizable to one another. Nothing but strangers who have known each other for half your lives. 

“Good. That’s good. Hey, uhm…” You brace yourself, eyes shutting as you let steam from the pot brush over your face as she continues. “I wanted to apologize for last week. For… honestly the last few weeks. You’ve been going through a rough time with work and everything and… and what I thought was me being supportive or helpful was really just me being a dunce. When I see something I think is a problem, I want to fix it right away, and when I can’t I get so frustrated and… well, I shouldn’t have said what I said to you the other day. That wasn’t fair to you at all.” 

Aelin pauses to clear her throat, but it still takes her a moment before she speaks up again. When she does, you freeze at the tightness of her voice—it sounds as if her vocal chords are ready to snap. “I just… it makes me sad thinking about you having to do anything alone, a-and I know no one likes unwanted help, least of all you but… Just know I’m here for you. Anything, I swear. Both John and I would move heaven and earth for you.” 

Trembling lips curve into a smile, and when you laugh you’re not sure if it’s out of love, relief, or both. Aelin falls silent on the other end, trepidation obvious even through the call. 

“I know you’re more of a talker than I am, and you wanna know what’s going on but… that’s just not me. You know that. It’s… hard. I dunno. But just because I’m not sharing my feelings, or whatever, that doesn’t mean I’m doing this alone. I know I have you, and John, and—”

Simon’s name almost slips off of your tongue like a shattered secret. 

“—and I always have you guys to lean on. I know you feel like you aren’t doing enough, or that you should be doing more but… Aelin, you’ve done more for me than anyone else in my entire life ever has. You know that, right?” 

A long stretch of silence interrupts the call as you wait for Aelin to respond, and when she finally does, all she can muster is a quiet: “Oh.” There’s a slightly longer silence before she’s finally able to string the correct words together. “Well, when you put it that way… I sound really stupid.” 

“You have your moments,” you humor. 

A melodic fit of giggles erupts from both you and Aelin. Sweet, carefree, and loving. You sound like kids again, or gossiping school girls snickering to one another when you shouldn’t be. 

“Well, thanks for helping me get my head on straight, then,” she chuckles. “Really. It’s always nice to know it was worse in my head than it was in real life.” 

“I notice things are usually like that,” you quip. 

“Well… I might’ve gone a little overboard. The idea of you spending Christmas alone still really makes me sad, so I talked with my mum. She said you’re more than welcome to spend the day with her and granny, if you’re needing company,” Aelin explains. There’s a short pause before she anxiously adds: “You don’t have to go, of course, if you’d rather stay home. Just thought I’d give you the option.” 

There’s an ardent swell that expands in your chest. It travels all throughout your body, synapses tingling, neurons buzzing. Leaning against the counter, you look down at the floor—which could use a good sweep—as your toes wiggle in the fluffy slippers Aelin gifted you on your birthday a few years back. 

“Well, I’ve actually got plans for Christmas now. Simon invited me to go to Manchester for the holiday. We’ll be spending it with his family,” you share. 

An over-dramatic gasp crackles through the speaker. “Seriously? Are you joking? No, you’re not joking! Wait, did you suggest it? Or was he seriously, like, let me take you to Manchester?” she says while mocking his low voice and Mancunian accent. 

“Yeah, pretty much,” you say with an awkward laugh. “It was… really sweet of him.” 

“Oh? Sweet, was it?” Aelin jests. 

What you thought was going to be a quick call consisting of setting scores straight and airing out baggage quickly devolves into a childish conversation about a potential relationship with Simon. You have to set the call on speaker in order to finish up dinner, and even then Aelin persists well after you’ve washed your dishes. 

It’s… strange to be having this sort of conversation. Even as a kid you never pursued any sort of relationship besides the platonic. No one ever caught your eye. Nothing ever sparked what you imagined infatuation would feel like. For a long while, you thought you were broken. Meant to forever go about the world without a partner to crawl next to in bed, or someone to make breakfast for. It would be fine. You’ve gone your entire life without that bond so far. 

But now? Now that it feels so close you can nearly reach out and touch it? You’re too frightened to name it—to call it love—lest you scare it off before you even have the chance to hold it in your hands. 

Eventually, the call ends with promises and oaths, and each of you swear to tell one another about your Christmas excursions when Aelin returns from her trip with John. Lights flicker off as you slip into pajamas, and you revel in the soft cotton warming your skin as you slip under covers. As you lay on your back, eyes bleary as they attempt to focus on the pale ceiling above you, you think of Simon. Your fingers itch to reach for your phone, to shoot him a text—to thank him for his kindness today. 

Don’t you remind yourself. Simon is the water you try to cup in your hands—palms pressed tight together, wrists contorting into the perfect chalice—you’ll spill it if you’re not careful. This ardor. This feeling you can’t quite name. So you close your eyes, and for once you allow yourself to hope. To yearn. 

You lay there and pray that when Simon thinks of you, his heart beats just as wildly as yours does when you think of him.

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[byllsbytch]

Halloween Party 🎃 (18+)

Nicholas Alexander Chavez

Genre : Smut

Summary: Dressed up as pirates you and Nicolas head out to a party, it turns out to be a great time and toward the end of the night things start to get heated.

A/N: Due to popular demand - the Halloween party plot was most voted upon so here ya go!

Warnings: p in v (tbh i dont know whats a warning)

I sat on the floor in front of the mirror. Makeup all around me. It was chaos, organised chaos though. I reached over to a fresh pack of eyelashes and placed them on to finish the look. Fuck I was smoking and I wasn’t even done. I leant over behind me to my curling iron and turned it on waiting for it to heat up. While waiting I scrolled through my phone and a message from Nick popped up on my screen.

“You’re gonna love my costume, I’ll be over soon.”

I smiled at his message before putting my phone down and reaching for the curling iron. We planned to go to the party together as pirates. I wrapped my hair around the rod and held it for a few seconds repeating the steps until I’d curled all of my hair.

Once I was finished I grabbed a bandana and wrapped it around my head. Finally I got changed into fishnets, boots, a skirt, white button up shirt and vest. I walked to the living room and loaded up my cooler bag with drinks and a pack of lollies I bought to get into the spirit.

“You’re looking good.” Mum called from the couch.

I smiled knowing damn straight I did.

“Thank you Mum.”

“Nicholas is still tagging along yeah?”

“Yeah he is, why wouldn’t he be?”

“Well, he’s cutting it a bit fine isn’t he?”

I looked at the clock.

“Yeah, but we’re in no rush.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“OK then.”

Almost on cue a knock appeared at the door and I answered to be met with Captain Jack Sparrow.

“You look so good!” I shrieked. “Stop it!”

He looked at the ground a large grin on his face.

After the praise he looked back up and his eyes were stuck on me, his face going redder.

“Woah! You look gorgeous, who knew a pirate could be so HAWT!”

He took a step inside and followed me to my room.

“Can I please put eyeliner on you?”

In character he bowed, “Of course m’lady”

I pushed him onto the bed, straddling him with my eyeliner in hand.

“Ok baby, so you have to keep your eyes open and look up.”

He hummed in agreement.

I brought the pencil to his waterline while he brought his hands to my hips slowly rubbing his thumbs in a circular motion.

His eye twitched like crazy. “Eh! Uh, Uh!” He groaned.

“Shh Nick! Stop being a baby, relax your eye.”

“Oh my god! It’s not relaxing! I don’t know if you can tell… Jesus how do you do this?”

He gripped tighter onto my hips as I started on his other eye, digging his nails into me. I folded backwards yowling in pain.

“Fuck! Ouch!”

Nicholas quickly jumped up from underneath me with instant regret.

“Oh my god babe I’m so sorry.”

“What is going on here!” Mum screamed.

Me and Nick both flung our heads into her direction.

“Oh,” She said quietly. “Nice eyeliner Nicholas.” Before turning back around and heading out the door.

We both look at eachother in silence then began to lose it, laughing hysterically.

“We better go.” I tried to say in between laughs.

I got up and reached my hand out to him, he grabbed my hand and wiped his tears with the other hand.

I grabbed the bag full of drinks and headed out the door, it wasn’t long until our friends swung by and picked us up.

-

Arriving at the party the music was already loud and bumping, the house was decorated nicely. Lights and projections illuminated the exterior of the home.

Me and Nick walked in hand in hand and began to mingle with all the other party goers. The house was packed with people and we were all cramped like sardines.

Once the liquid confidence kicked in, I joined Nick to the dance floor. Nick was being funny and bopped his head, pouting his lips. I giggled at his silly-ness and swayed my hips to the music, keeping my eyes on his. The music was upbeat and Nicholas grabbed my hand spinning me. We danced together and sang all the songs at the top of our lungs. It was so much fun.

We became sweaty messes and Nicholas took my hand as not to loose me dragging me outside to the cooler air.

“Oh this is much better.” I groaned fanning my face with a paper plate I picked up from the buffet table. Nick stood behind me and lifted my hair off my neck.

“Thanks babe, how’d you know?” I laughed.

“You’re gonna have to do the same to me in a minute, this wig is so fucking hot.”

I turned around, him letting go of my hair, placing a hand on his chest.

“That wig IS so fucking hot.”

He rolled his eyes with a chuckle and I lifted the heap of hair off his neck, fanning him now with the plate.

“Fuck this sweat and all this makeup, I cannot wait for a shower.”

Nick grinned looking me up and down. “Me too.”

“I’m gonna get us a drink. Objections?”

I shook my head. “None whatsoever.”

He took off back into the crowd and loud music.

I scanned around me and seen people jumping in the pool, other drinking and then a girl laying in the bush, spew all around her. Yikes.

I walked over to the food table and grabbed some munchies placing them on a plate for me and Nick to share. I then walked back to where I was before so Nick would loose me.

After a while he came back with drinks.

“They’re doing beer pong in there if you want to play.”

I gestured the plate toward him and he grabbed a mozzarella stick.

“Sure, can we finish our drinks out here and then go in?”

“Yeah of course darling.” He wrapped his free arm around me rubbing my shoulder.

Nicholas spun his head toward the girl in the bush and made a disgusted face. “Eh. Nobody see this?”

“I don’t think anyone cares to be honest.”

“She’s sleeping good alright.”

I sipped my drink and once I got to the last mouthful I downed it.

Me and Nicholas walked back into the muggy house and felt the heat instantly his us. The smell of sweat and booze lingered. I noticed that the house was all foggy whether that was a result of a smoke machine or the many vapers in the house I couldn’t tell at first. Judging by the fruity smell it was the vapes.

I stood behind Nicholas as he played his turn at beer pong, cheering him on. He managed to get 3 cups before missing on his fourth attempt. The chick opposing him absolutely crushed his team, dunking 7 cups in a row.

Later on in the night I had a girl spill her drink on me and I was so fucking ready to fight her. I grabbed all of my hair and started to tie it up, to which Nicholas grabbed me and pulled me away.

“It’s not worth it!” He yelled over the music.

I looked at him and instantly calmed down.

“Just wait here I’ll get you some paper towel.”

“I’ll meet you in the bathroom.” I yelled back so he could hear me.

I’d seen the line to the bathroom and threw my head back in annoyance. I leant on the wall with my arms folded waiting for the queue to die down.

Nicholas found me and looked around before shaking his head.

“Come.” He said holding onto my hand and taking me upstairs.

“Nicholas, we shouldn’t be up here.”

“Pft, it’s fine, no one will know.”

He lead me into one of the bedrooms which had a bathroom connected to it.

I hoisted myself up onto the bench which Nicholas soaked the paper towel handing me one, I scrubbed at my t shirt while he wiped the drink off my chest. He stopped what he was doing and looked me in the eyes with a hunger.

I lifted my head up noticing his sudden halt. He’d placed his hand on the spot of my chest he was cleaning previously and then moved his hand up toward my neck, his hand pushed back until my head touched the mirror behind.

I spread my legs making room for Nick to get in between them. He came closer and tucked the hair out of my face all the while I wrapped my legs around his waist.

He kept his hand behind my ear, continuing to look at me with desire. We stayed in this passionate encounter for a couple second before Nicholas had brought his soft lips to mine. He tasted of spirits, making me drunker by the second. I’d had fully given into him.

I wrapped my fingers into his hair, slipping my tongue into his mouth as he sucked on it. Our tongues went to war for dominance, with Nick’s ultimately winning.

“Best get this dirty top off, I don’t think that stain is coming out my love.” He managed to hush out in between our kiss. Immediately I obliged taking off my vest while Nicholas undid the buttons of the white shirt. He stood back to watch himself slip the shirt of my shoulders, admiring me.

“You’re just too perfect my beautiful.” He closed the gap between us, holding my face in his hands. I felt him poking me. “Ouh!” I moaned excitedly moving my hands down to his pants and rubbing his bulge. I yanked at the top of his pants and he groaned lowly as a way to give permission. I began to have a go at his belt. Trying to rush and get his buckle undone quick only made it harder for me so I had to break the kiss and focus on getting the belt undone. Nicholas was panting and looking down at what my hands were doing.

“Mhmm, that’s it baby, you got it, good job” He encouraged me, making me instantly look at him for his validation. He nodded, causing a big smile to approach my face. He wasted no time sliding his pants down. He forced his way between my legs and I brought my feet up to the edge of the counter giving him full access.

His fat cock sprung free and I began to stoke him, teasing him. He threw his head back thrusting into my hand. He lifted my skirt over my thighs and pulled my panties to the side, exposing my wet pussy. He spat on his hand for extra lubrication and slipped his fingers between my wet folds, inserting two fingers. I stopped all movement, especially stroking Nick and gasped, reaching my hand out to grasp anything. He slowly pumped his fingers in and out of me before he teased my entrance with his tip. I flung my knuckle to my mouth and bit it, a weak attempt to silence my pleasurable screams, not that anyone would have heard it through the load music that echoed through the walls.

Nicholas kept his eye on me to watch my reactions, he was pretty good to take notice on what to do, if I didn’t like something or if he should keep going. Judging by the look on my face his had the green light to go faster.

I leant my head back and let the pleasure take over me, Nicks dick repeatedly hit all the right spots. I wrapped my hands around his neck for support and Nick leant in to continue the passionate make out. He slid his tongue to the back of my throat and licked my teeth.

He took it upon himself to lift me. With the back of my knees being supported by his forearms his repeatedly lifted me and dropped me back down onto his member. I buried my head into his neck and dug my nails deep into his back, making scratches that left welts.

“Uh-huh right there.” My words started to become gibberish, as I felt myself coming close to orgasm.

“Nick, uh, right there, right there, right there.” My pitch became higher and my words faster. He continued thrusting into me.

“I’m gonna cum!” I screamed twitching in his arms, my eyes rolled back into ecstasy and I continued to ride out my high. Nicholas placed me back onto the counter before giving his final few pumps, trying to chase his high. At this point I was overstimulated and really sensitive.

“Nicky Baby! It hurts!”

“I’m right ther-“ Before he could finish his sentence he released his load and folded in half, collapsing on top of me.

We both panted loudly and Nick looked back up at my face smiling with a light chuckle.

I placed my hand on his abs and shook my head with a smile.

“Are you ok?” He asked inbetween pants.

Unable to say anything I just nodded with my eyes half closed in satisfied relaxation.

“You were so fucking good baby.” He said planting a kiss on my forehead.

Nick handed me his shirt, “Just put this on, I’ll hold onto your dirty shirt.”

“And you’re just going to walk around half naked?”

He stared at his pecs in the mirror, “Well yeah, I don’t plan on staying for long, I think we have a date with the shower.”

I laughed and shook my head standing up, my legs were wobbly and I couldn’t walk properly for the life of me.

“Yeah I think we should go now, lets not worry about hanging around.”

Nicholas raised his eyebrow at me standing awkwardly

“Shit, I’m sorry babe.”

“It’s fine, as long as you make it up by round 2 in the shower and cuddles and candy in bed.”

He nodded, “Agreed.”

Nicholas was distracted by his reflection again.

“Sorry I gotta say fuck captain jack sparrow looks good shirtless” He winked and clicked his tongue then walked to the door.

“You bet your ass!” I said, following him out the door and slapping him on the ass.

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Sammy's Birthday Surprise

Sam Winchester x sister!reader

Dean Winchester x sister!reader

Team Free Will 2.0 x reader

Summary: A little birthday fun with the family!

You should’ve known Dean was getting soft.

Not "settle-down-and-get-a-dog" soft. More like "fine-I’ll-frost-a-cake-with-my-sister-and-not-make-a-sarcastic-comment-every-ten-seconds" soft. The moment you brought up surprising Sam for his birthday, he groaned, called it dumb, and then five minutes later asked what kind of cake you were thinking.

It was your idea, but Dean jumped in fast once Jack and Cas were looped in. Jack, of course, was so happy that he was apart of this.

"I’ve never done a surprise party before," he’d said smiling so innocently. "Do we wear costumes?"

Dean had stared at him like he’d grown a second head. "What? No. This isn’t Halloween."

"I think it’s a lovely idea," Castiel had added dryly, glancing between you and Dean. "Although... Jack, if you want to wear a hat, I’m sure Sam wouldn’t object."

And that’s how Jack ended up wearing a blue party hat with little stars on it while Dean grilled burgers, you tried not to light the kitchen on fire baking, and Castiel wrapped Sam’s present like it was a mission from Heaven itself.

Sam had left in the morning, off to check out a ghost sighting in Iowa that you and Dean had completely made up. The EMF reader you gave him was rigged to ping randomly so it’d seem legit.

"I don’t know, Dean," you whispered, watching Sam pull away in the Impala. "I feel kinda bad."

Dean shrugged. "Don’t. He’s gonna come back to burgers, cake, and a damn vinyl of Celine Dion's album. He’ll live."

By early evening, the war room looked like a chaotic mix of party and post-hunt fatigue.

There were red and black streamers (Dean insisted they had to look "manly"), the cake was tilting dangerously (again), and Jack had arranged the presents on the map table like a sacred offering.

"Do you think Sam likes journals?" Jack asked, glancing at your wrapped gift. "He writes a lot."

"He’ll love it," you said.

"We got him a rare stone from the Grand Canyon," Castiel said calmly, as if that was something people just did. Jack held up a little Christmas bag that had paper coming out of it.

"Where did you even get that?" Dean asked, poking the cake. "Is that legal?"

"Everything we do isn't legal."

Dean paused. "Right. Okay."

When Sam finally walked in, you were all waiting behind the war room’s archway. The lights were dimmed, the candles on the cake were lit, and Jack was humming the theme to Star Wars for some reason.

Sam’s boots echoed into the silence.

"Hello?" he called. "Guys?"

Dean grinned at you. "Now."

You all jumped out.

"Surprise!"

Sam nearly dropped his laptop bag. "What the hell?!"

Jack clapped enthusiastically. "Happy birthday, Sam!"

Sam blinked, mouth falling open. "Wait... You guys planned this?"

"You sound so shocked," Dean said, walking over and slinging an arm around his shoulders. "C’mon, man. You’re the best researcher-slash-hunter-slash-weird-little-brother we’ve got."

You pulled him into a hug next. "And I baked. Like, actual baking. This is historic."

"You did this for me?" Sam asked, voice quieter. He looked around - at the decorations, the wonky cake, the people who were his real family. "Seriously?"

"I did most of the cake," Dean said. "But yeah."

"You helped frost it," you corrected which made Sam chuckle a little.

Jack bounced on the balls of his feet. "And I helped!"

Sam gave a small, awed smile. "You guys are... unbelievable."

"I think he means that in a good way," Castiel added solemnly.

You all laughed and settled in for dinner—burgers, potato chips, soda (because Sam hated beer on an empty stomach), and a cake so sweet it nearly knocked Jack out.

Sam opened presents last.

He stared at the vinyl like it was the Holy Grail. "Dean. Where did you find this?"

"Don’t worry about it."

Sam looked at your journal and ran his hand over the soft cover. "This is perfect. Thank you."

Jack handed him the stone, still in the bag. "It’s from the Grand Canyon. Castiel flew me there."

Sam opened it gently, as if it might be fragile. "I love it."

He looked up, a little misty-eyed now, and said, "I don’t know what to say."

Dean leaned back in his chair, burger in hand. "Say ‘thank you’ and eat your cake before Jack tries to astral project again from the sugar rush."

You nudged Sam. "Happy birthday, Sammy."

"Thanks," he said, voice warm, quiet.

After the cake had been demolished and presents were opened, Dean leaned back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"So," he said, wiping frosting from his mouth, "anybody feel like making fools of themselves?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Dean, what did you do?"

Dean stood and walked over to a big black duffel bag he’d stashed under the map table. He pulled out a dusty portable karaoke machine and two wireless microphones.

"Oh no," you said, laughing. "You didn’t."

"Oh yes, I did," he grinned. "I give you: Winchester Family Karaoke Night."

Jack practically exploded with excitement. "Do we get to sing? I’ve been practicing Queen!"

"You’ve... what?" Sam said, looking at him with a half proud yet surprised smile.

"I like ‘Don’t Stop Me Now.’ It’s motivating."

Dean gave him a mock salute. "You’re up after me, kid."

You crossed your arms. "You’re seriously going first?"

Dean raised the mic like he was He-Man. "Damn right I am. It’s not a party until someone sings ‘Eye of the Tiger.’"

Sam groaned. "Please don’t strip on the table again."

Dean winked. "No promises."

The first few songs were an unholy mix of classic rock, Jack’s off-key enthusiasm, and Castiel reading lyrics like they were Enochian scrolls. He sang very seriously.

Jack chose Queen, as promised, and sang it with so much heart and dramatic finger-pointing that Dean had to wipe away a tear from laughter.

You got dragged in next - Dean threw the second mic at you mid-verse and refused to keep singing unless you did a duet with him. You picked "I Love Rock 'n' Roll" and belted it out like you were at a dive bar on a dare. Dean played the air guitar.

Sam, of course, resisted the longest.

But after everyone kept chanting "Sam! Sam! Sam!" (Jack was the loudest), he sighed, grabbed the mic, and said flatly, "Fine. One song."

He picked Bon Jovi’s Wanted Dead or Alive.

You weren’t sure when Sam got cool enough to pull that off, but halfway through, Castiel leaned over to you and said, "He’s surprisingly talented."

By the end of the song, Dean was howling, Jack was clapping like a kid at a talent show, and Sam - flushed and grinning - actually bowed.

"Alright," he said, sitting back down. "Now that was worth the birthday surprise."

Dean pointed a mic at him. "See? Told you."

Jack raised his root beer. "Best. Party. Ever."

That night, you all crashed in the bunker’s lounge, half-asleep on the couches, the karaoke machine still glowing faintly.

Sam glanced at you from across the room. "Thanks for planning this. All of it."

You smiled. "Anytime, Sammy."

[lordprettyflackotara]

hitchhiker || end of beginning

this is entirely fan service. enjoy <3

Your hair flew behind you, the salty wind blowing past you in a blur. You grinned at the smell of the ocean, watching your daughter, Nova, collect seashells along the shoreline. “Doesnt this one look cool?” She exclaimed, holding up a larger shell. You smiled and nodded, her curious chocolate eyes staring at you for an answer. “It looks lovely honey, it’ll look great for our collection,” You said encouragingly. After Nova grew a bit older you moved away from the woods, your past lovers haunting you. Nova was eleven now, her features starting to mature. You could never place whose she was. Her nose was shaped like Toby’s, her jawline sharp like Brian’s, and her eyes full and warm like Tim’s. Each day she reminded you more and more of them, her habits like theirs unknowingly. Toby’s energy, Brian’s love for tomato soup, Tim’s leadership. She had become quite the little adult at her new middle school, joining the debate club almost immediately as it was founded.

Yet she still had that childlike sense about her. Her cheeks were still a little chubby, her innocence still intact. Beside her was Jack, still wearing boots and his hoodie, even on the sandy beach. The beach was secluded, fenced in behind your new home. Jack still came to visit regularly, Nova having long adjusted to his appearance. She knew he was different and his existence was to be kept a secret, but she didn’t seem to mind at all. It was hard for her to when he came bearing gifts each visit. Truly he spoiled her, the demon shrugging and pretending he didn’t know what you were talking about when you called him out on it. “What do you think Uncle Jack?” Nova asked, holding it up to him. The demon pretended to be puzzled, before ruffling her thick y/h/c hair. “I think it would look better washed off, here,” He said, reaching down and cupping a handful of water. You watched as he surprised her, splashing water on her sundress. She gasped before giggling playfully, quickly splashing him back. You grinned at the sight, Nova’s laughter music to your ears.

“Scared to get wet princess?”

For a moment you thought you were hallucinating, jumping in surprise at the sight of Tim. A lazy unlit cigarette hung from his lips, Brian and Toby right behind him. “Holy shit,” You whispered. You ran towards them, desperately clawing at them to all hug you at once. You cupped each of their faces, your heart exploding with happiness. “How did you… you’re here. You’re real,” You whispered. You noticed Toby no longer had a bandage covering the side of his face, his gash revealed proudly. Tim’s hair had grown longer, framing his face. Brian’s stubble was growing out, poking at your palm as you cupped his face. “R-real as it c-can get,” Toby said proudly, giving you a goofy smile. You turned around, Jack holding Nova’s small hand as he walked her over to you and the boys. You were unsure how to explain this, your daughter’s concept of parents being only two individuals. Not four. “Who are they mama?” She asked, hesitantly staring up at them. You were speechless, her big bright eyes looking up at Jack for guidance. He crouched down to her level, the demon much taller than any of you. “You know how most kids are stuck with only two parents?” He asked. Nova nodded. You glanced at the proxies, each of them staring at her. They each saw a bit of themselves in her. You crouched down as well, the two of you trying to ease Nova into the situation.

“Well you’re so special you get four,” You say, poking her rounded nose. She gasped, looking at Tim, Brian, and Toby. “You have an Uncle Jack which is much cooler in my opinion but yes, you have four,” Jack added, grinning. His sharp teeth unfazed the girl, who instead widened her eyes. “Does this mean I get four times as many Christmas presents?” She asked, unable to conceal a giggle. “Yeah she’s definitely y/n’s kid,” Tim muttered, causing Brian to elbow him. Toby was the first to return Nova’s grin, matching her perky energy. “As many as you want kiddo,” He said, mentally happy he didn’t stutter. Nova studied his gash for a moment, before speaking, “You’re just like Uncle Jack.”

Toby nodded, his left arm twitching. “I’d debate i’m a lot cooler but yeah pretty much,” Jack snickered, rising to his feet. Brian cleared his throat, a bit anxious to speak to the precious girl who he knew to be their daughter. “Five bucks says I can collect more sea shells than you,” He said, causing Nova to form a mischievous grin. Toby shrugged off his hoodie, tossing his goggles aside. “O-oh you’re s-so on. Cmon N-Nova,” Toby cheered, carelessly running down the small beach. Nova chased behind him, her blue beach bucket swaying as she ran. For the first time since you had met Brian he looked content, calmly following them down the beach. “You knew?” You asked Tim, who had now lit his cigarette since Nova wasn’t around. “Jack may have kept her a secret for a long time, but buying monster high dolls kinda gave it away,” He explained. You hugged Tim’s jacket tighter around you, the previous tarnished material all sewed back together. “Toby followed him. He saw you getting Nova off of the bus. He knew immediately that she was one of ours,” He continued. He inhaled deeply, before passing the cigarette to you. You had ditched the habit a long time ago, but Tim’s scent of cigarettes and cologne was enough to make you want a hit. “Took a lot of planning, as well as some favor asking, but The Operator is dead,” Tim finished.

You stared wide eyed, looking at Jack for clarification. “Dont look at me. I wasn’t going to spoil the surprise,” He said plainly. Nova ran up to the three of you, grabbing the demons large hand. “Cmon Uncle Jack, you gotta help us win!” She cheered. Jack waved goodbye, following the small girl. You turned to Tim, inhaling the tobacco stick. “How did you do it? Kill The Operator I mean?” You asked. You felt the smoke swirl around your lungs, before you exhaled. The ocean breeze blew it away quickly, your hair brushing behind your shoulders. “I think that’s a story for another day, don’t you think?” Tim asked. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, guiding you to look at the mini family you had created. Toby was splashing Jack in the shallow water, trying to distract him as Nova searched the shore for shells. Brian was attempting to take off his boots and socks quickly, his work boots not made for the beach. You leaned your head on his shoulder, a content smile creeping across your lips. You wondered who Nova actually belonged her, a lot of her personality traits and looks so similar to each proxy. You knew it didn’t matter though, each of them going to endlessly love her as their own.

Tim’s warmth was relaxing, the orange sunset setting beyond the horizon. “Son of a bitch!” She gasped, after falling into the ocean. Yeah, she was most definitely Tim’s.

[nthewriter]

Boots, Boots, Boots

Dark fic with Ghost part 1

TW: Torture, Simon losing his mind

Cold.

It was so cold.

Ghost shuddered, his breath coming from his mouth in a little smoke puff. It kind of reminded him of smoking. How cold was this room? He tried to move on his side, but he let out a little hiss. His ribs were probably broken from when he was captured. A rookie mistake: he slipped up the building and landed right into the enemy's den. They immediately jumped on him, kicking and beating him down. And as soon as someone tied him up, their violence reached a new height. Ghost took it like a champ though. Soon enough, the 141 will burst through the doors and he will get home after a good drink.

His attention snapped to the door. The door leading to his cell opened slowly, and a figure walked in.

“What do we have here?” The voice said with a sarcastic tone. A woman. She knelt down next to his battered and bound form. “A mask. How interesting.” She had an accent he noted. From where? He couldn't tell. “You have a name, sweetheart?”

Ghost didn't reply. Not even a grunt. Just a glare from underneath his mask covering his face. The baklava had been ripped, showing off his dirty blond hair. The woman was wearing a fur coat that ate her whole form. Ghost's brows furrowed. Who wore that kind of stuff?

“Where does this one come from?” She then asked one of the guards standing behind her, dismissing or behaving as if Ghost didn't exist.

“Spied on us at the observation tower and that idiot fell.” A much rougher voice spoke out with a chuckle.

“He fell?” She laughed, and snorted. “My, my. Your country sure hires the most fucked up bastard, pretty boy.” She then noticed the union Jack flag on his jacket. She ripped it off easily and held it up in the air. “British. Of course. You guys sure like to invade other people's stuff, uh?”

She didn't seem annoyed at his lack of replies. But Ghost felt uneasy around her. She acted like she was some crazy mad woman but strangely in control of everything. It was unnerving. He had to be wary of her.

“Let him in the dark. No food. No water. Needs to know where he comes from.” She decided and Ghost rolled his eyes. Of course. Typical shit.

Ghost was used to this kind of capture, of being held. It wasn’t his first time, so he was no virgin to this hard life. He was one of the best, so he would endure it.

Several days later, hands grabbed him roughly while he was asleep and he was dragged to another room. He was strapped down to a chair, right in front of the woman with her stupid coat. She looked mad though.

“You're from the SAS.” She spoke slowly, sharpening every word. She didn't need him to confirm it. “I can't believe my luck. Finally a way to make dear old Price pay for what he has done.”

That was interesting, Ghost perked up at this. The woman noticed his interest and her smirk grew wider. She approached him with a soft hum, gripping his chin tightly with her apparent delicate and manicured hands.

Against his will, he spoke up. A moment of weakness and he had to admit, curiosity.

“You know Price?”

“Can't forget the man who assassinated my parents in cold blood.” She spat, tightening her grip.

Ghost didn’t say anything. What could he say that could calm her nerves down? Nothing. Just- nothing. Though, he started to grow uneasy. Usually, the Task Force would have found him and saved his sorry ass. Where were they? What were they doing? The woman released his chin with a contemplative look. He didn’t know why but he didn’t like the way she stared at him. It wasn’t anything sexual, no. It was maybe worse: she saw him as an object, a sharp object. A killing machine.

“So, pretty English boy…” She whispered with a false sweet tone. “Where is your compound located?”

He stayed quiet. The Ghost always stayed silent during the enemy's interrogations. He could handle everything: the nail ripping, the broken fingers and toes, hell, even waterboarding was a walk in the park for Ghost. But then, when she was faced with his silence, her lips turned into a deeper frown.

“Very well. Seems like our friend isn’t very talkative.” She strutted back to another man, almost as tall and muscular as Ghost. “You know how I like them, Claude.”

“Broken and begging for you to spare their lives.” The man replied with an accent. French or Canadian surely. “The casket?”

“The casket.” She nodded, approving the idea.

And Ghost knew he was fucked.

It wasn’t his first time in a confined space, under the land. The first time was with… Roba. Right. Roba. Ghost didn’t like to remember this period of his life, and everything that happened before and after his time with the Mexican drug dealer. It was a blur when he forced his mind around the event.

Ghost didn’t move, and instead concentrated on slowing his breathing. It seemed they weren’t looking to kill him but to weaken him. He thought about what she had said about Price, something about killing her parents apparently. Then, she was probably the daughter of a drug dealer or a terrorist. Probably the latter. Drug dealing didn’t suit him and her weird friend, the one that gripped his bounded hands so hard one of his fingers broke. Ghost was used to the pain, so he endured pretty well.

He wondered how long he had been buried there. Well, technically, he wasn’t buried. It was just torture, to break him. Ghost chuckled, and then quickly stopped. Oxygen was precious. He had to concentrate on breathing. Though, he would like to see that girl try and break him. No one had done this. No one had broken the Ghost and no one would.

Several moments later, as Ghost didn’t know the time, the casket moved, probably being lifted back onto the land. As it was opened, he saw Claude’s face, staring down at him. The two men looked at each other without a word before Claude spoke up.

“Want to confess?”

Ghost shook his head.

“Too bad for you. You’re making it hard, you know?” Claude snickered before dumping something inside. A speaker.

Upon seeing the object, Ghost frowned. This wasn’t something he had expected. He didn't understand. The man smirked before touching the phone’s screen and Ghost’s eyes widened, recognising the poem a man was reciting with a lugubrious and gloomy voice. The audio made it distorted as well. But Ghost recognised the poem from the first verses. Boots. Boots. Boots.

We’re foot-slog-slog-slog- sloggin’ over Africa

Foot-foot-foot-foot sloggin’ over Africa

(Boots-boots-boots-boots movin’ up and down again)

There’s no discharge in the war!

This time, he started to panic. Ghost knew the poem. When he entered the 141, to test their endurance and their limits, Price had put them in a room with the poem on repeat and repeat. Ghost had been so close to madness and to break, but he had calmed himself down. He had survived it all, just like all the time before. But the combination of the poem and the casket… Simon didn’t know if he was going to survive this.

Even the strongest could yield.

The combination of the poem from Kipling, the dark, cold and damp suffocating casket and unsavory memories made Simon spiral. He was starting to panic, to experience panic attacks. His chest was rising up and down so fast, he was having trouble with breathing. He tried to break the damn speaker but… but it didn’t work. He hadn’t eaten in days, not even a drink, he was light headed.

Finally, he kicked. He kicked the top of the casket with his tied foot and hands. He didn’t care about the pain, the splinters, the blood. He just wanted to get out of this. He wanted to feel the sun’s on his skin, he wanted to see people, he didn’t want to remain in the unforgiving cold and despair he was feeling.

His prayers were answered after what seemed like an eternity of kicking and yelling. The top of the casket slid, and Simon jumped from it, rolling down on the muddy ground. He heard guns being pointed at him, even insults. But he recognised her. The woman with the fur coat. She was looking down at him, curious about his behaviour. When someone -Claude- suggested they put him back, that’s when Simon lost it and began to beg, to implore.

“N-No. Please. Don’t put me back there. I promise I’ll be good. Please.” Simon felt small, like when his father used to beat him, or used to beat Tommy. Back when Roba had him in this damn coffin with… with what was his name ? He forgot. No. His name was Vernon. That’s all he could remember. He forgot his face, but didn’t forget the way his limp and cold body felt against his. “Please!” He begged, so pitifully.

And she knelt down next to his battered and black form. She caressed with her smooth hands the hard lines of his face, his scars, his nose that had been broken so many times that it stayed crooked. And she cradled his head right against her chest, going as far as draping a little portion of her comfortable and warm fur coat against him. And he started to like it. To crave it. The attention, the gestures, the kind words that fell from her mouth, even if she spoke to him like he was a mere pet to her, like he was his dog and she was his owner. Simon thought grimly he wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t mind having someone like that treating him with a bit of goodness, some caresses and a kind word.

“There, there, pretty boy.” She whispered lovingly, and despite his bound members, Simon tried to move closer to her, wanting to feel her skin on him. “You promise you’ll be a good boy, right? A good dog?” He nodded mindlessly at her words. She gently rubbed his cheeks together, before removing the ripped baklava and the mask, tracing the lines of his scar and his split lips with her soft hands. “Can’t have you looking like that. I’ll give you something more… fitting.”

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Part 3 - Oakmoss

Autumn Embers Masterlist

CW: Omegaverse scent-heavy flirting, food related flirting, Brandon (derogatory)

It’s three weeks later that Sergeant Garrick catches you walking out of your building at the end of the day. You’re more distracted than usual - trying to decipher a text from Jack about his upcoming heat - so you’re almost on top of him before you realize. His smile is genuine when you jump back from nearly stepping on his boot.

“Sorry!”

“No harm done,” he assures you. His hand comes forward. “Sergent Kyle Garrick.”

“We’ve met,” you point out, allowing a short, comfortable handshake.

His grin goes a little bit sheepish when he takes his hand back. “Well, I had to introduce myself better than Soap, at least. That’s MacTavish.”

“Ah,” you say. “Well… good to meet you.”

“The team wanted to thank you, for the information,” he continues. “It was very helpful. That Lawrence guy would have had us runnin’ in circles. We also, uh,” he shuffles his feet a bit, and looks away. “We didn’t want to overstep. By offering a gift before clearing it with you.”

Oh, he thinks he’s clever. You arch an eyebrow, “You want me to give your pack permission to give me gifts, Sergent Garrick?”

“I told them you’d catch on too fast,” he laughs.

At least he has the decency not to deny it. Here you had been tying yourself into knots about being too emotional in a meeting, and now a pretty man is asking permission for his pack to court you. Part of you is relieved. The last thing you need is more alphas pissed off at you, prowling around the base looking for a pissing contest.

Another part of you is annoyed.

You carefully regulate your breathing. “Yeah, I’m pretty good at catching these kinds of things by now. But you don’t have to thank me for doing my job.” You sidestep him and start walking toward the car park.

Sergent Garrick falls into step beside you. “I’ve offended you.”

You sigh. Of course he’d be sensitive to the way your scent changes. You practically scent burned him in a closed room. You step to the side of the walkway and turn to face him. “I’m sure you and your pack are wonderful, sergeant, but I’ve had a long day.”

His smile is charming. “Anything we can do to help?”

“Not approaching me with a courting offer at my workplace would be a good start,” you say, blandly. You watch his face muscles twitch through confusion, shock, and a tinge of horror before continuing. “While I’m flattered that you would tell your pack about me, I prefer to keep things professional on base. And I’m sure your team would prefer that as well. Have a nice night.”

“Wait,” He reaches out, but has the good sense not to touch you. “Would it be better, then, to maybe approach you off-base?”

Why do alphas think I’ll find you elsewhere is ever a good thing to imply? “Like how Sergeant MacTavish approached me at the bar?” He doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that. You take a step back, his confusion tickling your nose. “I’m not really interested in being the subject of whatever competitive thing you have going. Have a good night, Sergeant.”

By the time you get back to your car, you’re not mad anymore. Just tired. You climb into the drivers seat and tip your head back with a sigh. Garrick and MacTavish aren’t the first alphas to want to try taming the Wildfire, and they won’t be the last. But it still stings. For once, it’d be nice if someone saw you and thought you were pretty and interesting instead of just a challenge to conquer.

You let yourself have a few more seconds of self-pity before you strap in and start the car. You’ll give Jack a call, make plans for his heat, and leave the sergeants to do their thing.

The next day, when you get to your office, there’s a travel cup of hot coffee from your favorite coffee shop on the edge of your desk, along with a gift card and a note. You don’t really think much of it - coffee from Sherry as a reward for a job well done isn’t unheard of - but the the gift card for 25 pounds is a bit excessive. The unfamiliar handwriting on the note catches your eye.

Please accept this apology for yesterday.

It’s signed by Captain John Price. That’s… interesting. Speaks well to the cohesion of the 141 that Sergeant Garrick would let him know that he made you uncomfortable. Hopefully this means that neither of the sergeants will be dogging your steps. On the other hand, an almost perfect coffee made it to your office somehow. You’re still dealing with a bit of overbearing alpha bullshit. But apology bullshit is better than the alternative, so you settle in for your day.

By lunch, you’ve pushed the note to the back of your mind. When Sherry walks in, you expect a conversation about taking on Jerry’s workload with his upcoming parental leave. You don’t expect her to place a paper bag from the very fancy sandwich shop across town onto your desk. You can smell warm bread and something else in there.

“Special delivery,” she says. Before you can pull the bag close to poke around, she holds out a folded piece of paper. “Ah, ah! I was told to give you this first.”

“What? Sherry, let me… eat.”

Please accept this offer as a formal request to discuss an intention of courtship. Captain Johnathan Price Lieutenant Simon Riley Sergeant Kyle Garrick Sergeant Johnathan MacTavish

Each of the signatures is different. You look from the note to Sherry’s curious face and back down. You’re glad you have so much practice locking down your scent, because your emotions are all over the place. You flash her a quick smile as you refold the note and stick it under the edge of your keyboard.

“Thanks, I’ll take care of it.”

She nods, with a nervous smile of her own. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you lie, hoping she doesn’t pick up on the spike of your scent as your heart races. “The 141 had a successful mission after that awful meeting with Brandon and that CIA agent.”

“Oh! Well that’s good,” she says with a sharp nod. She knocks twice on the edge of your desk before she turns to leave. “You always do good work. Least those boys could do is buy you lunch.”

Once she’s gone, you wait a few seconds, then get up to quietly close your door. And then you eye the fancy paper bag on your desk like it’s a bomb. You circle back to pick up the note, read it, fold it, open it to read again.

You snap a picture and send it to the group chat. Then snap a picture of the gifts and note from this morning. You re-re-re-read the second note again.

When you phone rings, you pick up without looking. “What do I do?”

Jack wails into your ear. “Bitch, what do you MEAN what do you do?”

“Do I open it?”

“Open what?”

You snap a picture of the stamped bag sitting on the edge of your desk and send it to the chat. “They sent this with-”

Chrissy’s icy voice startles you. “If you don’t show me what’s in that bag right now I will scream.”

“What if opening it is accepting it?” When the phone chirps in your ear, you hiss, “I can’t do a video call, I’m in my office.”

“Quit stalling,” Chrissy snaps. “Open the bag.”

You pull it closer, then pause. “Should we wait for Mel?”

“NOW,” Jack bellows.

“I’m also at work,” Mel’s says, steady and unbothered. “So please stop yelling.”

The bag crinkles a bit when you pull it closer, silencing everyone. You’re not sure why you’re holding your breath, but it comes out in a little huff of disappointment when you look inside and the first thing you see is napkins.

“Okay,” you whisper, as you start pulling things out. The first food item you find is a roll. “We have… bread, still warm. A half of a sandwich - ooh! The goat cheese and pear one. A half salad,” you squint through the translucent lid. “It looks like it has berries. Oh, it looks like there’s a soup in here, too, nice. And the utensils. And…”

When you don’t say anything else, Jack prompts you. “And?”

“There’s a, uh,” you cover your eyes as your face flushes. “It’s a cake.”

The silence is deafening. You make yourself peek into the unassuming box, and the four-inch, round cake positively dripping with what smells like orange syrup, spices, and the faintest hint of alcohol. Your face gets even hotter when you connect the dots and realize the cardamom you’re smelling reminds you of Sergeant Garrick.

It’s Mel who breaks the silence, clearing their throat before asking, “Did they get you a custom cake from the Trinity Rose?”

You can’t make yourself say anything, so you take a picture of it for the group chat. Then a couple more at different angles, because the curl of orange and peel on top looks like something out of a movie. You hear when the photos load, each of your friends sucking in a quiet breath. Chrissy must mute her mic, because the background noise drops significantly.

“Someone please say something,” you whisper.

Jack says, “Holy shit.”

“What does it smell like?” Mel asks, cutting to the chase. “Is it good?”

“It smells so good,” you admit. “Like… ridiculously good.”

Chrissy comes back on the line, sounding a little breathless. “They apologized with coffee this morning?”

“Yeah-”

“So this wasn’t part of the apology,” she continues. “Guys, this is. This is a legit courtship thing.”

“The website says they offer courtship packages,” Mel confirms. “It’s pretty cute, a subscription service for lunch. But it doesn’t actually include a cake.”

“There’s gotta be at least a two week wait on something like this.” You say it as soon as you realize it. Embarrassment flashes hot and cold down your entire body and you have to cover your face. “Oh gods, this had to be planned in advance.”

Chrissy hisses, “The bakery at the Trinity Rose is award winning. Of course this was planned in advance.”

“Wait, are they all in a pack?” Jack yelps. “All four of them? And they’re all alphas? There has to be more to the pack than that, right?”

Mel makes a disagreeing sound. “If there were more, they’d have signed. This is a very formal pre-courtship gift. Well. Mostly formal.”

You have to resist chewing on your lip. “Should I eat it?”

“No reason to waste a perfectly nice lunch,” they point out. Jack and Chrissy make agreeing noises. “But I’d probably wait to eat the cake until you get home.”

“So I can think about it?”

“What? No. You’ve already decided to hear them out,” Mel dismisses. “I just wouldn’t eat a sex cake at work.”

That startles a squawking laugh out of you. “It’s not a sex cake!”

“Oh, so they got a custom syrup cake that matches your scent as a platonic gesture?” Chrissy challenges.

“…There’s a little bit of cardamom,” you admit. “That’s Sergeant Garrick’s scent.”

“It’s a sex cake,” Mel confirms over the train whistle noise Chrissy makes before she can mute herself again. “When Garrick shows up to escort you to your car this evening, maybe don’t chew his head off.”

“Oh no,” you groan. Your head thumps against your arm as you throw yourself down onto the desk. “He was trying to ask for permission to court me and I was a complete bitch to him.”

You deserve the laughter of your best friends for that. But eventually, you rally. If you’re actually going to enjoy your lunch, you have to start eating now or you’ll have to eat and work later. You start with the sandwich and mute your mic as you take a huge bite. By unspoken agreement, the conversation shifts to the weekend and Jack’s heat, then Chrissy’s client who insists on in person meetings three days before her heat. Mel lets you all ramble for a good twenty minutes before ushering everyone off the phone since Jack is the only one who doesn’t have deadlines and scheduled clients.

Which leaves you staring at the cake.

Your eyes dart to the still closed door of your office, then back. You’re too full of good food to eat a whole cake, but… a bite couldn’t hurt. And while the gift is definitely a little… suggestive… it’s not actually a sex cake. Just a bit... decadent. Sherry’s husband sends her flowers that match their pack’s scents. That’s basically the same thing.

Right?

Before you can second guess yourself, you scoop a bite into your mouth.

The taste that bursts over your tongue makes you moan out loud. You definitely should have waited until you got home. The cake is so rich, cut by the orange and whiskey in a way that almost demands a second bite. There’s something indescribable teasing the back of your palate, hidden by cardamom and the hint of something - raspberry? - but so distinctly there. When you try to focus on it, you keep coming back to a smokiness that can’t be anything but the alcohol.

Before you know it, you’ve eaten a quarter of the little cake. Your stomach feels warm, and you admit to yourself that it’s probably not a good idea to keep consuming alcohol at work. So you close the little box and lick the fork while you log back into your computer one handed. Your lips are sticky. Even after you use your thumb to help clean them off you’re so aware of them.

You catch yourself pursing and rolling your lips through the rest of your day. You can’t resist taking another bite every now and then. Every time, you remember Mel calling it a sex cake and wonder if Captain Price thought about this when placed the order. You remember the way Lieutenant Riley’s eyes had slid down your body. Had he known he wanted to send you this cake then? Did Sergeant MacTavish imagine you licking your fork when he signed the note? Was Sergeant Garrick thinking about this moment when he saw you yesterday?

When the day ends, you send a picture of the cake with more than a third missing to the group chat as you log out. I fucked up, it’s a sex cake.

Beta Daddy: Told you.

Best Bitch: WHAT DOES IT TASTE LIKE

Barbie: drinks at mel and jax tonite

You: :thumbsup:

You: genuinely no idea how to describe, i’ll try tonight

You’re nervous, closing up shop for the evening. Would Sergeant Garrick be waiting for you again? Or will your hyper-independence come back to bite you? You hope someone will be there to walk you, and the possibility of that not being the case cools you. And then you look back at the box of cake in your hands and flush hot. Maybe it’s better that you don’t run into anyone after an entire afternoon of rubbing your lips and thinking of the 141.

You’re shocked out of your musings just before you can exit the building by Brandon of all people calling your name. With a groan, you’re dropped back to reality. You at least let yourself step outside for some fresh air before he can reach you.

“Sherry said the 141 had a question for you. What was it?” Not even a hello. Typical. Thanks a lot, Sherry.

Luckily, you have a lie prepared. “Just another question about Cloudstone.”

“What question?” He steps closer, trying to use his height to intimidate. “I’m the point of contact, they should be speaking to me directly.”

“Hm. Maybe should’ve reached out to you,” Lieutenant Riley’s voice says from behind your right shoulder. “Got a lo’ of info on alpha enhancements, then?”

Brandon’s shocked, offended scent almost drowns out the Lieutenant’s. Almost. You tilt your head before you realize you’re doing it, and catch that hint of something that you’ve been chasing all afternoon, earthy and intriguing. Your mouth waters. You barely stop yourself from biting your lip and tune back into the conversation.

“I wasn’t able to give them an answer today,” you butt in, before Brandon can get too worked up. “I’ll CC you on the email when I have everything.”

“Fine,” Brandon says, glaring daggers at the Lieutenant.

And then the three of you just… stand there.

Behind you, Lieutenant Riley smells amused. “Dismissed.”

Brandon gapes at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re dismissed. Unless you have more to add on the subject.”

Being caught between clashing alphas is not how you thought today would end. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see people look at Lieutenant Riley, then at Brandon, and then visibly decide to wait to exit the building. When you start to inch away, the lieutenant touches just beneath your left shoulder blade with the tips of his fingers. You freeze with a sharp inhale. Brandon looks between the two of you. Then his face settles into a sneer.

“Think hard about what you say next,” Lieutenant Riley ways with almost no inflection. Brandon’s face freezes and goes a little pale. You remember, suddenly, that the man at your back is also called the Ghost. “Because challenging me won’t go well for you. Walk away under your own power.”

The resonance of his voice combines with the way his scent teases your olfactory nerves and sends a shiver through you. You’re suddenly aware of the warmth that’s been building behind your bellybutton all afternoon. You don’t hear the next thing Brandon says. He’s too focused on his own offense to notice your distraction, thank the gods, but -

One of the fingers at your back taps you gently, once, twice. And then you feel the gentlest scrape of a fingernail against your shirt.

“I have to go,” you squeak, taking a step toward the parking lot. To Brandon, you say “I will make sure I email you first thing in the morning.”

You can see Brandon’s jaw working, but no matter how irritated he is, he’s outmatched and he knows it. After a moment, he answers. “See that you do.”

“’Ll walk you,” Lieutenant Riley intones. “Wanna make sure I understand the answer to the Captain’s question.” He turns his back to Brandon and gestures for you to continue walking.

A part of you wants to see what will happen if Brandon answers the obvious insult. It’s not hard to imagine the crunch of his body hitting the pavement, the way the Ghost might growl down and force him to yield. Another, loud part of you needs to not get this wet standing right outside of your office. So you hustle away and try to cool yourself down.

Of course, the Lieutenant is right beside you. You chance a glance up - he’s so tall! - at his face, covered today by a black surgical mask. His brown eyes catch yours and crinkle at the edges as he smiles, but he doesn’t say anything. Just keeps walking with you until you’re standing next to your car.

“Sorry,” he says, looking across the car park. “Weren’t my intention to cause trouble.”

“No,” you say, fidgeting with the edge of your jacket and looking at your keys in your hand. “It’s not your fault, I, um, I told my coworker that lunch was work-related. I guess she told Brandon.”

He nods. “Tha’s fair. Should I tell the Cap’n that lunch was work-related?”

When you look back up, he’s already gazing back at you. There’s just enough light to see his eyes darken as he tips his head up just a bit. He’s scenting you, his effect on you. You feel your face get hot as you look away from him again.

He gives an amused-sounding huff. “Need time to think about it?”

Do you? “No, I… I would be open to discussing an intention of courtship.”

Lieutenant Riley purrs. It’s deep and gravely, but unmistakable for anything else. The sound startles you into meeting his eyes. This time, he holds your gaze and takes a step forward, then another when you back up until you bump into your car. He doesn’t come any closer, but his eyes say that he wants to.

“Skipper wants to meet somewhere open,” he says. “The Spice Garden has a nice outdoor space, if you’re free Saturday.”

You almost say yes, but catch yourself. “I… have to help my friend through his heat this weekend.”

He nods his head, never breaking eye contact. “Next week, then.”

You do a quick calculation in your head. “I can be free tomorrow evening by… seven, as long as things aren’t too… formal.”

“Won’t be formal,” he assures you. “Cap insisted on a gift and formal invitation, but we don’t stand too much on ceremony. Bit unconventional, far as packs go.”

You nod, too fast. “Okay. I… does tomorrow work?”

“If you wanted us tonight, you could have us,” he answers, eyes crinkling again. He takes a step back, looking at the box in your hand, then back into your eyes. “Tomorrow then. Enjoy the cake.”

[leth-writes]

trying to fight yandere Daemon, Aegon, and Aemond

AEMOND

Aemond is the most playful out of the list. He enjoys seeing you trying, so focused and determined on him, despite knowing he’s an excellent fighter. he prefers working with his sword and is more than capable of instantly disarming you, but he won’t. He enjoys watching the hope slowly drain from your face, replaced with desperation. Definitely spends the whole fight chuckling and smirking, asking you if that’s all you can bring.

He loves taunting you, watching you get so mad you just charge him. He’ll spin you around and force you to drop your sword, then kiss down your neck. You’re struggling and spitting, he’s enjoying the closeness and drinking you in. He loves how much of a spitfire you are.

Sometimes he goes as far as to have Vhagar looming in the background. He doesn’t exactly want you to be scared of Vhagar, but he does enjoy seeing the determination bleed from your face as fear lights in your eyes, so focused on Vhagar’s figure that you don’t protest him bringing you in and kissing you.

AEGON

Aegon isn’t really a fighter. He’s only ever half-assed his training, so he’s the only one you might have even a chance at beating.

However, he’s actually quite strong, despite how weak he looks. His lithe form hides some pretty good muscle.

He may not be able to defeat you with a sword, but he’s more than capable of simply… pinning you down.

As well, if you were to ever try to actually, seriously, hurt him, the kingsguard are stepping in and grabbing your arms. Aegon’s stepping up to where you’re struggling and snapping a collar back around your throat; looks like he was too lenient.

Really enjoys seeing someone who could actually hurt him so thoroughly cowed, chained to the bedpost and unable to reach him.

Just like his dragon, he enjoys the sense of having someone so powerful under his control. It fills him with this heady sense of power, really goes to his head.

You won’t be able to harm even a hair on his head before the kingsguard are holding a sword to your throat, so don’t try unless you can take down multiple trained swordsmen, and then take down someone stronger than you. You’re screwed either way, so it’s best not to try. If you need to burn off some extra energy, and you tried to attack him, he’ll also make you do jumping jacks until you collapse. He likes having you weak and boneless, in a sweaty pile, as he stands above you, perfectly manicured and exuding confidence.

DAEMON

He’s quite ruthless about it. Daemon’s the only one in the list that’s seen actual combat, and his fighting style was forged out of the fires of necessity. As a result, he’s not the best at playfighting. He’s quite quick. so fast you won’t see him coming before you’re pinned down and disarmed, his boot pressing into the sensitive bones of your wrist.

Or, he’s twisting your wrist just so as you stand with a sword to his throat, forcing you to drop it and fall to one knee. If you won’t show him respect, he’ll make you kneel.

He’s fast and brutal, with no room for you to even move. he prefers to have you up against him, back pressed to his chest, sword at your throat. He loves feeling your heart hammering and your breath coming in short, quick bursts. If you won’t show him affection, this is close enough.

[brainddeadd]

Halloween Party

The New Jersey Devils' Halloween party was destined to be anything but normal. You knew that from the moment you walked into the venue—a rented-out lounge decked with fake cobwebs, jack-o-lanterns, and strobe lights—only to be tackled by a very enthusiastic Jack Hughes in full Spider-Man gear.

“Y/N!” Jack yells, wrapping you in a bear hug and lifting you off the ground. “You made it!”

“Put me down, Spidey,” you laugh, squirming in his grip.

Jack grins under his mask but finally sets you down, brushing invisible dust off your costume. “What even are you supposed to be?” he asks, squinting at your outfit.

“I’m a vampire,” you say, flashing the plastic fangs you barely managed to keep in.

“Cute.” Jack winks, slinging an arm around your shoulder just as Nico Hischier—dressed as a very convincing pirate—walks up, giving both of you a fond, exasperated look.

The lounge is packed with players, staff, and their partners—everyone dressed to the nines in goofy, spooky, or downright ridiculous costumes. Luke Hughes stands by the snack table, inspecting a bowl of candy with the kind of concentration you usually only see him use on the ice. He’s rocking a cowboy hat, boots, and a vest that’s way too small for his frame.

Dawson Mercer, meanwhile, has gone all-in with a werewolf costume, complete with fluffy ears and a tail that keeps smacking people as he walks by.

“I swear to God, Dawson,” you mutter, swatting at the tail when it brushes your arm again. “Control that thing.”

“It has a mind of its own!” Dawson defends himself with a mischievous grin.

As the night progresses, the chaos only multiplies.

Nico keeps trying to convince everyone to join him for a game of beer pong, insisting that pirates have an unfair advantage because they’re “naturally gifted at throwing things.” You’re not entirely sure that’s historically accurate, but no one argues with him.

Jack somehow convinces half the team to start a limbo competition—using a hockey stick, of course. Luke crushes it, his height somehow not being a disadvantage for once, though he nearly trips over his boots at the end.

Dawson, in typical Dawson fashion, sneaks up behind you at one point with a fake severed hand, pressing it to your shoulder.

You jump and swat him again. “You’re asking for a punch, Mercer.”

“Worth it,” he laughs, scampering off before you can retaliate.

The highlight of the night is, without a doubt, the costume contest.

You watch as Nico steps onto the makeshift stage, adjusting his pirate hat dramatically. “Arr, mateys,” he says, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “Who dares challenge the captain?”

Jack boos from the crowd. “Your hat’s crooked, Captain Fraud!”

“At least I didn’t dress as Spider-Man for the third year in a row!” Nico fires back, making everyone roar with laughter.

Luke takes the stage next, tipping his cowboy hat. He pulls out a toy gun from his holster and blows on the barrel dramatically, earning a mix of cheers and teasing catcalls from the crowd.

When it’s your turn, the boys start cheering before you even reach the stage.

“Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!” Jack chants, getting the whole room to join in.

You roll your eyes but strike a dramatic vampire pose, hissing playfully at the crowd. Nico, Jack, Luke, and Dawson lose it, clapping like you’ve just scored the winning goal in a playoff game.

“Best costume ever,” Dawson declares loudly, like a proud big brother.

After the contest wraps up (Nico wins because, as Jack puts it, “the pirate hat has plot armor”), the team settles into smaller groups, chatting and dancing to the Halloween playlist someone threw together.

Jack stays glued to your side for most of the night, making sure no one gives you too much grief—though he’s not above throwing in a little teasing himself. “You’re lucky you have us,” he jokes. “Otherwise, these guys would eat you alive.”

Nico walks by, overhearing. “We’re protecting you from them,” he says, tilting his head toward the crowd of rowdy teammates. “Not the other way around.”

You laugh, but you know it’s true. These boys are chaos incarnate, but they’re also fiercely protective. And if that means surviving a Halloween party filled with ridiculous costumes, bad jokes, and limbo competitions—well, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The night winds down with Jack flopping onto the couch beside you, half-asleep but still grinning like a kid. “You have fun, Y/N?”

You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Yeah. Thanks for dragging me here.”

Jack gives your shoulder a gentle nudge. “Anytime, little sis.”

Nico, Luke, and Dawson join you shortly after, each collapsing into the nearest seat. The five of you sit there, surrounded by the aftermath of the party—empty cups, candy wrappers, and a whole lot of memories.

And as you glance around at your chaotic, overprotective teammates, you realize there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.