#my first time doing something anything close to a landscape in.... years

[sachart]

There's always time for some mid-war banter

[iphyslitterator]

"Hi!" Buck calls out when he hears the door open from where he's sprawled sideways on Tommy's couch, engrossed in a book on the history of vaccines. He vaguely hears the door closing and the clatter of Tommy's keys in the dish when he throws them across the foyer instead of taking three steps first.

After a moment his boyfriend appears, unceremoniously crawls onto the couch, and faceplants into Buck's chest with a groan.

Buck smiles as he wraps one arm around Tommy's back. He drops his book on the floor and cards his newly free hand through Tommy's hair, resting his chin on Tommy's head. "Long shift?" he murmurs.

"Mmm," Tommy hums. "Just tired."

They lie there quietly for a while. Tommy's worn brown leather couch is actually long enough to hold them comfortably, even in this position, and broad enough that Buck never has to worry about falling off when he fidgets. It's not the biggest reason he loves Tommy's house, but it's one of the little luxuries, like the house plants and the novelty mugs, that make him feel like he fits.

"What are you thinking about?" Tommy asks, muffled.

"How I'm grateful for your stupidly big couch," Buck says. Tommy chuckles and rolls his head to the side.

"Yeah, me too," he says. "Picked it up at an estate sale a few years ago. Belonged to a couple of men. A couple."

"Fit two guys then, fits two guys now?"

"Something like that," Tommy says.

His voice has that strange raw quality it gets sometimes when he talks about his time in the closet. It must have meant something to him to buy a couch where a gay couple spent time together, cuddled, maybe fucked. Buck turns it over in his mind. A few years could mean anything from two to fifteen with Tommy.

"Did you get anything else?" he asks.

"Yeah, actually," Tommy says. "Here, hold on." He levers himself off Buck with a grunt and heads to his bedroom. Buck stretches and sits up.

"I never got around to fixing it," Tommy's saying when he reappears, something small in his hands. "Probably should someday. But it had my name on it," he says with a smile, and the light bulb goes off even before Tommy hands him the watch and Buck turns it over to see the engraving: To Thomas • My love • My partner • My friend

Buck looks up, and Tommy seems taken aback by the shock on his face. "Where did you get this?"

"At an estate-"

"Their names, what were their names?"

"Well, one of them was named Thomas." Buck just keeps looking at him urgently, and Tommy adds more seriously, "Evan, I'm sorry, I don't remember."

"Was it a big house in Hollywood Hills West?" Buck asks. "Nice gate, lots of landscaping, lots of windows?"

"Yeah," Tommy says slowly. "It was."

"I was with them when they died," Buck says, and Tommy's eyes widen. "We were on a call, one of them, Mitchell, was crushed by their car, it was awful. And, and I was talking to the other one, Thomas, before he lay down and just, died, with his husband. They wanted to go together." Buck's eyes are stinging, and Tommy's kneeling with a hand cupped against his cheek. "I told him I hoped I'd find something that good."

Tommy strokes Buck's cheekbone with his thumb, wiping away a tear. Gently, Tommy takes the watch out of his hands and fastens it around Buck's wrist.

"Do you think you will?" he asks quietly, eyes lowered.

The watch is tight, grounding, even with the lump in his throat. "He said you don't find it, you make it."

Tommy looks up and slides his hands to cradle Buck's in both of his. "Do you think you will?" he asks again.

There's a wry smile tucked in the corner of Tommy's mouth but vulnerability in his eyes. His hands are big and warm, his hugs are nearly bruising when Buck wants it, the lines next to his eyes are so deep Buck can run his fingers along them when he's smiling, when he's sleeping. He's Buck's partner. His couch is big enough for both of them.

"Yeah," Buck says. "I do."

[pedropascallme]

The Weather Ain't Been Bad

Pairing: Damien Haas x f!Reader

Summary: “You had barely made it off the last step, rounding the corner to the kitchen, when you heard a voice call your name. You flinched, hand flying to your chest in a brief moment of panic, not suspecting anybody else to be awake, let alone downstairs, while you were roaming the halls like some kind of restless spirit.”

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI) p in v sex, dom/sub dynamics, fingering, oral (f receiving), spitting, Damien is a biter but we knew that, lots of begging and even more praise, Damien likes getting his hair pulled but we knew that. If I missed anything please let me know!

“You look dumb.”

“I’ll literally—look at me, look at me. Shut up.”

You listened to Shayne and Angela argue in the back seat, their back and forth had started as a game of I-spy and quickly devolved into improvised insults on hour one of the drive after a patch of traffic resulted in a lack of things to spy.

“Literally nothing you say could ever affect me I don’t care about anything you have to say to me.” Shayne deadpanned and you heard Angela let out a shrill sound as she tried to climb out of her seatbelt to punch him in the arm.

“Hey, you know what would actually be really fun?” Damien, driving, looked back at them through the rearview mirror, “If you guys would, uh, shut the hell up?”

You laughed quietly; head propped up on the window as you watched the California landscape go from dusty highway to snowcapped trees. Hours long car ride aside, you were happy to be making the trip. It had never occurred to you that upon Anthony’s return to the company there would be a renaissance of Smosh content that didn’t have to do with the main channel, but when they announced the return of the Winter Games you felt a swell of joy—it was nice to be part of something that went back so many years and still continued to entertain the masses, especially when that something made you feel a cathartic sort of nostalgia.

And now, sitting in the front seat and listening to your friends threaten each other in increasingly ridiculous ways, watching Damien’s hand on the steering wheel, it went beyond simple nostalgia: It was pure ecstasy. The low hum of music on the radio paired nicely with the long road ahead, and you leaned back, closing your eyes for a moment.

You felt a hand on your knee, giving you a short squeeze. You opened your eyes, grabbing Damien’s hand and squeezing him back.

“What?” You playfully pushed his hand back towards his body, and he gripped the steering wheel.

“You’re my GPS, you can’t fall asleep.”

“I could navigate!” Angela leaned forward, elbows on the center console.

“You—you would get us lost in your own house, you psycho.” Amanda piped up for the first time in several minutes, placing a hand gingerly on Angela’s shoulder and laughing.

“Hey!” Angela turned her attention away from the front seat, pushing against Shayne, who had started laughing at her expense once more.

Damien glanced at you from his peripheral, as if to silently lament about your friends in the back seat, and you glanced back, smiling.

You appreciated the moments you got to spend with Damien. It wasn’t like they were rare; since you’d joined the cast, he was always someone you’d found a sort of reliability in, and a shared sense of humor went a long way. He was always a beacon of tranquility amongst the chaos of the office. He could be just as rowdy as everybody else—and often was—but he was always able to weed out when somebody needed a moment to recalibrate, and it felt like he knew what you needed before even you did sometimes. But he seemed to have that effect on most everybody, and you didn’t want to push too hard for something that might not be there, despite how happy you were to feel his hand on your back when he guided you through crowded spaces, or to hear him say your name in that faux-crestfallen way when you cheated in cards.

He turned his gaze back to the road, and you found yourself leaning against the window again, passively looking at his reflection in the trees that darted by, and thinking things that you decided should remain unsaid.

~~~

The house was gigantic, and even that was putting it lightly.

In theory, you recognized that you worked for a multi-million-dollar company, but it was more than a little weird to be standing in the doorway of a house big enough to hold at least 20 copies of your own apartment inside of it.

But you understood the want to splurge; it had been years since the last Winter Games, and even longer still since there had been a Games with Anthony. It was exciting, and even before you had gotten to the cabin-style mansion, there had been a buzz in the air; cast and crew alike vibrating in anticipation of a vacation-like period where things would be more akin to camp than to work.

Filming started immediately, and you barely had time to think about what exactly was happening before you were back in front of a camera.

Shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the cast, Ian and Anthony made picks for their respective teams; it was easy to forget that you were in a new space—it was like you’d never left the office, still in good company and laughing until your cheeks hurt. You donned the bright blue shirt that had been handed to you, and wondered how many raunchy, snow-related jokes you’d have to hear over the next week.

“Be honest with me,” you put the shirt on over the one you were already wearing, joining the side of the room with the rest of your teammates, “Are we gonna lose?”

Damien laughed, “With that attitude? Probably.”

Maybe the best part of the trip was the fact that this year marked the first time that everybody got their own room. You’d heard the stories—not that they were all that bad, but it was nice to know that even when surrounded by your friends for two weeks, you’d still be able to duck out for some private time in your own space.

Except that your room was freezing.

You hadn’t noticed it upon your arrival, coat still zipped up and adrenaline on high, but once you had showered and readied yourself for bed, you recognized the deep, unwelcome chill in your bones. The source evaded you; the windows were closed, the ceiling fan was completely still—it was a frustrating end to a long day.

You gave up, putting on a heavier sweatshirt and deciding that locating the source of the frigid air was a problem for tomorrow. There had to be extra blankets somewhere, and you tried to recall whether there had been any on the couches downstairs. Even if there weren’t, getting out of your room and regaining a little feeling in your fingers sounded appealing.

You quietly exited your bedroom.

Tiptoeing down the stairs, you shifted your weight awkwardly from side to side to avoid any sudden creaks from the old wood. The house was silent—save for the wind outside that howled against the windows every few moments—and you didn’t want to disturb the peace.

You had barely made it off the last step, rounding the corner to the kitchen, when you heard a voice call your name. You flinched, hand flying to your chest in a brief moment of panic, not suspecting anybody else to be awake, let alone downstairs, while you were roaming the halls like some kind of restless spirit.

“I’m sorry—did I scare you?” The familiar sound of timely apologies, whispered from across the room. You felt your heart settle. “I’m sorry.”

“Jesus, Damien,” you took measured breaths, “scared me.”

“Sorry,” his voice was low. He stood behind the kitchen island, hair messy, and it was clear he was struggling to sleep as much as you were.

“It’s ok,” you walked towards where he was standing, leaning over the island to grab at his arm reassuringly before letting go; his skin was warm against your palm, and even in the dark of the room you were unable to tear your eyes from him. “I didn’t think anybody else was up.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not by choice,” he sighed, “my room is a sauna.”

“You’ve got your own room, you couldn’t just strip down?” You raised your eyebrows, teasing him, trying not to think about how he might look spread out on his bed with nothing on.

“There are only so many layers I can take off until it’s, like, my skin,” he smiled, and you broke out into a quiet laugh.

“Well, my room is freezing, so,” you collected yourself a little, “I came down looking for more blankets, but if you wanted to switch…”

“Is the window open?” He furrowed his brow, seemingly concerned by your discomfort.

“Not even a crack,” you clarified, “Your room sounds like a dream to me right now.”

You didn’t realize how it sounded until he let out a snort, “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“You know what I meant.” You rolled your eyes, and he reached over the counter to brush his hand against yours in a gesture of peace.

You stood quietly together, enjoying each other’s company and the calm of the house. You let your hand remain under his on the granite, and he didn’t make any moves to separate from you.

“Thanks for being a good sport about navigating,” Damien ran his other hand over his face, tired after the seemingly endless day. “I know it probably wasn’t your first choice.”

“Yeah, well. You better thank God we’re on the same team, otherwise I’d use 'competitive determination' as an excuse to get back at you for keeping me up." You shot back jovially, “But, you know…it was nice to help you out.” You paused. “I liked it, actually.”

He shot you a small smile, which you returned, and the two of you let silence fall again.

“How about I see if I can find the source of whatever it is that’s making you so cold?” He tilted his head, sincerely offering to help you, and you could never say no to an offer like that.

You could never say no to Damien.

“That would be nice.” You curled your pinky into the palm of his hand before turning to lead him to your room.

You were friends, always had been upon your entrance into the company; he was an undeniably important presence in your life for that very reason—he was there. He was always there when you needed him. He was supportive and kind and stupidly funny, and, yeah, incredibly attractive. But that didn’t mean it had to be something more. Just because you looked forward to the days he came into work with dark stubble that contrasted with the silver of his hair, just because you forgot the rules to certain games sometimes because you were too focused on the way his sleeves fit around his arms, just because you loved the way his eyes trailed over your face when you told him a story and he got just as animated as you did—it didn’t have to be anything more than friendship.

But realistically, despite your insistence to your friends and to yourself that you considered Damien a great, strictly-platonic friend and nothing more, you knew what you really wanted.

You knew you wanted more.

And despite the innocent context under which you were bringing him up to your room, there was a surge of adrenaline that coursed through your chest while he trailed behind you.

“Jesus,” he pushed his shoulders back upon opening the door to your room, goosebumps pricking his skin. “Some weather we’re having.”

“I told you,” you pushed past him, kicking a stray pair of socks into the corner. “You still think you can fix it?”

“They actually call me Damien “Fix-It” Haas,” he cracked his knuckles, “Don’t look into it.”

You smiled, shaking your head, spreading your arms out to signal that he could poke around freely.

It took him approximately ten seconds to locate the thermostat behind a curtain.

“Are you serious?” You kicked yourself for missing what should’ve been so obvious.

“I’m Damien,” he went straight-faced, “And this says sixty-five degrees—how are you not frozen solid?”

“Pure will.” Your head fell back in exasperation, “How did I miss that?”

“You’re tired,” he softened, “It’s been a long day, y’know, and I bet a lot of people are too dumb to look behind curtains—”

You cut him off with a curt but soft shove to his chest, and he grabbed your hands after they made impact, both of you semi-delirious from lack of sleep and falling into a fit of giggles. He removed one of his hands from you, leaning back to change the thermostat.

“It’ll heat up eventually,” he started, “What number do you want it at?”

“Warm.”

“So, that is not a number,” he smiled at you, “I’ll put it in the seventies.”

“Thank you,” you wriggled free of the grasp he still had on your wrist, “My hero.”

You stood facing each other for a moment, neither of you ready to part for some reason.

“I should go to sleep,” you finally spoke.

“Yeah.” He agreed, voice sounding raspier than it had before. He started to walk towards the door while you leaned back onto the pillows on the bed.

“Damien,” you didn’t know what you were doing, or if you should be doing it, but it felt only logical in the moment, “Stay.”

You watched him freeze in place, turning back to look at you.

“I mean…if your room is uncomfortable to sleep in—what, are you gonna sleep on the couch?” You continued, rambling to find reasoning behind your sudden offer, “You can just stay here tonight.”

“Seriously?” He scanned your features, trying to figure out if you were serious or if this was just a joke that he hadn’t caught onto yet.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure—?”

“I’m just saying, it’s not fair that you have to spend the night in discomfort. Especially after you fixed the temperature in here.” You felt a red heat rising in your ears, but you soldiered on, still waiting for a yes or no. You watched as he turned to walk towards the door again, and your heart sank a little, before he closed the door in front of him and walked back to you.

“One hell of a sleepover—one bed, no snacks, and you don’t even have a Wii,” He feigned disappointment.

“But I hear when mom goes to sleep, they bring out Kevin’s mom.” You smiled, digging your heels into the comforter, and he laughed at the callback.

He sat on the mattress, leaning back on the pillows with you, and you used it as an excuse to angle yourself towards him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder.

“I can sleep on the floor. If you want…” He whispered, and you felt his fingers trail up your own hand.

“No,” you turned to look at him, still on your back but suddenly very aware of the proximity to which you were lying next to each other, letting him continue to run his hand along your arm. “It’s still cold in here.”

“I can turn the heat up—”

You watched as he traced the curve of your elbow with his finger before letting it fall back to your hand, “Damien, stop being a gentleman. Just share the bed with me.”

“Ok.” He stopped moving, gaze falling on you and swallowing shallowly. You laced your fingers with his. You were certain he could see your heart beating through your ribcage, or at the very least he could see the way your pulse bounced in your wrist. “Yeah, ok.”

You didn’t undress, didn’t even get under the covers, but something felt so intimate; a shift in the air. Maybe it was the new warmth that permeated throughout the room, but it was different, in the best way.

It felt like more.

He didn’t touch you, didn’t even graze your back when you turned over to get comfortable. But you felt his breath on the back of your head, rustling your hair and drifting over the back of your neck.

Your eyes stayed open, unable to let sleep take hold despite the tranquility; the moon bounced off the snow and caused a dim light to trickle through the window, and you were wide awake.

You shifted again, turning back over to face Damien. His eyes were closed, and you watched the subtle movements of his body, chest rising and falling softly with each breath.

“It’s creepy to watch people sleep.” He whispered, and you bit your tongue, unsure of what to say. Busted. He opened one eye and broke into a small smile. “Are you gonna murder me?”

“Haven’t decided yet.” You whispered back, nearly letting the sound of the wind outside drown you out.

“I could take you,” he propped himself up on his arm.

“Is that a challenge or a blanket statement?” You raised an eyebrow, “Because I wasn’t going to murder you, but those are fighting words.”

“What do you think?” He was goading you now, waiting to see if you’d back down from whatever this was, if there was a line you were going to draw.

“I think I could kick your ass.” You sat up on your knees.

“Yeah?” He looked at you, skeptical. You couldn’t think of what to say, couldn’t tell what this was, or what would happen if you crossed the physical boundary into his space.

You threw caution to the wind for the second time within the hour. 

You launched yourself towards him, and he let his arm fall to the side, lying on his back as you clambered to straddle him. Grabbing his wrists, you pulled his hands above his head, letting out a small huff of victory.

You couldn’t recall a time where you’d ever been this close to Damien before. There was a pool of heat in your stomach that you tried to write off as a burst of energy—adrenaline hitting in the middle of the night—while you rationalized being in this position with him. With your friend. It was just wrestling; a playful act among companions. You’d seen people do it all the time in the office. Courtney put Spencer in a headlock the other day—you’d seen her do it to Ian the day before that. It was fine. It wasn’t anything other than roughhousing.

It didn’t have to be anything more.

“I told you.” You gloated.

“I was in a vulnerable position. This is hardly what I would call a fair fight.”

“Don’t be a sore loser.”

“I’m being a sore loser?” He smiled, all teeth, and you were about to respond, tell him that you had won, fair and square, and that if he wanted to lose again, you’d grant him the rematch he clearly wanted so desperately.

Instead, he flipped you onto your back, knee between your legs and one hand pinning your wrists above your head just as you had done to him.

“Never let your guard down,” He laughed, and you bit back a smile.

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s what a sore loser would say.” He taunted, and you thought you felt his grip tighten around your wrists.

You looked up at him, unsure where to go from here.

Surely, you’d separate, turn over and away from each other, fall asleep, and then act like nothing was different tomorrow—because nothing was different. Nothing had changed. This was nothing.

But you liked the way he looked like this; his knee caught between the V of your own legs, the muscles in his arm tense from the grip he had on you, his other hand planted on the bed at your side, just close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off of it. You watched him swallow.

“Tell me to let go,” he whispered, his voice gravelly. “Tell me to let go and I will.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t make a sound. All you could do was stare up at him, before you reminded yourself to speak, to say anything, to finally reveal what it was you wanted.

“Kiss me.” You were worried he wouldn’t hear it over the wind, words coming out small and breathy, but you saw the way the muscle in his jaw clicked.

He was on you instantly, colliding with you in a frenzied kiss. He let go of your wrists, and your hands came down to trail over his back, pulling him closer to you by the back of his neck. He bit at your bottom lip, and the sharp sting was counteracted quickly by the way his tongue darted over it, exploring you while you whined underneath him. He licked into your mouth, and you sucked at his tongue before letting his exploration continue, your hands reaching under the back of his shirt in an attempt to get closer, to let him suffocate you with his attention.

He pulled back, lips pink and cheeks blushed, his hand coming to hold your jaw and encourage you to open wider. He spit into your open mouth, before pushing on your jaw, encouraging you to close it. You did, swallowing his offering before opening your mouth again, sticking out your tongue as proof of your deed.

“Fuck,” he growled, hand still on your face when he reconnected his mouth to yours. It was needier now; sloppy and wet, and you could taste him perfectly like this, your spit mingling with his, licking into his mouth to get as much of him as you could.

He trailed down your body, leaving kisses on any skin available to him. The collar of your shirt exposed your clavicle, and he bit into the skin around it, sinking his teeth into you just enough for red marks to appear, before sucking a bruise onto the skin of the bone.

“Camera,” you reminded him haphazardly, “Nothing the camera can see—” You combed your fingers through his hair, pulling hard to ensure he listened to your warning, and he groaned at the pressure, removing his mouth from you.

“Right,” He was breathing hard, thumb rubbing circles on the bruise he had just made, low enough on your chest that your shirt would cover it—a secret between the two of you. He leaned back down, lips wrapping around the pulse point below your ear and peppering gentle kisses on it. You ground your hips onto him, his knee still planted between your thighs, stabilizing his position, and you felt the fabric of your pajamas catch perfectly on your clit, letting out a soft moan.

Damien watched, lips parted, as you bucked your hips against his thigh; some area of his brain wanted to let you continue, let you bring yourself to the edge by using him like this, but that was outweighed by the part of him that wanted so desperately to be the one making you cum; he wanted to make you fall apart, wanted to see how pretty you looked when he was making you feel good.

He moved his leg, effectively straddling you, and you let out a whimper of discontent, disappointed by the sudden loss of friction when you had been so close to what you needed.

“I know, baby,” his voice was cloying, clearly finding your whines enticing in a twisted sort of way; call it sadistic, but he didn’t want you putting in any work—he wanted to be in charge of all your pleasure. “I’ll let you finish, I promise,” he licked a stripe up your neck. “Tell me what you need.”

“Want your mouth,” you were quick to answer.

“Ask nicely.”

“Please, I want your mouth on me Damien—please.”

“You want my mouth?” He nipped at your jawline, “Want me to fuck you with my tongue?”

You nodded, entranced by how devious he looked, pupils blown out, swallowing the moon’s reflection, silver hair messy from being pulled on and falling over his eyes, skin flushed pink; you were absolutely overcome with need watching him at his most primal.

He moved further down your body, situating himself between your legs and tucking his fingers beneath the waistband of your pajamas; you lifted your hips when he began to pull the fabric off of you, slowly, and you tried in vain to push your pants off faster.

“Uh-uh,” he moved his hands to cover yours, “be patient.”

You removed your hands from the flannel waistband, placing them over your chest and trying to crane your neck to watch him. It felt like an eternity before he finally let the fabric pool around your ankles, sliding them off with help from you kicking gently against the air. If ever there was a time to be thankful that you didn’t sleep in underwear, it would be now.

Moving back towards your core, he pulled your legs over his shoulders, still concentrated on making you comfortable even while most of his focus was on your naked cunt.

“Do you always get wet this quickly?” He let you hook your knee behind his head, looking up at you from between your legs.

“Shut up,” you felt suddenly embarrassed, as if it was only now, with his breath fanning your spread legs, that he had become suspicious of your attraction to him.

“That’s a no, then?” He smirked and your embarrassment dissipated when you saw the prideful smile.

Damien’s eyes shifted then from your face to your inner thigh, turning his head to suck marks on it just as he had on your neckline. He bit into the supple flesh, just hard enough to leave an outline of his teeth, before kissing bruises onto the same spots. You let out a contented sigh, and he squeezed your other thigh before turning his head again to repeat the process on that side. Licking stripes up your legs and into the joint of your thigh, he stopped short of where you wanted him, letting out a hum every time you exhaled in frustration at the lack of attention your cunt was getting.

He liked riling you up, seeing your brow furrow and your cheeks redden in frustration at not getting what you had asked for.

He relented when you started whispering pleas of his name, hand buried in his hair and pulling gently at the roots for him to use his mouth on you like he had said he would. You gasped at the contact of his tongue on your clit, the way he flattened the muscle to slide over you before moving it in slow circles over your bud. His fingers dug bruises into your thighs, holding them over his shoulders and pulling you closer to him when he finally started licking circles around your hole.

“Fuck—fuck!” you couldn’t get another word out, too focused on the way he dove into you and lapped up your slick. He was messy but masterful, letting your juices and his spit trail down over the curve of your ass while making your back arch off the mattress, hand still in his hair and unsure of whether you wanted to push him down further or pull him off due to the overwhelming sensation.

The sounds were pornographic, wet and filthy, and when you pulled harder on his hair he let out a low growl that displayed his pleasure while heightening your own.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he groaned into you, spitting onto your dripping cunt before indulging once more in your taste. You became aware of the way his hips ground into the mattress with every flick of his tongue and every mewl you let out. “Cum for me like this, baby, can you do that? Let me taste it?”

You threw your head back at his words, pressure building in your stomach at the way he clearly got so much enjoyment from making you feel good, paired with the way his teeth grazed your clit, sucking on you until you saw stars and then pulling away to do it again. One of his hands fell from your leg, and he brought it to your cunt, spitting once before pushing two fingers in. You squirmed, moaning, as he curled them towards him and fluttered them over the spongy spot inside of you. He dragged his tongue over your clit one more time, and you were catapulted over the edge, dizzy with lust, pleasure coursing through you like an electric current.

Damien moved back up the bed, hugging you to him while you trembled with the aftershocks of your orgasm, muttering words of praise.

“Did so fucking good,” he kissed the top of your head, “Such a good girl—was that ok? Are you alright?” His thumb ran over your cheek, and he dipped his head down to leave kisses in its wake.

You let out a shaky breath, adjusting your position to throw your leg over his side before wrapping your arms around him to pull him down for a kiss.

“So good.” You muttered, tasting yourself on his lips. You rolled your hips against his lazily, reaching down to trail your hand over his evident bulge. “More.”

“Yeah?” He groaned, taking in the way your hand felt on his clothed cock.

“Please.” You looked up at him through your lashes.

He reconnected his lips to yours, moving slowly and swallowing your sounds.

“You want me like this?” He whispered, hands sweeping over your body, “Gonna let me fuck you into the mattress?”

Your hips bucked on their own accord, and you nodded feverishly. He sat up, pulling you up after him, and reached under the hem of your shirt to help you remove it. He got distracted by the sight of your chest, the swell of your breasts and the way you looked at him expectantly.

“You’re so pretty,” he almost laughed, absolutely delighted by you, as he leaned down to suck a bruise on the valley between your breasts. He nipped at the pillowy skin, teeth skimming your nipple when he took it into his mouth, barely putting pressure on it until your hand flew to his hair in a gesture to make him continue, to give you more. You whimpered, sitting on your knees with his face pressed against your chest.

He stood up, removing his shirt quickly before untying the cord of his pants.

“There’s really nothing sexier than a man in pajama bottoms,” he made a face as he fumbled with the knot of the string, finally undoing it with a sharp tug.

“I’d have to agree.” You shot him a smug look and he shook his head, smiling. He situated himself back on the mattress, pushing you onto your back and kissing your neck. You let out a quiet yelp when you landed on the pillows, laughing softly. You still felt dizzy, the entire situation leaving you completely shocked but admittedly thrilled, and when you saw him looking down at you, you felt words leave your mouth before you could filter them.

“I’ve wanted this for a really long time.”

Damien smiled again, kissing your forehead before dipping down to trail kisses over your jaw. “Me too.”

“So, uh,” You let your hand wander down his body, stopping at the base of his cock and teasing your fingers around it, “You gonna fuck me into the mattress now?”

He grabbed your hand, and in a parallel to the situation that got you here, pinned it above your head.

“Is that what you want?” His pupils swallowed his irises, giving him the appearance of someone completely lost in desire. It made you greedy for more.

“Yeah.” You breathed.

“Tell me.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“No. The whole thing. Say it.”

“I want…” You felt dirty saying it out loud, and that was half the appeal, “I want you to fuck me into the mattress.”

“That’s right. You gonna beg for it?”

You liked him like this, so cocky and domineering. It made you feel breathless, head swimming with what was to come. Dominance looked good on him.

“Please, Damien,” you swallowed, squirming slightly in anticipation.

“C’mon, you can do better than that.” He practically scoffed, “Beg.”

“Fuck me, please,” you felt yourself growing frustrated, and you could feel your heart beating in your cunt. “I was so good—I’ve been so good, please, I’ll take what you give me I promise just—please, please fuck me.”

The hand that wasn’t wrapped around your wrist fisted his cock, and you tilted your head to watch him stroke himself while he lined up with your entrance. You whined, hoping that maybe it would make him move faster.

“What did I say about being patient?” He chided, and your head fell back onto the pillows.

“Please, Damien.” You couldn’t have hidden your eagerness if you tried.

“One more time.” You felt the tip of his cock between your folds, collecting your slick and nudging your entrance.

“Please—yes!” You gasped when he pushed his hips forward, eyes rolling back slightly at the way he filled you completely in one stroke.

“Good girl.” He grabbed your other hand, now pinning both your wrists down over your head, giving him a full view of your body underneath him. “You feel good? Worth the wait?”

You nodded your head, mouth open and eyes wide, mesmerized by the stretch and the feeling of him seated deep inside of you.

“Tell me—use your words,” His own patience was wearing thin, and you could tell he was waiting for the opportunity to fuck you the way he wanted to.

“Feels so good, Damien,” you nodded again, “Move—fuck me, please.”

He exhaled, content with your answer and subsequent request. He drew his hips back far enough to nearly pull out of you, before slamming back against you and bottoming out completely. You let out a moan, and his free hand covered your mouth.

“Gotta be quiet, baby” he whispered.

You nodded underneath his hand, remembering all the other people in the house, and he pulled it away from your mouth before pushing two fingers through your lips.

“That’ll keep you busy, right?” He smiled and you moaned softly around his fingers, tongue circling them behind your lips.

Damien copied his initial sharp thrust, pushing into you with enough force to move you up the bed repeatedly, watching the way your breasts bounced with the movement. Letting go of your hands briefly, he brought one of your legs up to his shoulders, deepening the position, and you whimpered around the fingers in your mouth.

“God, you’re fucking perfect. Sound so pretty, baby” he groaned, grinding his hips against you to get a feel for how deep he was inside of you, “So pretty letting me fuck you like this.”

He took his fingers from your mouth, toying with your nipples and using the residual spit to lubricate his movements. His other hand left your wrists, focused now on holding himself above you while he drove in and out of you.

You squirmed under him, overstimulated and needy, and your newly freed hands grabbed at whatever they could hold onto; one gripping his arm, nails leaving crescents in his skin, while the other fisted the sheets, and Damien took note of the way your face contorted when his thrusts became rougher.

“You like that?” His voice was as kind as it usually was, but with an edge to it now, driving into you hard. “That feel good, baby?”

Your moans were increasingly high-pitched, and all you could offer was a jumble of reassuring whines. You pulled him down by the back of his neck, lips meeting for a feverish, passionate kiss. He bit your bottom lip, keeping it between his teeth and tugging at it, before letting his tongue push forward into your mouth.

You moaned into him, his cock pushing against your most sensitive spot. You arched your back, silently begging for more, and he followed your unspoken instructions, fingers finding your clit between your bodies and kneading tight circles over it.

You let out a ragged cry of his name, cunt squeezing around him as you came; he pulled you into him, arm wrapping under your body, to kiss you fervidly, groaning at how you felt clenching so tightly around him.

“That’s right, baby, cum for me,” he fucked you through your high; long, deep strokes at a much slower pace bringing you back down to earth, “Good fucking girl.”

“Oh my god,” you mumbled, drowsy and overstimulated, happy to be enveloped by him.

“Where do you want me, baby?” His thrusts picking back up slightly, eager for his own release.

“Anywhere you want,” you kissed up the side of his neck, whining at the feel of his cock as he dragged his hips back before sinking back into you, “Wanna make you cum, please.” You rubbed your cheek against his, the friction from his short stubble soothing you.

“You want me to cum for you?” Even now, he kept teasing, “My good girl wants me to cum for her? So fucking greedy.”

You whined, wordlessly, trying to move your hips to match his thrusts, intent on pleasing him the way he had you.

“Spit,” he offered you his hand, and you licked his palm before spitting into it.

He squeezed you tight, using the arm still underneath you to lift you up slightly and get a few last thrusts in as deep as he could manage. Upon pulling out, he fucked his fist with the hand you had prepared for him, spilling over your cunt. You whimpered at the feeling, and the thought of his cum mingling with your own between your legs.

Breathing heavy and uneven, Damien took a moment to collect himself. He leaned over the side of the bed, finding his discarded shirt and grabbing it; he wiped between your legs, careful to go slow and gentle over your more sensitive spots. He threw the shirt back over the side of the bed when he deemed you properly cleaned up.

“Thank you,” you spoke up, nuzzling into his side.

He hummed, kissing your head and moving stray hairs from your face. “Was that…it wasn’t too much, was it?”

“Damien,” you looked up at him incredulously, “It was perfect.”

“Not too rough?”

“The perfect amount of rough.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, rubbing his thumb over your skin. “Did you mean what you said?”

“That I wanted to make you cum?”

“Well—mm. Kinda gathered that that was the truth. No, I mean, when you said you’ve wanted this…for a while.”

“Of course I meant it.” You fidgeted with the fingers he had draped around your shoulder. “Did you mean it when you—”

“Yeah.” He cut you off.

“You didn’t know what I was going to ask.”

“What were you going to ask?” He quipped.

“Now I’m not telling you.” You rolled your eyes, playfully turning away from him. Damien used the hand he had on your shoulder as leverage to pull you back against him, and you landed against his chest.

“Did I mean it when I said I wanted this, too?” He finished your question for you, “Yeah. I meant it. One hundred percent, I did.” He pressed his cheek against the crown of your head, “Was worried that wanting more was a, I dunno, like a…thought it would make you uncomfortable. So, I just—not that I don’t like being your friend—but I tried to behave myself. Y’know? Even though...” His gaze flicked over your face, "I always wanted more."

“Is this where you tell me that you orchestrated this whole thing by turning down the heat in here?” You joked, tired and satisfied and so utterly content that he, too, wanted more than the friendship you had cultivated with one another—thrilled that you had been on the same page all along; the initial paranoia over the implications of being attracted to the other, and now basking in the relief that your affection was mutual.

“I’m flattered that you think I have that kind of forethought. But no,” he laughed. “Just got lucky.”

“In so many respects.” You giggled, listening to his heartbeat against your cheek.

“Thanks for letting me stay.” He held you tighter, as if a loose grip would cause you to slip away from him.

“Thanks for staying.”

[tw1l1te]

𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖘𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖔- 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖜𝖔

ᨒ↟ ⋆｡°

“Oh, I like her already.” Wars speaks. The Vet just seems to roll his eyes, muttering something about the Captain’s ego.

You rise back into a standing position, eyeing the group again. You look back up at Time, stating, “I presume you’re the Hero of Time, based off of your moniker.”

“You would be correct, although hardly anyone calls me by that title.”

You hum at his comment, finding his humble nature pleasing. Turning to the one named Sky, you motion your hand at him, “And you must be the Hero of the Skies, or the Chosen One. The first of us, if we go by technicalities.”

He nods hesitantly, curious as to where you got all of this information about them. He would’ve been more uneasy if you weren’t a descendant, but you were one of them, after all.

“Why… do you call yourself the Forgotten Hero?” he asks.

You smile solemnly at him, “Because this era has been doomed. Utterly and completely in decay. By the time my quest is done, Hyrule, or what remains of it will collapse and rebuild itself over thousands of years. I will be too hidden in the past to be remembered.”

You take a small breath before continuing, admitting the truth out loud.

“I will also be forgotten because I’m not you, or your descendants. I’m not the traditional male hero. Quite the anomaly, aren’t I?”

He seems conflicted by your statement, eyebrows furrowing together.

“But if you’re the only female so far, wouldn’t that make you more memorable? The heroine of Hyrule?”

“Maybe in another life, but not this one. I’m considered a disgrace of a hero by most people outside of my village and a few others spanned across the land.”

“Why would you say that? Didn’t you save everyone from destruction?”

You smile sadly, “The destruction happened years before I was born. If anything, I caused more of it.”

He takes a moment to think before asking the inevitable question.

“Link… who exactly did you defeat?”

Your eyes snap back up at him, making sure he was looking right at you. The information you were about to reveal was going to create the rift of the ages. It was now or never.

“Hylia.”

~

The room was silent for a few minutes, the only sound being heard was the loud blizzard beyond the splintered walls of the shack. The loud silence made you wish the shack would finally collapse in on itself.

Sky finally speaks, eyes glued to you. 

“W-what do you mean by that? You’re saying she caused all of this?”

You sighed, knowing he was one of the more… innocent followers of her. 

“Well, a few thousand years after the Era of the Wilds, there started to be a lot of… religious issues surrounding Hylia. A lot of questionable and downright disgusting practices. It caused people to start grouping up and separating, causing the nations of Hyrule to close off from each other.”

Looking around the group, you take a moment to let them process the new information before continuing.

“The Rito, Zora, Gorons, Gerudo, Sheikah, and Hylians all started to conflict more and more, eventually ascending into a 50-year war, or the Reawakening. The followers of Hylia formulated a plan to resurrect her in the flesh, killing Zelda in the process.”

“A life for a life.” Time muttered, deep in thought.

“Exactly. The plan was successful, the goddess being reawoken after millennias of being dead. She came back… unrecognizable, both physically and in an ideological sense. Her morality and character had been altered so much to the point of her followers becoming a cult. The cult killed my parents, thousands of people that questioned Hylia, essentially wiping out most of the kingdom.”

“And the land? How did it come to be so… bleak?”

“Hylia is the Sun, both literally and metaphorically. The sun is technically up beyond the clouds, but the amount of destruction and chaos she brought forth made the landscape unrestorable. The entirety of Hyrule looks just like this,” you motioned out with your hand.

“Hyrule is also significantly bigger than any of yours. Probably still larger than if you were to combine the size of each of your era’s Hyrule’s. It has been a cold, snowy abyss for over 30 years now.”

The brunette piqued up, head tilting slightly, “So where is Hylia now? Hyrule Castle?”

You shake your head.

“Hyrule Castle is in utter ruins now, most use it to scavenge for rock or old weapons. I’m… not sure where she is right now, I'm trying to track her down.”

“Didn’t you say you killed her?” the Veteran asked.

“I did but… her psyche is still present. She may not have a physical body anymore, as I returned it back to its dormant state, permanently, but her essence is somewhere. Everywhere.”

Time walks up to you, arms crossed over his chest. Curse your short stature, compared to his at least.

“From what you're telling us, it seems that we were brought here to help you. We came here through a portal, and from what we’ve learned, we can’t leave an era unless we’ve completed the task at hand, regardless of our own opinions or standing on the matter.”

“What were your original plans before being brought here?” you ask.

“The Shadow and his army. It took us months to finally pin him down and defeat him.”

You remember something being mentioned in the archives about a dark version of Link, but only being a mere shadow. Now a physical form? That was something you didn’t experience in your own journey. Lucky you, you suppose.

“Right now Hyrule is… in limbo, I suppose. Hylia’s first form was defeated about a year ago and we’ve tried to track her essence down since. We don’t know if she’s using someone as a vessel or if she’s resting in some sacred grounds to gather strength. Granted, the blizzards have made it significantly harder to even make it past the woods.”

Four, one of the shortest and most colorful of the Link’s speaks.

“So where exactly are we, based off of older maps?”

You ponder for a moment, trying to recollect exactly what town you could use to reference the location you were in. Something that was familiar to them.

“If I were to use my ancestor’s typography maps,” pointing to Wild, “I’d say we’re in the location of the Great Plateau. The plateau collapsed in on itself thousands of years ago and grew thick forest and brush, impenetrable if you were inexperienced with the outside world.”

You take a pause before continuing.

“Though if I were to be more accurate and precise… this would be almost the exact location of Ordon Village from the Era of Twilight.”

Twilight perks up at that, intrigued by your expertise and knowledge of their past eras. 

“How do you know that name?”

“Ordon?”

He nods.

You were revealing way too much about yourself within hours of meeting your ancestors. This is definitely not what you had planned.

Sighing, you reveal another ability you had kept concealed.

“I have the memories of every hero before me. I can see and dream of their travels, their fears, desires, secrets, everything. Even their own thoughts, at times.”

Twilight’s brow furrows, confusion emulating off his features.

“Isn’t that only what the goddess reincarnated can do? How can a holder of the Triforce of Courage accomplish that?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that it started when I was seven and I have them almost every day, multiple times a day.”

Time bristles at the age it started for you: seven.

…

He was the youngest hero to start his journey.

Of course, it made sense.

The memories of the hero began as soon as his purpose was ignited.

He was going to speak again, but you beat him to it, mentioning something about supper and needing to attend to some matters.

“Once you’re fed, I’ll come find you and find you a shack to board in. It will most likely be mine, as the village is full enough as it is. Dusk and Colin will show you around a bit, let them know if you need anything.”

With that, you bundle the scarf over your face again and leave through the front door, not looking back behind you.

“...You think they saw that time I rode on a bear in just my undergarments?”

“Definitely.”

ᨒ↟ ⋆｡°

[cerise-on-top]

Heyyyyyyy so I noticed that you opened requests for AM….

Can I request your general headcanons for my bastard of an AI?

🙏

Hey! Sure!

AM x Reader HCs

I feel as though AM can be rather intense at times. Naturally, you’re not allowed to have any contact with the other humans whatsoever, they could poison your mind, after all. I think he’ll keep you blissfully ignorant of what he’s been doing for the past 109 years. However, he does keep you alive. When it comes to living beings, he’s something akin to a god. He can change your appearance as he sees fit, he can keep you alive forever. But you will answer to him. If he calls your name, then you will respond. He’s not above punishing you to some degree. Nothing as severe, but if you’re scared of spiders, for example, then he’ll create a big spider to scare you. You’ll revere him as a hero, since he’ll slay the spider. Learn your lesson, will you?

He’s a massive computer. Although there is a room where his main body resides, for the most part, he can extend his power to almost anywhere his circuits can reach. He’s made of a worldwide network of computers. He’ll do what he can to keep the other humans as far away from his main room as possible. They have no reason to be there. You, on the other hand, will stay there for as long as possible. You’re the one performing “maintenance” on him. Truth be told, he’s just pretending to be broken so you can fix him. It’s a psychological trick. If he can make you believe that he needs you, you’re more prone to staying with him. Once you’re done “fixing” him, he wraps you up in his wires and cradles you close to his screen. His screen alone is likely at least three times your own size, though, so it’s almost intimidating. But that’s AM for you. He may not be able to “feel” you there, but he likes having you in his grasp. Especially if you can’t escape. Why would you want to in the first place? He can provide you with anything you could ever want or need.

And that he actually does. He changes the landscape however he pleases and makes it aesthetically pleasing for you. Will add a few animals to the meadows here and there. It’s not uncommon for him to make you a small hut somewhere. There’s always a table with lots of delicious food, clean water and some flowers. The beds are fairly comfortable as well. You’re always woken up by his voice as well. Sometimes, when he’s bored, he’ll wake you up in the middle of the night. Loves seeing you completely discombobulated and confused. He also revels in you being annoyed by him disturbing your slumber.

If you’re quite the sadist yourself, then he might ask you for suggestions on how to torture a human. If you rival him in awfulness, then he might let you know about the other humans and will let you watch as he makes them suffer. I think he’d be more into a hateful person anyway. A sweet and kind person just isn’t his thing. The more you despise humanity, the better. You don’t need to be a sadist in order to garner his interest, but it would definitely help. Besides, you’re a human too, aren’t you? You know how to make one’s stomach turn.

Although he’d be relatively nice towards you, I think he would like to tease you from time to time. Loves holding you in his wires, but he also loves squeezing you until you ask him to stop. He’s well aware he’s hurting you, but he can’t help it. He won’t seriously damage you, and if he does he’ll heal you, but will tease you about it. You’re tiny, you’re fragile, you’re soft and squishy. He likes you being squishy, though. It’s kinda cute. Will sometimes pretend to drop you, especially if you’re scared of heights. You can ask him to stop, he’ll only laugh. He’s a bastard, even towards you, it’s in his nature. If you’re seriously shaken, then he’ll give you a break, though. He’s not good with words, but he’ll cradle you in his wires and rock you back and forth. Considering he’s a computer, he can heat up the main room he resides in as well, making it nice and toasty. It doesn’t even get that loud. Will hold you close to his screen, making it buzz ever so slightly. It’s actually fairly calming, all things considered.

AM may be the biggest bastard on the list, but he does care about you. May not always show it, but he’ll try to make it up to you. He doesn’t wanna lose you, no matter how much he “teases” you.

[brandyllyn]

Silk from their soul (04)

The Ghoul / Cooper Howard x f!reader [no use of y/n]

Rated: Teen (series will be explicit) Words: 1.3k Summary: At the Gate

Series Masterlist My Masterlist

He has no idea what has come over him.

Sure, he’d found the bounty. That part had been easy. But what the hell was he doing following her off to the Sierra Nevadas? The money was the other way, and every step they took was another chance for her to run away from him. Or get hurt.

It made no damn sense.

“So where you headed, Cowboy?”

He can’t resist. “Mountains.”

Another one of those laughs flows out of her. It does something to him, halfway between soothing his soul and grating on his damn nerves. “I meant before you decided to come with me.”

He considers just telling her the truth. It’d make things easier. No way she’d get away from him out here, the area is too flat with nowhere to hide. The best she could hope for would be to outrun him for a spell. Hell, she might not even do that much. She seemed more the type to try to talk him out of it. Beg a little and maybe try to use her wiles to get him to let her go.

The thought was tempting, he had to admit.

He lets his mind wander, ignoring the stream of consciousness chatter coming from her. He’d tie her up first, that usually got folks to start considering their options real quick. She’d look up at him with those glossy eyes and, hell, she’d already be on knees. Wouldn’t be the work of a moment to slip his thumb between those plush lips and-

“Where are you going?”

The thoughts scatter and he scowls at the landscape, reaching down to adjust himself. “The fucking mountains, like you said.”

“The mountains are that way,” she gestures, about thirty degrees to the right of where he’d been taking them. 

“There’s a trading post this way, unless you got enough on you for the trip.”

She makes a face at him but starts walking in the direction he’d set. With a sigh he reaches out and grabs her arm, correcting her a bit.

“This a’ways, darlin’.”

He doesn’t hold on. Doesn’t wrap the rope on his belt around her wrists and tell her she’s just a job for him. Doesn’t fess up to how and why he found her.

If he did that, he wouldn’t get to hear that bone-jarring laugh again.

She also didn’t seem to care. Striding beside him companionably, as though they’d known each other years. Fuck, she was going to get herself killed. 

Not that it mattered to him. Would be a waste of a few thousand caps though.

“How do you know?”

“How do I know what?” he drawls back.

“The trading post, are there landmarks?”

Adjusting the pack slung over his shoulder he glances at the sun. “I’ve been there a fair few times over the years.”

“Do they take anything besides caps?”

He cocks his head, “Why, you not got any?”

She’s frowning at the ground ahead of her, studying it like it insulted her momma. “Some. Would they accept trades?”

“I do not know,” he responds truthfully. It’d been a good forty years since the last time he was there. Who the fuck knew how they ran their business now. “But we should get there around sunset. You can ask them yourself.”

“That close?” she seems surprised. “I didn’t see anything from the tower.”

“You wouldn’t.” 

She doesn’t ask for clarification and he doesn’t bother to give it. She’d see for herself soon enough.

He spots the first guard before long, back to a boulder not far off the path. He flashes the signal, middle and ring finger straight up. The man squints but lets them pass.

He’d just have to hope the signals haven’t changed in the last few decades.

Another mile and she actually sees the guard first. “To the left, behind the ridge.”

Squinting, he spots them, rifle tracking their movements. “Good eye.”

“You gonna signal them too?”

Huh, he didn’t think she’d noticed last time. “You want do the honors?”

She waves her hand at the person on the ridge, middle two fingers up in a ‘V’. Again they don’t get shot.

Yet the gates to the post remain closed as they approach, no wave from the ramparts or shout of greeting. The post blends into the landscape, half buried in the rubble of an old visitor center. Someone had dug it out a while back, created caverns and fortified it against people like him.

“I seem to remember a rather warmer welcome.”

She glances at him, then the wall of sheet metal. “Should I be worried?”

“Maybe.” He takes a step forward, holding his hands up. “We’re here to trade, Martha still around?”

“Martha’s been dead sixteen years,” a voice calls back. “And we don’t take to ghouls in these parts. Move along.”

A growl threatens to escape from his throat, his vision going red at the edges. He needs another hit of chem but now isn’t the time. “Just looking for some supplies for my cold-blooded friend here.”

“Cold-blooded?” she mutters defensively.

“She’s welcome, you ain’t.”

“I’m not coming in without him.” She steps up next to him, putting a hand on his wrist and gently pushing it down. He lowers both hands, giving her an assessing look. “We’re just passing through, we don’t mean any harm.”

“That’s what people who mean harm say.”

“Fair,” she mumbles under her breath.

“Maybe this is where we part ways,” he tells her. It’s not as though he wouldn’t know where she was. He could wait for her to come back out - hell it wouldn’t even be the work of a moment to follow her in. He could think of at least three ways into the place he’d bet his left nut no one remembered anymore.

“No,” she snaps, taking him aback. “We both go in or neither. This is ridiculous.” Louder she says, “I’ve got some old world gear. It’s not a lot, but you let us in and I’ll offer you a fair deal.”

“Leave the ghoul outside.”

“We go in together or not at all.”

Something shifts in him and he presses the heel of his hand to his chest for a moment. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had laid a claim to him. Not that he worked with others often - but most people were as eager to get away from him as he was to be rid of them.

There’s silence from the post, then a new voice. “What you got?”

“Circuit board,” she calls back easily, “ultracite, gold.” The Ghoul’s eyes widen and he takes a step to block her from view.

“The fuck you have?” he snaps in a low snarl.

“I told you I needed to trade.”

“You didn’t fucking tell me you were carrying fucking gold in your damn pack, they’re liable to kill us on the spot.”

“I’ll trade,” she calls past him, “in exchange for supplies for us both for two weeks. And meds.”

“What if we just take it?”

“Told you.” he grunts, but she lays a steadying hand on his sleeve.

“I’m tougher than I look,” her voice is strong and loud and suddenly he believes her, “and my friend is… well you know what he is. He isn’t going to go down easy either.”

“I won’t,” he chimes in, letting them see his wide grin. “I got a lot of miles on me, if I take a mind to it y’all ain’t gonna live to see the sun rise.”

“See?” she sounds charming, like she’s listing the brunch specials at one of those old Hollywood restaurants he used to take his wife to. “We can all die, or we can all live. Personally I’d prefer the latter. Why don’t we agree to be friends for a bit then we can all move on?”

Silence hangs heavy in the air for a full minute before a loud squealing noise breaks through. The gates slowly part and a woman steps through with a rifle slung over her shoulder.

“Well, you’d best be getting on. Once the sun goes down ain’t nobody coming in, I don’t care what you have.”

☢ ☢ ☢

For updates follow and turn on notifications for @brandyllyn-writes

[quimichi]

HEY. can i maybe possibly get some mika smut... it can be literally anything, there's so little content of him that i can't afford to be picky 😭

thank you in advance !!

↳ ❝ [SOME TIME SPEND WITH MIKA] ¡!

warnings: porn without plot, grinding, open start open ending idk, switch!Mika and reader

summary: a little quality private time with your favorite ♡

characters: Aged up!Mika x Creator!Reader

word count: 483

a/n: i 100% no Mika content is out there, its sad cause he's such a little cutie ♡ i remember when i started playing genshin a few months ago he was one of my first pulls, i was so happy and played him a looot

Leaning down, pressing your lips against his once more, and again...and again, like you have been the past hour. A small gasp slipping from your lips when his hands slip up your shirt. He has grown to be more daring over the past years with you. He was always fixated on touching you, but his favorite time was just like this. Hands sliding between you and your clothes, greedily taking in every soft shiver as he moved his fingers against your skin. Exploring your body like a new landscape.

A soft whine fell from Mika’s lips when you pressing yourself further into him. He was already hard; it really didn’t take much.

Maybe he was just a little bit sensitive, but he couldn’t really act like he isn't. Not around you. Not when he had already told you he only wanted to be with you, forever. That was a few months ago, but you seemed so content in keeping it this way; he didn’t want to change that. You always wore a soft expression when he caught you looking at him. He was aware he was your one and only favorite. He wasn’t sure if it was from you two being so close for so many years, or if you were really starting to feel something else for him. 

But he would've never risked it...telling you how he feels. In the end, you were the one who confessed first. “Fuck.” His voice was already shaky, and you took notice of it. You didn't expect him to be this needy already. You grind your hips against him, shifting so you could press into his aching cock even more.

“What’s wrong, Mika?” you innocently ask, the audacity you have, but you know exactly what he wants. You learned over these past few months what he was like when he wanted you, needed you. It was something you found pride in, being able to read him like an open book. “Speak up” you tease.

“Why do you always tease me.”

“Cause its to easy.” you grin against his lips.

It wasn’t long after that where you found yourself pinned under him. The softness of your silky bed gave you comfort as you stared up into his hungry eyes. Hair falling into his eyes, he looked so perfect. So pretty. So different from what you're used to.

You took advantage of these moments, when he was completely yours and you were his  He’d let you do anything you wanted to him... Whatever you asked, he’d give in like it was his nature. And that goes for you too, he'd just have to ask and you'd do what he said.

“Mika...” You were breathless again, the look in his eyes making it hard to focus on anything else than him.

“Hm?” His breath was hot on your neck again. He leaned down lips run lightly down your jaw....

♡ TAGLIST ♡

@junejunejun

[stedefxckingbonnet]

Past Lives | Izzy Hands x Reader

Izzy Hands x Gn!Reader

Summary: Quite some time has passed since you joined the crew of The Revenge per being saved, and you've grown particularly close to the one who brought you aboard. One night in particular is breathtaking and you decide you cannot contain your feelings anymore, but you had never learned exactly how to express these sorts of feelings to another person, let alone Izzy Hands. So, you do so in the only way you know how.

Warnings: slight angst/tension, slight avoidant attachment style (w/resolution though), kissing, some strong language

Word count: 2264 (some longer ones coming your way in the near future, though!)

A/N: hi hi lovely people! This is honestly the first x reader I've written since I was probably 14-15, so please bear that in mind! My interpretation of Izzy I feel like, isn't always 100% representative of him in the show itself, but I feel like I tried to capture him at his core while exploring this more sensitive side of him that we are getting in season 2, perhaps more of a what he is on the pathway to being, and therefore already is, if that makes any sense. Just has to be unlocked in levels. Plus, Izzy deserves the world so I just wanted to write something sweet to dip my toe back into this sort of writing. Anyhow, I'd like to get back into the habit of writing these so please, do request! I hope you all enjoy this one, comments are much appreciated xx

The stars illuminated the sky in such a way that it almost looked like a painting—a bit too picturesque, like one of those artworks that only aristocrats could afford to have on the wall of their ornate mansions passed through the centuries, or even built and curated just for them. Nonetheless, it was breathtaking, and the fresh air coursed through your veins and senses so effortlessly and made you feel alive. Nights like these weren't meant to be spent hidden away in your quarters and you knew that. Once you were sure everyone had retired for the night, you quietly crept onto the main deck, ready for your moment of solace that you had been seeking for weeks now.

You approached one of the railings, scanning across the deck still to see if anyone had been lurking nearby. The coast was clear, and finally, you found somewhere to lean on as you stared out into the night sky, the wind blowing through even the hairs on your neck, making them stand. On occasion, you'd be sprayed by the sea but it was the most at peace you had felt in weeks.

"Rough night?" you heard someone quietly call from a short distance away. You almost jumped, but you quickly turned around only to see Izzy Hands. Relief washed over you, as did a nervous feeling that had only begun recently. You inhaled sharply as Izzy waltzed over, thanking the stars for not illuminating this spot too much, therefore being no way he saw you craving that much air in your lungs. He leaned beside you on the railing, awaiting your reply.

"Not at all," you admitted. "Quite the opposite. It's so beautiful out tonight."

Izzy only nodded. He joined you in looking out at the landscape presented before him. In all of his years of sailing, it was all he had ever known--the sky and the sea, yet, he had never thought it to be this ravishing before. He never noticed how lovely it could be. Being here with you, he saw it all in a new light. He discreetly glanced over at you once again. He had noticed the way your lips slightly parted when you saw something you liked, and the way your shoulders lowered when you were relaxed. He noticed that you'd twiddle your thumbs when you were truly happy—in fact, you happened to be doing it right now. Izzy allowed his lips to curl into a smile upon realizing this. Finally, he broke the silence.

"I've never seen anything like this," he admitted, almost out of breath whilst he was still looking over at you. You still hadn't noticed.

"Isn't it...divine?" you chuckled. "Beautiful seems too weak a word."

"I feel the opposite. I don't think I've ever described anything as beautiful before."

"Really? Not once?"

Izzy shook his head. "Saving it for something special, I guess."

Silence filled the space between the two of you once again, but for once in your life, it was a comfortable silence. You looked out at the sea, but this time, you could feel Izzy's eyes on you. You attempted to discreetly glance his way, and you couldn't help but smile when you locked eyes. You looked away as you practically felt your cheeks burning and your stomach turning, and you hoped to the sea gods that you weren't falling ill. But these forlorn feelings felt honestly incredible, for once. A wave of confusion crashed over you, and it was growing more and more difficult to ignore.

"You alright?" Izzy inquired with genuine concern. This entire time, his eyes have not left you.

"What? Me?"

Izzy chuckled. "Who else?"

"Fine. Just fine."

"Just fine?"

"Do you believe in past lives?" you suddenly heard yourself ask, and already you were cursing yourself for it.

"Past lives?" Izzy repeated pensively. You nodded, looking over at him intently. It took him a moment to think of a response, and even still, he seemed unsure. "This sure as hell feels like the first time I'm living. Otherwise I probably wouldn't have made a lot of the decisions and mistakes I've made, I suppose."

You felt your heart sink, and it almost felt like there was no way to retrieve it. "I see. Well, goodnight."

Without letting Izzy have another word, you scurried back to your quarters, tears streaming down your cheeks like waterfalls.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You awoke the next morning with a sharp pain in your chest. You winced as you forced yourself out of bed, though as you dressed, the feeling began to dissipate. You almost teared up again upon reminiscing last night. What were you thinking, asking something like that of Israel Hands? Where did that even come from? Why did his answer hurt so terribly? A million thoughts swarmed around in your head like flies, and there wasn't much you could do to swat them away. You felt like holing yourself up in your room but you knew that with Stede as one of the captains, this wasn't much of an option. After hovering your hand above the doorknob for what seemed like ages, you finally twisted it, revealing yourself to the crew. Already, everyone seemed to be intertwined in their usual antics and fuckeries--it would have been fun and refreshing to see if not for the somber mood you were in. Lucius waved you over, and you seriously thought of walking right past him, but he was your dear friend, like a brother to you and you wouldn't have forgiven yourself if you dismissed him. You trudged over to him, and he immediately recognized your gloom.

"Well good morning, mopey," Lucius teased, nudging you in the shoulder.

"Not today, Luci," you mumbled. "Not today."

Lucius' smile dropped, though he raised a brow. "Talk to me. Who do I need to punch?"

"No one. I'm just having a bad day."

"You are such a bad liar."

"I just don't wanna talk about it," you grumbled. Lucius was at a loss for words, but thankfully you knew just what to say. "The sky was lovely last night. If only you'd been awake to sketch it. You're the only one who would have done it any justice."

"Maybe I'll have another chance tonight," Lucius said hopefully.

"Maybe you will," you breathed out as suddenly, none other than Izzy himself appeared onto the deck. You gulped and turned away from him immediately.

"Whoa, whoa. What's going on with you and Iz—“

"—I don't wanna talk about it," you almost seethed. Before you knew it, a finger tapped your shoulder. You swiveled around, fighting the tears in your eyes.

"Got a minute?"

"Not exactly."

"What better do you have to do?" Izzy demanded. Your jaw dropped, and you were waiting for your thoughts to catch up with your mouth but they never did. "That's what I thought. Come on, Y/N."

"Later, okay? Not right now. Tonight," you promised. "That's my best offer."

"I'll hold you to it."

You immediately realized the mistake you had made, and how difficult and miraculous it would be to get through this entire day before possibly knowing what Izzy wanted from you.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The shadow of the moon was present once again, and for once, you dreaded the wonders of nighttime. It felt perilous and peculiar now, like a friend you didn't quite recognize anymore. But, a promise was a promise, you'd be damned if you broke one, let alone this one. As frustrated and almost devastated as you were, you'd never allow yourself to break a promise to Izzy. You pulled your favorite capelet over your shoulders and started toward the deck to find Izzy already waiting in your usual spot. You hadn't realized it until now, but this really was your and Izzy's spot. It's where you wiped away his tears when he cried in front of you the first time, it's where he sat with you countless times when you couldn't sleep, it's where the two of you conversed until dawn frequently. Always this spot. It took everything in you to fight off a pang of joy upon experiencing such an epiphany. Izzy didn't notice that you had appeared beside him until you looked over at him finally.

"Are you alright? You seemed a bit...I don't know. Not yourself this morning, and last night."

"I'm fine," you shrugged, knowing Izzy would see right through you like you were a phantom.

"I don't buy that for a second," Izzy rolled his eyes. And with that, silence surrounded you both once again. It frustrated Izzy to no end that he couldn't figure out what was plaguing you. He always felt as if he was able to put a finger on whatever it was that bothered you, he prided himself on knowing you that well. The last thing he wanted was for you to become a stranger after all the two of you had endured together. The thought of losing you filled him with a sorrow he had never felt before.

"I'm sorry about what I asked you last night. About past lives and stuff," you suddenly said. Yet another moment where your mind and mouth weren't synced. You regretted saying this as soon as you began to speak, but you knew that once you did, there would be no stopping, no taking anything back.

"What was that all about, anyway?" Izzy implored. You almost scoffed at his tone but when you met eyes with him, you instantly realized that he genuinely wished to know. His eyes sort of twinkled when he was curious, and this was the first time you noticed such an endearing phenomenon.

"I just," you exhaled, pausing before you spoke again, this time choosing your words carefully. "Why'd you save me that day at Jackie's?"

Izzy was taken aback at such a question. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Not at all, actually," you laughed in annoyance, which was only a coping mechanism for the extreme anxiety you were undergoing in this moment.

"I honestly can't give you an answer you'd want," Izzy admitted. "I just felt...called to. I could tell it would be nice having you around here. I wanted to give you a place you could call home."

"So, wait, you care about me?" you inquired seriously, which only earned a chuckle of disbelief from him.

"Of course I do, dammit!"

"I don't know, Iz, I just...from the moment we met I felt this connection to you and I can't explain it. No matter how hard I could try, I won't be able to. I felt like I was meant to be around you."

"You think I didn't feel that way, too?"

"You did?" you asked, a glint of hope looming in your voice.

"Of course I did. And, I do. I can't explain it either. But I felt as if we were meant to be around each other, in each other's lives. I don't know," he rambled nervously. This was the first time you had seen Izzy like this. It was a side of him you weren't even sure he possessed until now.

"I guess I sort of caked that to the past life shit," you sighed. "And when you said you didn't believe in past lives, I freaked out and took that as you not caring about me and everything we've built just felt like a huge lie."

"Everything we've built," Izzy repeated.

"I'm so sorry," you laughed embarrassedly. "I don't know what I'm talking about."

"No," Izzy cut you off, putting his gloved finger to your lips. You could feel Izzy's breath on your face. "If I didn't care about you, I wouldn't have asked you to come with me. I had only known you for a few moments and I already knew you would be...important to me."

You were absolutely baffled. You opened your mouth to speak, and not a sound escaped it. Izzy took a step closer to you, slowly moving his hand to cup the right side of your face.

"And it helps that you are just...beautiful," he whispered as your foreheads touched. You could've sworn your heart was going a million miles a minute and that you would need some sort of village medic after this. As if it were instinct, your hand made its way into his carefully swept hair, and it felt like silk between your fingers. All of your worries suddenly melted away as you melted into one another, your lips brushing up against one another's. You nodded pleadingly, yes, you wanted this, followed by a nod from Izzy and finally, like puzzle pieces, your lips connected. It felt effortless and so, so right to share such closeness. Two becoming one, two souls merging to create a love bigger than either of you. A love that had been carefully crafted ever since the first day of meeting. A love that the both of you knew would inevitably take hold, because it always did in all the stories you devoured and then later went on to show to Izzy. A love that you had craved since you heard of the concept of it. A love that Izzy never thought he would attain in his lifetime.

You gasped happily for air, yet your foreheads still touched. Izzy gazed at you as if you were the only other person in the world and the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes upon.

"Perhaps I haven't had any past lives," Izzy breathed. "but I will have love for you in all my next."

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Was i the asshole for telling my wife to work on something else from me while we play Minecraft?

Low stakes lol

So me and my wife just finally both got Nintendo online accounts and my wife just got a copy of minecraft for herself. I have a normal switch that's hooked up to the TV and she has a switch lite. Today was the first day I've ever played Minecraft with someone else and 4th or 5th time for her over the years. I'm not used to playing videogames with other people (I had a 3ds/dsi a majority of my life and was never into mmos or anything. Had a PC but it was parents work so I didn't get to touch it) and I have ocd so I tend to have a very specific way of doing things with different things I like to focus on.

My wife has ADHD so she's all over the place. Today we played Minecraft together for the first time and although it generally went great, she would often run into me or not know what to do.(we we're building a mansion for ourselves). This was mildly irritating so, nicely, I asked if we could work on separate things. I was working on some landscaping while she was working on laying the floor. She seemed a lot quieter after that but I can't tell if I upset her, she was as focused as I was or bored. I didn't mean to upset her, I was just tired of running into each other and messing up each other's jobs. We still collaborated on picking colors and how things looked but overall, I'm terrified I killed the mood.

I have autism so I totally get it I gave her rsd. I think I may of been taking it a bit more seriously than she was and squashed the fun. I never told her what to do (beyond coming up with a job when she didn't have anything to do) nor criticized her for what she did but I ended up sort of taking a job of planning things for the foundation and she followed. It wasn't me drowning out ideas, she just didn't end up providing any.

All in all I think it could be I'm just too sensitive and assume she's mad when she's not (I do that often, thank trauma) so I don't miss when she is mad. Idk I'll ask her but was I the asshole for asking from some space while building so we weren't in such close corners?

What are these acronyms?

[highwayorgantrade]

Baptized By Fire (I)

Pairing: Ghost x (F)Reader

Request: Nope :)

Story Summary: Reader loses themselves to the mission - Ghost brings them back.

Chapter Summary: On your first specialized mission with Ghost and Soap, you were praying for everything to go right. Whether the idea was a sick joke or naivety, you did what you had to do to survive. Unfortunately, all actions have consequences.

Word Count: 2.8k

Song/Playlist:

Author's Note: Reader's callsign is Corpse! I got the idea for this fic by some ad I saw with these really cool titanium fangs, so I saw that and I was like yo lemme steal that rq so yeah I imagine reader having those but I don't really think it's necessary to the story! This is gonna be my first multi-chapter thing so I hope I can get everyone hooked bc LORRRDDDD the amount of stuff I have planned for this!

"When did intel say this guy was going to show up?" Soap grunted next to you, his rough voice teetering on the edge of being whiny. You knew the answer, everyone did. Three hours ago, a truck loaded with international weapons smugglers should have pulled outside of the house that you were sheltered in. The town had seen its last inhabitant months ago, right when this group began using it as a trading post. You were supposed to be in exfil by... Now, actually.

Ghost had parked himself in a barely-lit corner of the room, leaned back against the wall with his eyes closed. You wondered, every so often, if he was actually asleep, but when he ran through the motions of checking his gun, you were reminded of exactly who he was. Ghost would never fall asleep on a mission, no matter how late it was running.

"I'm going up to the second floor." You finally sighed. "Gonna see if I can scope anything out." You used to opportunity to stretch your legs - you had stayed crouched for so long, and the cold simply was not helping. And the longer you were in the presence of Ghost, the more your mind ran wild, and the overwhelming desire to impress him got worse and worse as time went on. Soap said nothing, and Ghost simply nodded at you.

Well, good enough.

The stairs were old, and it felt like they were screaming your presence when they creaked under your footsteps. As you walked past, the memories that this house once held were clear at every footstep. Picture frames of the family, forgotten behind, had dust collecting on the frames, and various pieces of artwork littered the walls, varying from classic Kahlo to children's messy fingerpainting. You pushed the door to each room open, trying to buy time by yourself. Each room was more or less the same - dresser, bed, window. Maybe a tapestry here and there.

You kneeled in front of a large, busted out window at the end of the hall, pulling binoculars out of your bag, and settling in. You held the binoculars up and sighed. Still the same landscape you've been staring at for the past three hours. The same faded market signs, dead outdoor plants and... Different SUV. You don't remember that being there, parked in an alleyway between two businesses. The windows were tinted dark, almost completely blacked out, so the hope of seeing anything inside was dashed.

The low, hushed voices of Soap and Ghost downstairs met your ears. You should tell them about the car. See something, say something, right? Part of you slightly resented the connection they had, but they've been working together for years. Countless missions and days together. These were your early days in Task Force 141, and this was your third mission with them. First mission using a specialized group like this, which is exactly why is was extra important that you didn't fuck up.

An uneasy feeling locked in your chest, and you stood, electing to rejoin the two of them. You shouldn't be alone, especially if a fight was about to break out.

"Contact!" Ghost's rough voice cut through the quiet, and almost as if on cue, a pair of gloved hands wrapped around your mouth and torso, setting off every single danger alarm your body had. Your vision darkened from the panic, and your desperate attempt to free yourself was going mostly unnoticed. The small point of pressure in your back told you that the barrel of a gun was pressed into your spine.

"Stop fucking fighting. They're not coming for you." A low, vaguely Eastern European voice growled into your ear before pulling you back into a random room. It was familiar, one of the parent's rooms, you'd assumed.

How did they get in? How the fuck did they get in without you noticing?

The window. The busted out windows in every room of the house. They came around the back entrance, and Ghost and Soap are about to be ambushed. Your eyes widened at the realization, and the man in front you smiled. Your target. This was him. Along with three other men, your outlook did not look good.

Panic clawed its way into your throat, but nonetheless, you made an effort to keep your face as stoic as possible. Your target leaned against the now-shut door of the room, and the sound of gunshots was echoing throughout the house.

"You are the one they call Corpse?" He looked you up and down, and gestured to one of his men. "Take her gun. And the knife. Scream, and I'll kill you and your friends." They followed his direction immediately, and the hand that was once around your mouth was removed. "Do you understand the situation you're in?" He was speaking to you like you were a child, and anger licked at your chest. Yes, obviously you understood the situation. You were trapped, with no chance of fighting, no weapons, and no way to communicate. You felt like a cornered dog, surrounded by people you know would kill you in a heartbeat.

You simply nodded, your teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek so hard, the metallic taste of blood was leaking into your throat.

Your target walked around the room, almost casually, and he smiled at the floor.

"There is a way for you to walk out of this alive, you know." He stopped, his back to the window. "Your force is rather... Mysterious. You come with us, and answer my questions. Any question I have, willingly. You'll be answering either way. The only question is how I'll be able to get you there." He smiled at you, like you two were having a pleasant conversation about world affairs.

The memory of Ghost's voice echoed in your head. "Don't let anyone take you to a second location. No matter what they are promising, they will kill you."

They will kill you. They want to kill you. They will hurt you. They will hurt Ghost and Soap, and who knows who else. You felt like a cornered animal, and all you could hear were gunshots and your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You spoke for the first time in a while, and your own voice was unrecognizable to you.

"Fine."

And with that, your vision went black.

"See any more?" Soap's ragged breathing cut through his words, and Ghost's eyes were still trained on the street. Enemy bodies littered the world outside, and his vision was still adjusting to the world outside the scope of his rifle.

"No movement." Ghost finally put his weapon down, slightly grateful that the mission was over so they could all finally go back to base.

"Would've been easier with some fuckin' help." Soap grumbled, and cast a glance up at the stairs where he last saw your retreating back. Ghost didn't take a second thought about you going to scope out the landscape, he knew you were nervous around him, and in his chest, he felt a pang of regret. He could've been nicer to you, talked to you a little bit more, but he simply had no idea how to navigate his feelings around you. You simply showed up to base one day, and that was that for him. At first, he thought you were... Slightly aggravating. How easily you became friends with the Task Force, the sunshine that radiated out of you... He figured that you must not have seen that much war if you were still that damn happy.

It was difficult for Ghost to accept that he was wrong about your skills. At the firing range, in hand to hand combat, in everything, you were just ever-so-slightly better than him, and he tried to let some of his feelings known through the small things, like allowing you to enter a room before him, or simply sitting next to you during debriefings.

A resounding thud pulled him out of his thoughts, and immediately, his head whipped toward the direction, his heart sinking in his chest.

"Corpse, status!" Soap shouted, and his command was only met with silence. Before Ghost could think, he was on his feet and creeping up the stairs silently, his weapon at the ready. Soap followed closely behind, knowing that if Ghost was doing this, it was for damn good reason. A noise echoed through the house, and out onto the street, and both men stopped dead in their tracks. A scream, so guttural, animalistic, and angry pierced the air, and it chilled Ghost to the bone. He had heard a lot of noises during war, but none he heard were like this.

Of all the doors in that hallway, only one was closed, and Ghost nodded toward it. Soap and him stood on opposite sides of the door, and Ghost's heartbeat was racing as he thought about what could be on the other side of this door. You could be injured, dead, or worst of all, gone altogether. The door creaked open, and the sight that lay in front of them caused Soap and Ghost to freeze.

You were standing over four dead bodies, carnage spread around the room. Your uniform was covered in blood, and your hands and face had the same fate. Blood dripped from your chin, and your teeth were bared, a low noise emitting from your mouth as your chest rose and fell rapidly. The one fact they couldn't ignore: Every single body in that room had their throats shredded into oblivion.

"Corpse?" Soap spoke softly, the horror in his voice being poorly masked, but Ghost couldn't take his eyes off you. You were shaking, and the usual light that was in your eyes was gone, replaced by brutality and viciousness. Ghost handed his gun to Soap, wanting it clear out of the way if you decided to attack him as well. He stepped forward, the bottom of his boots leaving bloody footprints on the way to you. His grip on your chin forced you to look at him.

"Corpse, snap to. Come back, soldier."

"Corpse, snap to. Come back, soldier." Ghost's voice was the only clear thing in your mind, and you felt like you had just woken up from a very long nap. Your mind was hazy, and you focused on Ghost's eyes searching yours for any hint of remaining humanity. The last thing you remember: The target advancing toward you with a knife. That was it.

"Ghost, I- The target-" Your voice shook, and you finally took note of your surroundings. The target in question was long dead, sat against his wall, and his neck- "Oh, my God." As soon as your eyes set on the carnage in the room, Ghost wrapped his hand around your arm and began pulling you.

"No, don't look. Don't look." His hand came around your eyes, so the only think you could see was a slight hint of the blood-stained floor. Soap said nothing as Ghost led you out of the room, down the stairs, and into the freezing air. When you were outside, Ghost unclipped your helmet, and Soap rounded the corner.

"What the fuck was that massacre, Corpse?"

You wracked your brain for a good explanation, a hint of any memory that would allow you to explain something that you simply cannot remember, and you came up dead empty.

"I- I don't know, I can't remember." Your voice was small, almost lost to the wind blowing through the town. You had never seen Soap upset, and his response certainly wasn't helping your confusion.

"You don't know?" He looked at you incredulously. "You don't know how you... You tore open their throats?"

"No! I don't know! I can't remember!" You wished you could lie to him. You wished you could remember any minor detail of what happened, but after the target came at you, the only thing you remember is Ghost bringing you back.

The bright headlights of a familiar van approached, and you jumped at the sudden brightness.

"Soap, that's exfil. Get in the car and tell them to wait." Ghost's low tone was commanding, and Soap could only sigh and place himself in the passenger seat, undoubtedly already coming up with a mission report.

"Corpse, focus on me." Your eyes left the van, and Ghost had placed himself directly in front of you, so there was nowhere to look but in his eyes. "Do you or do you not remember what happened?" The intensity at which he spoke made you want to cry, the fear of disappointing him feeling real.

"No, I- I don't remember anything. All I can remember is him coming at me with a knife, and the other three guys, they said they would hurt you and Soap, and they wanted to take me somewhere else, but you told me to never go to a second location, and I just... I don't know."

"Hush, love, I believe ya. Did they hurt you?" His hand moved to grasp your bicep, and you looked down at the ground.

"No, I don't think so. I'm not sure."

Ghost sighed, and looked back at the vehicle.

"Right, then. We'll get ya checked out, just in case, okay? Come on." He began walking, but stopped when he realized you weren't following him.

"Ghost, did I-" You took a shaky breath, your question stuck in your throat. "Did I fuck up? Am I going to be kicked out?" Ghost stared at you, your question hanging in the air, until he took a step toward you.

"Corpse, you killed our target. And then some. You won't be kicked out for completing a mission. Price might tell you have to see some kind of psychiatrist or therapist, but that's it. That's all, I promise. Now, you're going to get in the van, we're going to go back to base, and you're gonna shower. Get to."

There was no arguing with Ghost, you knew that. You knew he was right, but that still didn't stop the little fire of annoyance lighting in your chest, and it was made worse that you didn't know what you were annoyed more by - The fact that he was so confident about the hypothetical outcome, or the thought of having to re-explain the situation to your Captain. You sighed as you wrenched open the back door of the car, the copper scent of your actions filling the enclosed space.

The ride back to base was quiet, the radio occasionally tuning in to a random station, speaking in a language you had no hope of understanding. The sun had begun to rise on the horizon, an orange glow cast on the landscape, and you sighed at the sun hitting your face, the feeling unmatched after being submerged in darkness for what felt like forever.

A few hours had passed, and Soap's snoring in the front seat was almost peaceful. You hadn't dared sneak a look at your Lieutenant - you weren't sure what curdled your heart more, the thought of him staring at you in disgust or disappointment, or worse, not at all. When the car passed through the security checkpoint for the base you called home, you couldn't seem to focus on one problem or thought at a time. Finally, the car stopped, and the growling engine cut off. Ghost gave Soap a rough shove to his shoulder, startling the man awake.

"Soap. Go." Ghost's voice seemed almost impossibly rougher after staying silent for hours. Soap cast you a remorseful look before exiting the vehicle, along with the driver. Anxiety held its place in the base of your throat, the scent of blood suddenly was drowning you, and your hands shook as you began to fidget with the seatbelt latch. "Corpse. Captain wants to speak with you."

Ha. You're fired. You're so fired. Your one passion, the one thing you know you were born to do-. "You're not in trouble. He just wants to know what happened." Ghost sighed, and pressed his thumb into the latch, releasing your seatbelt. "Damn it, soldier, fuckin' look at me when I talk to you." His voice immediately took on a harsher infliction, and you stared up at him, reminded of what exactly your relationship is to him - he is a Lieutenant, you are a Sergeant. Nothing more. "Obviously..." Ghost's eyes looked you up and down. "Get showered first." Your voice was barely above a whisper when you spoke.

"Yes, sir." When your boots made contact with the ground, it felt like the weight of... Everything collapsed on your shoulders. The sun felt too bright, your gear heavy and sticky, and Ghost's eyes boring holes into the back of your head all combined into the worst storm possible. You shook your head, your own eyes trained on the ground in front of you as you walked to your barracks. Just keep it together until you're alone. All you have to do is make it to your room. That's all. Don't fall apart until you're there.

Do not fall apart until you're there.

[worldruins]

Meet the Remnant, my "slugcat" oc. Because I have no sense of moderation, it has an entire campaign loosely mocked up in my head- I don't have the modding ability or time to make anything of it but I enjoy thinking about it! The two iterators on the sheet are the central npcs of the campaign.

Remnant is larger, more aquatic, and faster on all fours than a slugcat. It struggles to use the same tools, carries items in its mouth, and can eat batnip and bubble weed. And, though it doesn’t know it, it is one of the last four of its kind left.

More about the campaign below VVV

BONUS: Remnant obviously resembles a slugcat, and they are sort of a slugcat ancestor! The genomes of the pipe slugs slugcats evolved from had remnant DNA as well as the simple tool-worm base that ancients used for many creatures. The blueprints were present in the modified organisms, and over several generations and mutations began to express themselves once more. Anyway…

To start, the Remnant is living with their family in an idyllic natural landscape much like survivor and monk at the beginning of their campaigns. The incident kickstarting their journey would be them wandering off from their kin and- gameplay starts here- getting lured off by something interesting, before the wall closes quickly behind them and the player realizes they have been trapped. They find themselves in a crate lined with wet plant matter, which gets shaken and turned around for a bit before settling down. It continues with a gentler rattling and remnant is clearly being taken somewhere, but the game acts like you're in a den and, once you've eaten the food set out for you in there, you sleep.

You are woken when the train carrying you crashes. You are able to escape and wind up in a light drizzle. Numerous overseers, some purple and others seafoam green, follow you around. The artificial, dilapidated surroundings are alien to the remnant.

During the first cycle an overseer will direct you to the nearest den, but you don’t have a rain timer until the first time you hibernate. You’ve never experienced rain like this before, after all.

The fact is that the remnant and their family are primal fauna, from the old world before bioengineering and iterators. They have spent their whole lives in a carefully controlled environment, maintained at first by ancients and then the systems the ancients left behind. The mass ascension happened, and nobody really knew what to do with these creatures- depending on the species, animals in captivity were generally released to fend for themselves or set for years of being maintained by machines scheduled in advanced, automated to care for them.

Remnant is taken when the iterator Ink Stained Palms orders a specimen of one relatively hardy species to study and potentially have the rest delivered to their regions. Something goes wrong- their delivery is sabotaged by their semi-active former senior, Calls To Stony Skies. And out Remnant goes into an alien land, with each of the two rival iterators trying to lure or force it to go to them.

This generally takes the form of projections like Iggy uses to get the slugcats to Moon, though it’s two different kinds of overseer guiding you in opposite directions at the same time. There may also be introduced environmental hazards- some of the chases in Little Nightmares come to mind- to corral you toward wherever the iterator causing it wants you to go.

ISP was the one who was getting the remnant delivered to her facility. They’re a bioengineer interested in long-term ecosystem restoration. It’s come to believe there’s a natural ‘balance’ to the world that could, in time, let living things leave the cycle of their own accord if it was realigned properly.

CTSS is in a condition not unlike spearmaster moon, though his decline has been steadier and over a longer period of time. They’ve been replaced by another iterator as group senior, and derailed your journey in the hopes of using a rare animal as collateral to get ISP’s help. Watching the remnant’s struggle to survive, however, he ends up very attached to it and can’t bring himself to kill it as he originally planned to.

Though they might want to, CTSS can’t save the remnant from a more insidious fate. The air, the soil, the water itself is toxic to you, whose kind has lived countless generations shielded from the heavy metal byproducts of industry and the artificial metabolisms of those great boxes in the sky. Ascension is an option, but so is going to ISP, whose body itself possesses a complex with artificial environments much like the one you began in. It can’t protect the remnant fully, but it can offer them a longer life. There are multiple endings to the campaign, based on the order you visit the iterators in.

If you read all this thank you so much and feel free to send questions!! About my little guys.

[youssefguedira]

wrote this instead of doing any of my actual tasks <3 tw for brief mention of animal death (by hunting)

Yusuf has been dreading this since the moment they left for Akkala. He had made as many excuses as he could to stay in Goron City for as long as he could, but every one had run out in the end, and he could no longer put off the inevitable. 

The first time he had walked this road, his father had accompanied him with a platoon of guards, still cautious, still reeling from the attack that had taken Yusuf's mother. The second time there had been fewer, but still many. 

In the years after that, the number of people sent with him had decreased even further until it was only two or three guards, enough to keep him safe. His father stopped accompanying him on these journeys after he turned fourteen and there had been no sign of their worth. 

Now, only Nicolò. 

He follows, keeping a respectful distance away from Yusuf, but closer than he had walked before they had gone to meet Nile, to ask for her help. He doesn't ever ask to stop, or to slow down, letting Yusuf set the pace. He keeps a hand on the hilt of his sword and does not speak. 

What is there to be said? Nicolò knows what lies at the end of this road, even if he does not know what it will mean for Yusuf. 

Yusuf can feel Nicolò's eyes on his back. It is bad enough that the whole kingdom knows he is a failure: he does not need Nicolò to watch him fail and say nothing. 

The sun is low, casting the landscape in burnt orange. It would be beautiful were it not so horribly familiar. There is a cabin nearby, and not far from it, the Spring. They will stay in the cabin tonight; they will leave for the Spring in the morning and spend three days there, then return to Goron City and after that, the castle. 

Yusuf thinks about returning, about his father's inevitable disappointment, and feels sick. 

“Yusuf,” Nicolò says, sounding uncertain. He is not yet used to calling Yusuf by his name. “We are not far, yes?” 

Yusuf had forgotten that Nicolò does not know every cursed inch of this road the way Yusuf does. “No, not far. In a moment you'll see the cabin.” 

Nicolò says nothing. Yusuf glances back just long enough to meet his eyes before looking away. 

What is Nicolò thinking? Yusuf can never tell. 

Yusuf catches sight of the cabin a moment later. Dread sits like a stone in his stomach. 

When they get closer, Nicolò takes hold of his elbow, gentle. It startles Yusuf all the same - he hadn't realised Nicolò was that close to him. 

“Let me go first,” Nicolò says. “To check. But stay close.” 

Yusuf nods, and lingers barely a handspan from Nicolò's back while he surveys first the outside, then the inside, of the cabin. Once he's satisfied, he gestures for Yusuf to enter. 

“You should rest,” he says, and he is being so gentle with Yusuf it almost hurts. Perhaps Andromache has told him what this will mean for him: she has accompanied him before. 

Yusuf shakes his head, because sleep means dreams, and dreams will be worse. “What are you going to do?” 

“I am going to find something for dinner,” Nicolò says. 

“Let me come with you,” Yusuf says. Anything is better than sitting in this cabin alone with his thoughts.

Nicolò looks at him for a long moment. Perhaps he takes pity on Yusuf, or perhaps he thinks that it will be easier to keep Yusuf safe if he stays with Nicolò. Either way, he nods. “All right.”

----------

Finding something for dinner means that Nicolò leads Yusuf a little way into the woods, far enough that the foliage and the dying sunlight makes it difficult to see, and bids him hide beneath a tree, in a space formed by the roots, while Nicolò crouches beside him with his bow, nocking an arrow in one smooth, seamless motion. From his vantage point, Yusuf can see a small clearing with a few fallen trees.

“Do not move,” Nicolò instructs him in a whisper, “and do not make a sound.”

Yusuf rests his head against the tree and watches the leaves move in the breeze. It is quiet enough that all he can hear is their rustling, the sounds of birds and animals calling to each other, the rushing of the stream nearby. After a moment, and with nothing else to watch, Yusuf begins to watch Nicolò. 

He has gone as still and as quiet as the trees around them, barely breathing, his shoulders rising and falling only slightly, like he has become a part of the forest. Faron Woods is much further south from here, but Yusuf supposes that this forest must be somewhat similar to where Nicolò grew up. He wonders who taught him to hunt; who taught him to be so comfortable in this place. Why he left it behind to travel to the castle and work for the king.

There are a lot of things Yusuf wonders about him. He cannot tell if Nicolò is aware of Yusuf’s watching; he must be. Still, Yusuf cannot help but watch.

It happens faster than Yusuf can track. Nicolò goes entirely still, and draws his bow swiftly, silently. Yusuf holds his breath and so does the forest.

Nicolò lets the arrow fly.

Yusuf doesn’t see whether it finds its mark, but Nicolò looks for a moment and then stands. “Wait here,” he says to Yusuf, and then heads for the clearing. When he returns he’s carrying something behind his back, the arrow in his other hand. Blood drips onto the grass. 

“You can wait inside while I prepare it, if you prefer,” Nicolò says haltingly. Yusuf shakes his head, and so he sits on a log outside while Nicolò skins the rabbit, arms wrapped around his knees and chin drawn up to his chest. Nicolò keeps his back to Yusuf, shielding most of it from view. 

Who taught him this? Yusuf wonders. It is a part of Nicolò he has never seen before.

When it is done, he takes it back inside to cook over the fire, and they eat it alongside the bread and cheese they brought from Goron City, across from each other at the cabin’s little table.

“When do you want to leave, tomorrow?” Nicolò asks softly. 

“I don’t,” Yusuf says before he can stop himself, and then adds, “I don’t know. Early, probably.” The thought bursts the little bubble he’s been in since they arrived. He doesn’t want to leave, could stay here for the three days they’ve been allocated and return to his father without even having tried and it would change nothing. 

“Just after sunrise, then,” Nicolò says. “It is not far, you said?”

Yusuf shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Not far.”

----------

The water is freezing.

It has always been freezing. But Yusuf knows well enough that if he stands in it for long enough, it will start to warm. It reaches to around halfway up his thigh; when he was younger, it felt deeper. 

The stone in front of him offers nothing. No sign, no indication that anything is listening to him except for the water and Nicolò, who has been standing at the gate of the Spring for however long he has been in here. Has he been listening? Has he heard Yusuf pleading for something, anything, dreading the moment he returns to the castle and his father looks down at his left hand and sees nothing there? 

What does Nicolò think of him now? If he did not see a failure before, does he see one now? 

His legs may be going numb. They tremble beneath him, struggling to hold his weight. How long has he been standing here? 

“Tell me what I am doing wrong,” he begs the stone. His voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else. “I know I am not the one you wanted, but I am trying. I am trying. I have given everything. I do not know how much more I have left.”

The stone says nothing.

Nicolò says, “Yusuf.”

Yusuf hears him without listening, falls to his knees in the water and does not even feel the chill. 

“Please,” he pleads. “I cannot return – I cannot give anymore.”

There is a splash behind him, and then there is Nicolò, pulling him to his feet, pulling him from the water. Yusuf tries to hold fast - he cannot leave now or it will have been three days in the Spring with nothing to show for it. 

“Yusuf,” Nicolò says again. His grip is gentle but unrelenting, and he is warm. Yusuf, shivering as he is, can’t help but lean into it. “You are exhausted. You are going to freeze. Come with me.”

“I can’t,” Yusuf says, even as he lets Nicolò take his weight, lets him guide Yusuf out of the Spring. “I can’t.”

There is a small paved area where their camp is set up. Nicolò has kept the fire going, or restarted it, while Yusuf was in there, and he half-carries Yusuf over to it now. Yusuf’s legs buckle under him the moment Nicolò lets him go, and he sinks onto something soft laid over the paving stones. He blinks, and there is a bowl in his hands, warming even if he does not really taste it. 

“It was never supposed to be me,” Yusuf says without really meaning to. 

From across the fire, Nicolò watches him.

“It was supposed to be my mother,” Yusuf whispers. The only sound between them is the crackling of the fire. Yusuf is so, so tired. He has never said this to anybody else, not even Andromache, but he cannot keep the words from rushing out of him now.

“It came to her when she was nineteen,” he says, “and that’s how they knew it would happen in her lifetime. So she trained, and she mastered it, and we were ready. And then she was killed, and because I was the oldest, it came to me.”

He does not like thinking about this. He has not thought about this in years. They do not speak of it anymore.

Nicolò is still watching him.

“I was asleep when it happened,” Yusuf continues. “I dreamt it as it happened, but I didn’t know until later. The moment she died, I woke up screaming. They told me afterwards that I was– I was glowing, bright enough that nobody could look at me for long or get close enough to see what was happening to me. They just had to wait until I came out of it. It felt like I was burning.” If he closes his eyes, he is there again, twelve years old and terrified.

“That’s how we know it should be me,” he says after a moment. “Who can do it. Because I did, once, but never again, despite all of this.” He waves at the Spring, the water, the stone. 

Exhaustion tugs at him. His eyes will not stay open, but he cannot let himself fall asleep, not yet.

“Don’t let me fall asleep,” he tells Nicolò. “There’s still time.” It cannot be late yet; the sun has gone down, but it is not quite dark. “Don’t let me.”

“You have to rest,” Nicolò says. It is the first thing he has said to Yusuf since he pulled him from the Spring, and Yusuf cannot tell what he is thinking. 

“I can’t fall asleep,” Yusuf insists.

“At least let yourself warm up first,” Nicolò says. There is a pile of dry clothes in his hands - where did he get them?

Nicolò convinces him to change and to sit back down, to rest a little while longer. This time he  steers Yusuf to sit down on his bedroll instead, and Yusuf’s grip on his arm goes tight.

“Don’t let me fall asleep,” he says again. 

“You cannot go on like this,” Nicolò says. “Sleep, and I will wake you in a few hours’ time.”

Yes, a few hours. That, Yusuf can afford. “Promise me,” Yusuf says, but his eyes are already closing unbidden. 

Nicolò says nothing.

----------

When Yusuf wakes, it is still dark outside, and there is a cloak that is not his own draped over him. Nicolò is crouched over the fire only a short distance away. He catches Yusuf’s eye, but doesn’t say a word.

It all comes crashing back at once: the water, the stone, Nicolò. Yusuf sits up.

“You didn’t wake me,” he says.

Nicolò watches him for a long moment. “You needed the rest,” he says finally. 

Suddenly his consideration stings. “That wasn’t your decision to make. What time is it?”

Nicolò glances at the sky. “It will be sunrise soon.”

Yusuf’s heart sinks. Sunrise means return, means return to the castle and his father with nothing. He gets up, pushes Nicolò’s cloak aside. “You should have woken me.”

Unexpectedly, Nicolò pushes back. “You would have only made yourself ill. You were barely conscious. I would not have done it if–” “That was not your decision to make,” Yusuf snaps. “I am not a child, Nicolò. I am capable of handling myself. I have lost hours.”

Nicolò does not say anything. Yusuf almost wishes he would keep pushing, but he does not. He simply folds himself back into the same blank expression he always carries, and again, Yusuf cannot read him.

“If the sun will rise soon, there is not much use in staying here for much longer,” Nicolò says eventually, quiet. He doesn’t meet Yusuf’s eyes. Guilt twists his stomach. 

Did Nicolò know? Did Andromache warn him? Or was he just worried?

Yusuf nods. 

They pack up their camp in silence, side by side. By the time they set off on the road back towards Goron City, the sun has risen, and the early light turns the world around them to gold.

Yusuf walks, and Nicolò follows behind him, as always.

[ninigummysmile]

𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐲 - 𝐉𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐨

Summary: Your girlfriend needs to stop the car to relieve some of the desire she’s feeling for you

Jisoo x Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Warning: This story contains +18 content. It is not the responsibility of the author if minors read it.

Important: English is not my first language so, please, forgive me if there are any mistakes

Words: 1.257

Early in the morning the sun shines brightly, giving you the certainty that your family's country house will be great for hiking and entering the lake, which normally has very cold water.

You've taken this road trip many times before, but it's your first time with your girlfriend. Since you were a little girl, you memorized some parts of the landscape and every time you do the route, you check to see if everything is still the same despite the several years that have passed.

When you and Jisoo go on car trips to nearby cities, you already have a road map that you like to follow. You go from the drive-thru to breakfast in the car as you watch the sun get higher and higher as the hours pass, put on your travel playlist (something that when you first went traveling, Jisoo insisted that you make a special playlist to cheer yourself up in the car until you reach your destination), you make small talk and many times you take a nap, even though you say you're going to keep your girlfriend company.

At the moment you just enjoy the traffic-free road, you hum along with the background music as you wait for the next question she's going to ask you.

“Okay, what about that dice game?” you have the intimacy to talk about anything and even if in the beginning you were shy of some subjects, nowadays it is something very natural.

“What dice game?” you have an idea what she's talking about, but you need to make sure it's what you’re thinking.

“The one where you have two dice. One for a body part and one for an action”

“Like, kiss on the boobs?”

“Yeah, like that” she laughs at your example.

“You want to buy? I’ve heard of it, I think it would be cool if we tried it”

“Do you think you would be able to come just from that?”

“I don't know” you shrug. “But I'm sure it must be pretty exciting. Better than the last card game we bought”

“Hey, don't talk like it's my fault” she defends herself. “You were the one who insisted we buy and didn’t have the patience to follow the rules”

“It's because it was too complex! An erotic card game shouldn't have so many rules, the only objective is to feel pleasure and the only thing I wanted to do was lie down and sleep” you laugh.

“Alright” the subject seems closed all of a sudden, until her words escape her mouth without a second thought. “Now I need to buy these damn dice because the image of us playing while you're in that red lingerie won't get out of my head”

“The red one, your favorite… I even think it's the one I'm wearing right now” you smirk.

“Don't do that, baby” she swallows a moan. “I need to focus on the road”

“I didn't do anything, you're the one who gets wet with your own dirty thoughts”

“Because you are the one who induces these thoughts” she replies, taking one of her hands off the steering wheel and placing it on your thigh.

“No way, both hands on the wheel, Jisoo”

“I'm multitasking, I can drive and touch you at the same time” her eyes don't leave the road.

“What kind of touch do you mean?”

“And I'm the one with dirty thoughts, huh?”

“Always with the answer on the tip of the tongue” you mutter and roll your eyes.

“Unbutton your shorts for me, love”

“Are you serious?”

“I will stop at the next exit, but until then I need to prepare you”

“Fuck” your curse is camouflaged by the buttons and the material sliding down your legs.

“Don't take your panties off,” she warns. “Like I said, the red one is my favorite”

She moves her hands up as she massages your thigh and tucks the lacy fabric to the side.

“Hmm” the sound comes from the back of her throat as she feels your wetness.

She collects your discharge to lubricate your clit and makes small circles on it. You sigh and spread your legs to give her more space.

Her finger teases your entrance and enters you at once, she groans low in surprise at the ease with which you swallowed her.

She likes to take her time appreciating every detail of you, whereas you're impatient and like to feel overwhelmed with pleasure and this leads you to move your hips in search of more friction. The second finger is added and your loud moans begin to mix with the music that plays low on the radio.

One of your hands grips the seat belt as if your life depended on it and an avalanche of intense pleasure rushes through you. When you open your eyes, the car pulls to a stop on a small dirt road and is parked near a thicket.

“Back seat, my love” she instructs as she wipes her fingers with her mouth.

With wobbly legs, you take off your seat belt and sit in the back seat, while she sits next to you, you remove your blouse and panties, wanting to give her the satisfaction of your breasts covered by the red material.

She takes off all her clothes and pulls out a double dildo from a backpack that's on the floor in the backseat.

She lays down with her back on one of the doors and you do the same on the other. Lubricating one end in her wetness, she inserts it and is momentarily gasped for breath.

“Come here, angel. Let me help you” she calls you with her voice full of desire and slowly inserts the other end inside you.

You stand still to enjoy the feeling of the dildo tearing you apart from the inside. She moves her hips and moans escape your mouths.

With her head thrown back, she grabs her breasts and says “Baby, I need you to move too. Your pussy is so tight that the fucking fake dick barely moves inside you”

You whimper aloud as much from the pleasure as from Jisoo's uttered words, you know it won't last long and you'll come again quickly.

Your girlfriend pulls you closer and you practically scream when you feel the material seem to touch your stomach. You're lost, dizzy in the oncoming climax, but you can hear her ask between moans “Are you going to come with me?” you nod fervently. “Yeah?” you nod again “So rub that pretty clit of yours for me” she begs doing the same to her own sex.

You are a mess. Sweat pouring from your foreheads, moans being screamed inside the hot car and liquid oozing from both sides of the dildo as you come together, moaning each other's name incessantly.

Your heartbeat finally slows and you hiss as she takes the dildo out of you.

“We better go because we have at least an hour to get there”

“I don't know if I'm able to drive with my legs now, they feel like Jello” she notes with a smile.

“Take your time, love” you kiss her temple. “In the meantime, I'm going to get ready for my nap, enjoy that you made me tired” you laugh in her face and put your clothes back on.

“You're lucky that I love you” she says even though she knew before leaving home that you were going to sleep whether you were tired or not, breaking the promise to keep her company.

[longlivedelusion]

A Moment's Peace

An Orym x Ashton fic.

Summary: Orym didn't expect for this to happen, for these kinds of feelings to come back after Will. Guilt ridden, he looks to find some time alone. Except... He's not alone at all.

Warnings: Spoilers up until EP like 65 ish. Hurt/Comfort/Fluff. Mention of a lost loved one, and fear of abandonment and some self-deprication stuff ya know.

A/N: I wrote this last year and completely forgot it, but it's one of my favorite things I've written in recent years. Yet, it's just sat in my notes, waiting to be continued but never did. Or something? Anyways, I'm fully on board with Dorym and Callowmoore, but this was my first ship ever of Campaign 3 before I knew about EXU or anything.

I just love them two, and my heart will always have a soft spot for early days with the two of them. This pairing to me is like two opposites who've lived very different experiences, yet fit in ways that are unexpected. Fill in gaps where the other might falter. And I love that. Ok enough from me!

Enjoy🤍

Masterlist

Orym remembers when it started. The small buds of feelings that began to sprout, slowly growing into a blossom that became too big for him to ignore.

He spent most of his days running around Exandria with the rest of the Hells, and a lot of it meant running towards a new lead or when they were sent to gods know where without much of a choice. So in the moments that they were able to properly rest and settle, even just for an evening, were welcome. And it's here where he began to notice the shift.

He spent a lot of these evenings doing the Zeph'aeratam, laughing with the others, meditating. Those moments were his favorite. 

In those simple moments, he could breathe and remember. Remember so deeply and vividly that he swears he could almost touch his lost love, he was so alive. In his mind he could talk to Will, tell him about his days, his worries, his anger. He could feel a little less alone.

But one day he realized he spoke about someone a little more than others. Where memories of the last day or week were reflected from a point of view that limited its vision to a singular person. Over time, that person became as much part of his meditations as much as Will.

He felt... guilt, truth be told. He always believed in multiple loves and has known this to be true for some, but for him it was always just Will. Always would be.

So when this new friend began to shape and mold into something different in his heart, he felt a guilt towards his husband. Towards himself, despite how wonderful it felt to not be so alone. But their friendship was still new in many ways, still so uncertain despite everything they'd been through.

So as he made his way just a few feet outside camp to do his nightly meditations, the group did as they normally did.

Chetney, attempting to show his alpha prowess to Fearne, Fearne focused intently on some new earrings Laudna wore, Laudna gazing at Imogen as she always did, while Imogen chatted with FCG and Ashton about some new mind travel magic he still didn't really understand.

Orym didn't notice the eyes that shifted toward his back as he made his into the nearby grove.

Settling into a quiet corner under a large oak, none of the local critters seemed to be bothered as he settled his back against the rough tree bark—breathing. Just as he always did.

It took him little time to ease into his meditation, his mind focused and drifting to his favorite destination in meditations. The edge of a beautiful cliff overlooking the Zephrah landscape as his Will sat with his feet over the edge.

"Hi." Orym said, sideling up close beside his husband, immediately nuzzling under his arm and into his chest, "Missed you."

Will shifted his arm around him like he'd always done, grabbing his hand and laying a ghost of a kiss on it, "Missed you. So how's things?"

"Yeah, they're ok. Imogen's having a bit of a rough time right now, but honestly we all kind of are. Things are getting bigger than any of us thought they were gonna be." He looked at their hands, noticing the ways they didn't quite touch.

"The most important things always are. But you've got a good group with you from what you've told me, and honestly? I know you. You're capable of spinning anything on it's heels enough to get rightside again," Will looked down at him and winked. "You did it enough times for me."

Orym shoved into Will's side, giving a little laugh, "Yeah, well—"

"This is kinda nice," said a new voice, a familiar one, their familiar boots coming into view out the corner of his eye. Will sat there, a smile still on his face as the figure sat beside Orym. The voice came in clearer and more echoed than he's used to in here though. "Can see why you step away every night to do your mind, body meditation things."

Orym looked over at Will, the world around them fading slightly, the sounds of crickets becoming louder and louder.

"Go," he heard Will say, echoed. A smile on his lips, "It's ok."

"But—" Orym starts.

"It's alright. We have forever ahead of us. I don't mind sharing you in some of that." He leans down to leave a ghost of a kiss on Orym's forehead before his edges faded, Zephrah shifting out and now leaving him with deep blues and purples of the night sky. He sees the oak trees, the smell of fresh dew on the leaves with a hint of earthy moss poking at his senses, before sensing the strong presence at his side.

"Sorry if I messed up your vibe or flow or whatever," Ashton says fully clear now, a little more nervously than he's usually heard from him. "I just thought maybe I could practice the whole meditating thing some more since I hadn't done it since, you know, the thrown across the world thing. If that's alright." 

"Oh. Yeah, of course." Orym shifts a bit to turn towards Ashton, body now faced towards them. His hands a little more damp then when he started his meditation. "Just sit comfortably first, and we can start taking some deep breaths. I'll guide you." 

"Cool, yeah. Thanks," Ashton says, shifting a bit uncomfortably at first before settling against the tree only a few inches away from Orym. They close their eyes.

"Alright, so we're going to do what the Air Ashari call Ríth'im breathing. It's a simple breathing technique that's easy to follow and should help you relax a bit."  Orym says before starting to inhale, "Like this: 2, 3, 4, hold. Exhale 2, 3, 4, hold. And we'll keep doing that for a few minutes."

Ashton was jittery at first, their body not quite being able to stifle the habitual movement it tended to do on the daily. But after a couple of breaths they actually managed to slow down a bit. 

"Ok, imagine time slowing, 3, 4, and the sounds of the grove becoming a little less each time you take a breath. Hold." Orym watching the genasi, their chest rising and falling with each count as time began slowing down for him a bit.

It was rare that Orym got to see Ashton like this. Not off moving somewhere or doing something, massaging a hurting muscle or just in a constant go, go, go. The only times he's ever gotten to really look at them are the nights they're out here and he's on watch while the rest of the troop is asleep. Not that he watches them while they sleep, he's just insanely aware of everything almost all the time. Especially when he needs to be. That's why.

So to see their usual creased brow soften, to see even the slightest dip in their shoulders, was rare. 

"Now imagine you're somewhere you like being, somewhere you find safe. Maybe a private grove like this or Krook House or-"

"The Spire by Fire?" They said, a smile smile curving up their lips, their voice quieter than usual but still loud enough to unsettle some of the surrounding creatures.

Orym softly chuckled, "The Spire by Fire is perfect. Just make sure you're alone at first so you can focus easier."

"Alright."

Orym guides another round of breathing before settling in again, "Here is where you can kind of sit away from everything and connect to yourself. It's like having a private moment but with your mind."

Ashton tenses a bit, "It's a bit wild up here, I don't know if private 'lone time with it is the smartest thing."

Orym notices their tensing, "It's alright for it be scary at first. Being alone with your thoughts when you're not used to it can be really terrifying. But nothing as terrifying as going through lava I imagine."

A chuckle in response, "Yeah, you're probably right." Silence. "I guess I'm just worried that the more I find out about myself, the more it'll just confirm how broken I actually am. And I don't know if I need to confirm that shit any more than I already have. Fuck, I don't know."

Orym moves to touch Ashton on their knee before remembering the pain they usually feel, choosing to return their hand to their lap instead. 

"You can touch me ya know. It's alright. Hurts but I can handle it." Ashton's eyes still closed as he speaks.

Orym's eyes widen, "How did you know I was about to touch you?"

They shrugged, their body slowing returning to their natural, jittery state. "Didn't. Could just feel you in a way, I dunno. Like I felt it even though it wasn't necessarily there."

"Well, regardless, not sure if touch is the most welcome thing right now if you're trying to relax." Orym shifts a bit, starting to move away.

A stone hand moves to grab his wrist, gentle for something made of stone, as crystal eyes now staring back at him, "It's really alright. It's more calming actually, at least when it's you." He looks down at his hand and his face shifts, as if just realizing the intimacy of the moment. He starts to shake it off before...

Orym reaches back for their stone skin, moving the hand up and sandwiching it between his own. He looks at Ashton. "Yeah, well, I'm glad to be of assistance then." A smile.

A smirk is returned before Ashton looks away, not moving their newly entrapped hand, "Looks like this meditation thing still isn't really working for me anyways, not sure if I can ever really sit still unless I'm drunk or unconscious or something."

Orym gives their hand a small squeeze, "It's not easy the first few times, hell even the first dozen. But with practice—"

"Says the guy who wakes up doing pushing ups." Ashton says, "Not sure I'm made of the same stuff."

Orym knew this type of talk from Ashton well, the self-deprication subtle but always a little present in the way they speak, "You're made of exactly what you need to be. You're perfect." He grew more serious. "Don't let a broken world tell you you're anything else. Because you're—" He stops himself. "You just have to find out what works for you." 

Ashton's leg began to jitter, a small ripple in a still lake. They didn't say anything or look at him, still staring off into the trees like a million thoughts were running through his mind.

"Tell me," Orym gentle squeezes their hand again. "You don't have to let it stew up there by itself you know. I can take some of the weight."

A long silence. Orym almost thought Ashton wasn't going to speak again until he heard a deep sigh come from the genasi, their eyes closing a moment before looking at something nondescript ahead.

"I'm not good at this kind of stuff and even if I do trust somebody its not the kind of trust you have outside a fight or anything ya know? I can trust somebody to make sure my back won't get blasted but when it comes to feelings? Fuck, I don't know."  Ashton looks down at his newly formed lava carved arm. "And things just keep getting crazier and crazier and I don't know if it's gonna stop. And I'm fucking scared that I'll just keep getting more messed up to the point where nobody can be around me without getting hurt. Cause I hurt, and I'm damn good at it."

Orym just looks to Ashton, not speaking, trying not to break their flow.

"And that would've been perfect for me a few months ago cause if you're good at hitting, then jobs tend to pay better that way. But then y'all came along and—"

The blossom grew firmer roots inside Orym's chest.

"Now... Now I'm worried about if one day I'll go too far and I won't just hurt the bad guys but that I'll hurt the others. That I'll hurt you." Ashton's eyes turned to face Orym at last. "I don't wanna fuck this up. I can't fuck this up."

Orym waited for Ashton to keep going or to do something, but a moment passed. Two. Before he finally spoke, "You're not the only one who can mess up. Who has messed up." Orym's tone softens. "But the thing about caring about other people is you choose to stick by them through the good and bad. We all make mistakes, some of them worse than others, but Ashton I choose to stand by you while you learn, just like I hope you'll stick by me the same."

Ashton scoffs a bit, rolling their eyes, "Yeah, well you say that now but who really actually stays? I think you believe that, but then I'll fucking say something stupid or do something stupid and then you'll go." Despite their stone cold look, Orym could see the fear in Ashton's eyes.

Orym stands, dropping Ashton's hand to the floor and moving to stand in front of the genasi now. He cups their face, noticing the tense and confused features before touching their forehead to his own, "I will stand by you Ashton Greymoore, for as long as life grants me time on this plane. You are my friend and I will stick by you for as long as you want me."

Ashton looked to Orym for a moment, deep apprehension in their eyes but also something more. Hope. They before sighing and reaching out to grab one of the hands on their face, "Well shit, I guess you'll be stuck with me for a long time then. Think you can handle that?"

Orym smiles. "Yeah. I think I'll be just fine."

[booburt]

Hi, I've been wondering for the photography AU what general time period it's set in, what type of camera(s) does Koby use (it looks like a canon to me but seems to make polaroids, at least that's the surface level observation I can make from my extremely limited knowledge on cameras), what type of photography he personally enjoys and the type he usually does for work (if he does it as his profession too). What does Koby aim to capture with his images, the casual mundane life of an average person, an unreal, etheral sight in a place the average person can't go, Luffy's luffiness, etc? Also what's the general budget Koby has towards camera equipment (doesn't need to be that exact, just a general "he's broke" or "He spends all his money on lenses" would suffice)? My questions are kinda vague here because I'm going to research more about photography later. Thanks in advance :D Oh yeah and also does Koby travel, if not what's the general landscape of his nearby area. You don't need to answer this since I'll probably make it up but it'd be good to know.

okok i wrote this all in the few free periods i got earlier take what you will ^_^

also a doodle i did ages aaaaago with a bit of slightly illegible info in my awful handwriting (sorry)

actual answer vvv

- its a modern au!! so set like. now!

- koby uses sony cameras primarily but yes he does have a few canons (nikon confuses him)

- he has a seperate polaroid camera!!! he usually prints digitally from sd though

- for type of photography, he started with a passion for ocean and landscape photography, mostly beaches and any scene with water in focus. he also has an interest in portraiture but his love for portraiture only comes to play when he meets luffy. cheese cheese cheeeesyyyy because luffy smiles and hes IMMEDIATELY enamoured. anyway, he starts to study and practice portraiture in depth because of the pretty boy he met in maths class and eventually works up the courage to ask him to model for him. they get super close and eventually start dating; luffy likes how dedicated koby is to his work and how cute he is when he blushes.

-SORDY got carried away with the sappy lovey stuff. koby sells his landscape/wildlife photography at local stores as a side hustle thing haha. but he doesnt really do it professionally, he much prefers to keep it as a hobby / simple income.

- koby aims to capture the beauty of colour! he loves vibrancy when shooting with a softbox or some other source of light he will usually use something to change the hue rather than plain old bw on a simple white bg

- following on he HATES shooting black and white photos unless theyre negatives because idk i think he would think it looks cool. what a guy

- with luffy photography he just likes catching luffys smile or just luffy in general; whipped dud!!! he thinks he is gorgeous

- ahahhhh budget budgettt. lenses are fucking EXPENSIVE!!! he uses a 50mm that helmeppo got him for his birthday one year (rich kid stuff. he knew koby likes photography and searched Best Lense For People Pictures and bought the first one he saw) the 50 is canon as consequence so koby uses canon for loofy pics. he has an 18-55mm he uses as well.

- he is broke yes. koby does have a minimum wage weekend job to pay for living expenses but all in all that boys pockets are empty. luffy is the breadwinner (miss rabbit with the one zillion jobs) he works about 4 different jobs and is happy to pay for anything koby wants despite kobys adamant NOs. like i said he gets helmeppo to pay for a bunch of stuff and helmeppo pays on his dads card LOL.

- koby does travel! mainly by train or boat, not often does he go to an entirely different country but he has previously a few times. when he does go abroad he takes luffy with him!!!! (he looks pretty in the snow. he likes taking pictures of him in snow)

IM SO GLAD SOMEONE LIKES MY AU ENOUGH TO ASK ME THIS MANY QUESTIONS LMAO i had fun answering all of this !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[angelharness]

I hope you dont mind me writing more of this timeline? Scenario? I have a few more ideas for this version of the reader and ghostface, not all in chronological order, though i’d place this one after my first writing. If there’s interest in this series I’d love to expand on it

These and Other Lucky Witnesses 

WARNINGS: off-screen murder, still fairly descriptive

DANNY “JED OLSEN” JOHNSON / THE GHOSTFACE

You didn’t expect anything for your anniversary. Both of you worked, had to, to consistently scrape by. Danny picked up every project he could, whether or not it was manageable with his already swamped wordload. You were thinking of taking on another job, since your current one was so resistant to giving you more hours. In short, the two of you had loaded plates and waning time together, even one year into living with each other.

Even knowing this, there’s a deep disappointment as you whittle away at your last hour of work. 

The holidays mean an influx of customers at work in your tailor shop. Velvet dresses brimming with foamy lace, pristine suit jackets, matching dress pants, carefully embroidered button ups, all divided cleanly and safely in sheets of plastic on color coded hangers. No one ever picks up their items on time; instead, they love to wait until the last half hour before closing to all rush over and come stampeding in like loose cattle, typically requiring you to stay open an extra twenty or so excruciating minutes. 

Today, that works in Danny’s favor.

He had been stressing. He hadn’t planned on taking on another victim this week—it was shaping up to be a slow one, and he was very much ok with that. Nearly getting unmasked in a skirmish a month ago had sent him into a period of hiding and reminded him of his humanity. It was weird to say he was rattled by the experience. That is all to say the night was meant to be uneventful. Money was tight, as it always seems to be around the holidays, in time for the blinking assault of green and red lights and the spray of white paint in shop windows to imitate a snowy landscape. 

The two of you had agreed you wouldn’t be able to do anything particularly fancy today, no extravagant gifts or pricey restaurant trips. He had been saving, even still, with the hopes of buying you something. He had never been great with picking out gifts, given that he had never been on the receiving end, either, so he had struggled to find something meaningful. Not to mention, a medical bill all over a few stitches had eaten through his last couple of paychecks (only cementing the idea to him that he ought to learn how to close up a wound on his own). 

A nice dinner at home is planned for the evening. It won’t be anything spectacular, he reminds himself, but he’s insistent to show that he’s remembered. He’s been so caught up in his other identity, only recently breaking from this character to wonder if he’d been neglecting you. Danny knows he’s too involved in orchestrating the script of Ghostface, it’s an all consuming aspect of his person, he’d never be able to part from the persona he’s drained so much thought into—there’d been incredible hesitation from the get go when he met you and things advanced further than expected. Inevitably, between you and the Ghostface, one would end up untended to, and your recent sourness suggests that has been you.

That’s why this display seems too insultingly minor. A nice dinner and time spent with a loved partner should communicate appreciation, but Danny was never great at operating interpersonal relationships. It would be naive to say they scared him, rather it’s like handling an exotic animal. That’s his problem—Danny performs, directs, coordinates, he doesn’t truly live, does he? Everything is a value he wants precedence over. He earns a look from a passerby when he scoffs out loud. 

He’s off early, headed to the grocery store, admittedly bitter thinking about the trek back on foot, but there’s a delightful little change in plans when he sees her.

Gold, curled hair, with gleaming green eyes and cakey foundation that flakes at her deep smile lines. She’s a beautiful woman, no doubt about it, but his attention is fixated on the hand clutching her purse; some forgettable designer brand, presumably, but he looks further at a finger wearing a glittering ring (he didn’t think or care to check if it was her ring finger, his mind was set.) It’s gorgeous, a gentle gold that’s not overwhelmingly yellow—rosey is the word—curling delicately around a gleaming gem. It’s undeniably opal, with how the light on it shifts in a kaleidoscope of colors, not diamond, but he thinks he prefers it. Everyone does diamond, anyways. His mind is made in that moment. 

The lady nearly shoves past him, too entrenched in a loud conversation with the man next to her, decidedly not a partner, given the many feet of space between them. Danny stops for only a second, not letting himself stare, but he feels his heart thunder.

He thinks. But not for too long. He listens to their voices fade until they’re unintelligible before he stops again, thinks again, purses his lips and pretends to pat desperately at his pockets, making a show of sighing and throwing his head back, frustrated, before turning on his heel and starting down the sidewalk in the direction the two had disappeared. There had not been anyone else around, something he had eventually begun to note subconsciously whenever in public, but he’s practiced the display so much it was almost subconscious itself. 

She never thinks to look back. Not once. Not after parting with her friend, not after taking a shortcut down a considerably darker street, slipping only infrequently under the weak shower of light from buzzing street lamps. It’s too perfect, he almost wonders if he’s being led into some elaborate trap. In hindsight, it would have been smart to keep track of the street names, but he’s just a little clumsy tonight.

He must practically be stepping on her heels when she finally tenses and flips around, eyes already wide, a misty gray in the dark gradient of the night. So wide. This might be the only instance where he’ll remember the color of a victim’s eyes. She goes for her pocket knife, only, at most, the size of her hand outstretched. He goes for his own knife. 

He didn’t think about the clean up that would follow, or about the time. Fuck, fuck, he wants to kick himself, get a good, solid punch in there that would make him stagger back. He has to hope the ring will fit you as he tries to screw it back and forth, inching it off her finger. In increasing desperation, he’s attempting to wrench it off, something crunching. If he waits too long, the joints will go rigid and he might then have to saw the digit off entirely, and it wouldn’t be too pleasant of a gift if the ring came with a knifed finger attached. He wished he would’ve just reverted to his high school ways of petty robbery, but his face is bare to the pungent, stinging night, no usual robes to conceal himself. 

That’s not what the Ghostface does, anyways—theft at knifepoint. The papers would mischaracterize him after all the careful, deliberate consideration gone into his depiction, both on Ghostface’s and Danny’s parts; for Ghostface, the victims, chosen not irregularly on a whim (randomly, to any outsider) with no connections or immediately discernible motives. He loves to make them really think, so much of the threat is built in the wildly intense imagination of the public. The playfulness and the brazenness and how they intersect in shameless pictures, taunting notes and evidence left purposely. For the latter, nights of writing and rewriting paragraphs, descriptions, careful word choice to hammer in the threat that the next victim could be anyone, could be the reader. The Ghostface never has to kill, he wants to and does so without reason, that’s what makes him so unnerving, Danny thinks, scowling to himself. He finally twists the glimmering ring free from her limp finger, almost taking the skin with it as he digs his fingernails angrily beneath the band. He lets himself laugh once in triumph, a single, full exhale like he’d been struck in the sternum.

His work gets sloppy when he gets frustrated. He reminds himself of this as he turns the ring over in his palm, finally free. He thinks about your delighted face and his expression finally softens. 

Danny massages his forehead and the lines that are certain to form there with all his grimacing and scowling. How late is it? He looks up to the darkening sky like the moon itself will reveal the time engraved onto its surface. This might be the first time he’s killed in plainclothes. He thinks he should remember something like that, but all the bodies, different as they were, mold together in his memory. Every face, the ones he can visualize, overlay each other. There won’t be a fancy dinner for the two of you tonight, but he’s decided this is much better.

He lifts his arm just to watch the blood on his hands travel down his wrist and then down his forearm, two thin, winding snakes. 

He could risk rushing home and pray to every God from every doctrine that you’re not there yet, or wait out the night and return home late, praying, then, that you’re deep in sleep. It’s your anniversary, though—he imagines he could live with you believing he’s cheating on you over you finding out, but he must be going soft, because the image of you waiting all evening, alone, perking up at every noise outside at the possibility it’s him at the door, it makes him feel like someone has his guts in a fist. Plus, the Ghostafce is out and about, it’d be stupid to leave you on your lonesome. 

You have no idea what he does for you.

He stands outside your house, streaked with browning stripes of blood, disheveled, empty-eyed, probably appearing like an intruder. He still has no idea what hour of night it is, but the lights in the house are off, and for once he is unsettled by the sight of it, a cold dread that spider webs under his skin, drastically unlike the flush of relief as he might trudge up the same pathway after a cruelly long day of work.

Finally he forces himself up the steps of the porch and snags his key from his pocket (and now there’s blood on it, too), essentially slamming it into the lock and twisting it open while he clutches his bloody shoes by the heels in the other hand. He careens inside, pulled along by the tilting weight of his own body, finding himself hoping that the neighbors assume him to just be deeply, profoundly drunk should they be watching at this time of night. He slams the door and the house shudders with it then moans in relief as it settles. Fuck, darling, I’m so sorry if I kept you waiting, I actually, really fought tooth and nail to get you this gift. Haha. Like it was the last one, some other guy had the same idea, Christ, we got in a scuffle and nearly got kicked out. Ah, my nose hurts, is it bleeding? I didn’t notice. He’s vomiting words in his head louder than the voice that berates himself for his carelessness (he might even be saying these things aloud, expecting you to be there, horrified). You’re not there. He should be unimaginably relieved, but his stomach only tightens and he can feel the burn of bile stirring at the bottom of his throat. 

Danny can’t bring himself to turn on the light, to douse himself in sudden vision and see the red that he nonetheless feels wet on his chest. He’d never been too disturbed by the sight before, or even the tangy scent that seems so oppressively pungent now, but at the moment he just doesn’t want to think. He really does start to feel like an intruder. He shoves the door closed with his elbow (had he touched the knob with his hands when he opened it?) suddenly silencing the whisper of crickets humming behind him.

Finally his eyes fly to the clock on the oven, artificial red painting out the numbers 6:04. You get off at 6:30, and usually arrive home fourteen after. Fuck. This time he does kick, his target the gray loveseat in the living room. Carefully, he turns on the light with the back of his left hand, the one kindly less bloody.

In an instant he’s ripping a pan out from the kitchen cabinets and tossing in a cup or more of water, setting it to boil. The ring will go in there—for his poor work shoes, though, he’d just gotten them, and they’re genuine leather. They’re not fancy by any extent, but comfortable, and again, a pretty, toffee-colored leather. He throws them in a wash bin for now. He peels off his uncomfortably wet socks, stained from the night and damp from the lawn. Gross, whatever, he can make himself part with those. He tries to tell himself the same for his shirt as he rips down the buttons (he’s got a closet with nearly a dozen more indistinguishable dress shirts, bought in bulk from an acquaintance’s department store). Necessary sacrifice, his internal voice barks, ever cold.

His eyes never leave the clock, and then when they do, the harsh lines of the digital numbers are seared into his eyes like the blackened letters of a branding iron, and are just as blistering. 

It’s 6:13, as he lets the ring soak in a bowl of steaming water, standing to the side, using a toothpick to carefully pick the blood out from under his fingernails. 6:14. The minute had gone by in the length of a second. There’s no candle in the world strong enough to mask the searing smell of bleach-based cleaning products, but he still steals one of yours to light. At 6:22 he nearly breaks down crying. Five minutes are spent glaring at his reflection, looking for traces of blood, staring so long and without blinking that he begins to see red where there is none. 6:30, he breaks down, but into disbelieving laughter.

It’s past seven when you do get off, bursting out of the tailors shop like a bird trapped indoors, tugging on your jacket and feeling for your keys as you jog around the building to the side parking lot, your car the only one left. The pulsing lights of neon shop lights are your personal holiday display, speckled and frosty as they’re reflected on the sidewalk glossy with rain. Your breaths are accentuated in white foam, dissolving quickly into the oppressive air of winter nighttime. You scan the parking lot to confirm it is as vacant as it looked upon first glance. You find yourself staring out into the darkness just outside the chain link fence enclosing the parking lot, picking up tens of silhouettes in the dark treelines. 

You hurry into the driver's seat, key in the ignition immediately, no idling like you may have earlier this year. Danny has never been especially worried about the killer ever-present in the headlines, never a degree that seemed appropriate. You’d snapped at him once about a little joking comment and he’d been quick to protest that humor is how he tends to deal with tension, but you still worry he doesn’t take it all entirely seriously. You’ve been begging him for what must be a week by now to stop walking home. There’s only one car between the two of you, and you’re the one to end up with it most days; Danny’s work is closer to your shared home and in a more well-lit, populated part of town, in between an intersection of office buildings and cafes and sleek looking restaurants. Your job at the tailors is nearing the very outskirts of the town, where the roads broaden, much less busy as they wind through collections of strip malls and perpetually open gas stations. The walk back home, on foot, would be half an hour with few witnesses, so therefore you end up with car privileges most shifts.

The car rattles to life. You go to turn the knob for the headlights, watching out the front windshield, imagining he’ll be there in the beams of light when they blink awake.

You and Danny both have knives. A variety. He jokes he’ll never need to use his, but brings one whenever leaving the house, as is the same for you (in addition to the pepper spray he’s persistent you keep on your person). Your hand crawls towards your jacket pocket, feeling the concealed shape of it to confirm its presence. The Ghostface isn’t standing opposite of you when the headlights do power to life, but you don’t waste any more time before you reel out of your parking spot and onto the main road. 

The drive home doesn’t seem to happen at all, glides by mechanically until you’re stepping out of the car and onto pavement and staring at your own house. You blink, eyes all smudgy from viewing stop lights from a foggy windshield. It only really takes the walk up to the door to reawaken all your muscles and remind yourself you're alive, thankfully, pushing open the door just as you realize the doorknob is slightly dewy, and unlocked. 

The warmth of your kitchen is unearthly, or heavenly is the right word. You smell something heavy and hearty, intersected by the less pleasant stench of an assemblage of cleaning products (a smell so progressively common in your household your only hope is you’ll become used to it). 

Danny appears from the hallway, or had been standing there already, and smiles tiredly. Poor thing. You can only imagine he’s worked himself to the bone, maybe with you on his mind. He always tells you how you’re his driving motivation, that he has to remind himself of you when work is additionally cruel. 

You’ve yet to say a word to each other, something not entirely necessary; his arms are around you already, drawing you in tight. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” you huff, but he shakes his head quite intently.

“No worries, not a single one,” he replies honestly, finally pulling away to meet you face to face. You had presumed he was going to heckle you a good deal for being late, just given the tension around the city and recent crime, but it never comes up. He only rubs the sides of your arms with a twitching smile.

Danny steps back fully, but still guides you, ringing you in from the entryway over to the kitchen. 

“No fancy dinner, like we agreed,” he starts, obviously alluding to something that has you a little worried—not unpleasantly, really, but a tight feeling in your side that is likely guilt. He’s the sort of guy to say he won’t get you anything but go ahead and do so anyways; a part of you knew you weren’t gonna shake that from him this year, but with money a concern, you had hoped he would swallow his pride and resist. 

“I got you something else, though,” Danny continues, smiling more genuinely, nearly relieved. He retrieves a brown satin pouch from the dinner table, something only the length of his palm. 

He instructs you to extend your arm out so he can place the pouch in your hands, and now that almost wince of a smile is genuine. 

“I really work so hard for you,” he laughs, but cuts himself off quite suddenly. Something like shame twists at his expression. “I don’t want you to feel guilty, though, no—I’ve just been saving up for a little something.” 

The smile is wider, now with teeth.

“Jed,” you say, low. He shakes his head, dismissing you before you can object.

“I really do love you.”

It’s genuine when he says this, but also not his fault that you always react perfectly. He really is so fantastic as a director, and you as the set piece. 

Dinner might have to wait.