#please please please please explain your thought process

[ceo-of-sloppy-women]

No grave can hold my body down; I'll crawl home to her

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

There’s a knock at the door while you’re making breakfast for yourself and Sevika (scrambled eggs and smoked sausage you had found in the icebox). Sevika yells that the doors open, and you pop out of the kitchen to see Vander step inside. Wiping your hands on your apron, you let the eggs cool on the stove, having finished cooking.

“Vander! What can we do for you? We might have some extra breakfast, if you want,” you offer, leaning against the doorframe.

“No thank you, Silco and I had a big breakfast already,” Vander chuckles, patting his stomach. “I only dropped by to give you two this and to assign you a job for the next three weeks.”

“Oh?” you tilt your head, taking the manila folder he holds out to you. Inside are two envelopes, one for each of you.

“It’s your first patrol pay and Sevika’s sick pay. Jinx told us what happened – that Sevika was injured saving a kid from the weather station –“ he turns his attention to Sevika – “Silco and I are giving you three weeks off. You will take them and you will rest.”

“Don’t worry, Vander, I’ll make sure she becomes well-acquainted with her own couch,” you giggle as Sevika merely glowers at him.

“Good,” Vander nods his head, turning back to you. “For now, I am assigning you to assist Singed. His lab is at the far end of town, just head down the stairs and into the old bunker to find him – I’ll show you, when you’re ready to head out. He runs the clinic when he has time and is working on a cure for shimmer. I’m not sure how much help he needs, but Silco thought it would be good for you to at least work with him a little in case you had questions about Sevika’s healing process.”

“Thank you, I’ve been meaning to meet him, actually. I’d like to swap notes with him on the infected in case I know anything that can help but forgot to write down. Plus, a little first aid never hurt,” you chirp, rocking a bit on your heels. Your fingers itch to hug him in thanks, but you barely know this man and have no idea what his personal boundaries are. Instead you ask: “Are you sure you don’t want any breakfast? We have yet to eat, and I can’t work on an empty stomach.”

“Okay, you’ve twisted my rubber arm – but just a small plate, please. I don’t want to take from your breakfast,” he concedes easily, taking a seat on the couch.

“Eh, I made enough leftovers in case Sevika got hungry. I was planning on coming to find you for a different job. But you beat me to it!” you explain, spinning around and heading back into the kitchen.

Vander attempts to start up small talk with Sevika, who’s barely awake, making you giggle to yourself as you plate the food. You have more than enough for the three of you, giving Vander a bit more than he asked for (if he didn’t finish it all, that is perfectly fine with you. You firmly believed in eating what you needed to feel full). Vander ends up eating his whole plate, just like Sevika (thankfully, you had been worried she was going to pick at it). Vander continues his attempt at small talk throughout breakfast, continuing while you’re grabbing your gear from your room. Sevika is barely having it, sleep weighing her mind down heavily as you check she’s got everything she needs for the day. She waves a hand loosely in your direction, grumbling something about getting some shut eye, and falling asleep mere moments later. You and Vander have a good chuckle before slipping out the door and into the street.

The walk is peaceful, with Vander catching you up about the lives of various people you pass on the street. You learn more about the architectural history of the houses you pass (apparently, Jinx has had more than a hand in blowing up a fair few of them that were too infected to renovate, while Ekko rebuilt them from the ground up from guidebooks and catalogues he had scavenged in the ruins of old cities). Vander also fills you in on local gossip, from the latest calf to be birthed to Grayson’s retirement from being the town sheriff last year, passing the title down to Caitlyn.  Slowly, you get the sense that not much happens in Zaun, even amidst an apocalypse.

Eventually, you find yourself standing in front of an old bunker; its concrete walls are covered in vines and Jinx’s graffiti. The bunker itself is surrounded by a row of surprisingly well-manicured flowerbeds of various colours. Each flowerbed is filled with only the exact same flour, though there are some discrepancies in colour (such as a few pink flowers amongst white ones). You get the sense that Sevika’s bees may be meddling here. Vander informs you that they’re for Singed’s herbs and medicinal remedies, though you’re fairly certain at least six of the ones you can see are poisonous or cause intense hallucinations. Just who are you signing up to work for?

“Ah, Vander, what can I do for you this fine morning?” an unfamiliar voice asks, curling his tongue around the words. You turn to see a bald older man dressed in sickly green lab scrubs and a dried-blood-coloured apron with matching gloves that went past his elbows. He has large bags around his eyes and a sombre expression on his face reminiscent of someone attending a funeral.

“Singed, this is your new assistant – for a limited time. She will be under your employ for three weeks until Sevika is back on her feet,” Vander says confidently, patting your shoulder reassuringly.

“Ah, the one with the journals – yes, I remember you… well, I supposed an assistant couldn’t hurt. So long as you don’t sick the dog of Zaun on me, that is,” Singed hums, drumming the tips of his fingers together.

“The dog of… do you mean Sevika?”

“Oh, did I fail to mention that part? Singed and Sevika… don’t get along,” Vander admits, scratching the back of his neck.

“She remembers too much of who I once was,” Singed sighs. “A pity, really; it is quite fascinating that she managed to survive an infected bite.”

 You shudder, every hair standing on edge. You’re almost certain he doesn’t mean Sevika’s recent bite, yet the tone in which he says it irks you. No wonder Sevika didn’t want to see this guy…

“Welp, I’ll leave you two alone. I’m sure you’ll get along swimmingly. Any questions or concerns, come see me!” Vander promptly says, spinning around and speedwalking away. Clearly just as uncomfortable as you are. Great.

“Should we get to work?” Singed asks, picking up his basket full of herbs and flowers.

“Lead the way,” you reply, biting down your trepidation. The last thing you need is to get on his bad side on the first day.

Singed’s lab is filled full of a daunting amount of chemicals, explosives, poisons and mystery liquids. There’s an old doctor’s chair in the centre of the room, a cluttered desk off to the side, and a giant fish tank that has been drained and refitted as a mice enclosure. It’s stuffed full of tubes, bedding, and enrichment food bowls. It is the main source of entertainment for Singed’s cat, Maud, who sits on a nearby chair staring at it intently. Singed hands you some safety gear (a lab coat, gloves, goggles, the works), gestures to the infected corpse on the table, and the two of you get to work. He doesn’t seem to care that you have very little training in this subject, only that you are willing to learn. You spend entirely too much time fretting over what to do right that you continuously make mistakes due to your overthinking. Your first being mixing a potion too long because you didn’t trust your own counting speed, and having it blow up in your face. Luckily, you were unharmed, only soot-covered.

Singed seems far more knowledgeable than anyone you have met on the infected, having the stages of shimmer committed to memory. When you explain the newest one you found, he is momentarily phased before frantically writing it down in his notebook. Then, he proceeds to interrogate you for the rest of the hour for all the information you can recall. He seems especially interested in their increased health and the “mother’s” continued care, despite her corrupted form, for the young girl you found. You aren’t entirely sure that his curiosity is harmless, and make a mental note to warn Jinx away from Singed for the next little while. You make a secondary mental note to keep an eye on the little girl, to make sure Singed doesn’t catch her alone to pester her with questions.

Contradictory to your original assumptions, getting on Singed’s bad side is an incredibly hard task, because you spend the rest of the day making a complete fool of yourself. You mix things together that you shouldn’t, spill various bottles that definitely shouldn’t be spilt, and nearly kill Singed’s pet cat by starting an accidental fire on the chair she was sleeping on. All while Singed laughs and dismisses any mistake. He spends the majority of the day asking you questions about the infected, dissecting various parts brought to him, and making you fix your own mistakes. By lunch, you have learnt not only how to clean up your own messes, but how to avoid making them in the first place. He takes you out to the local sandwich shop in town to congratulate you. The two of you sit on a park bench in his flower garden to eat.

“You are doing better than my last assistant,” Singed comments through a mouthful.

“Oh, thank you. I was kinda worried you thought I was a complete fuck-up by this point,” you chuckle nervously, stuffing your face with another bite of sandwich.

“Do not get me wrong; you are quite spectacularly awful at this job. However, you improve with each mistake. In a way, you are learning science the way of the scientist – through trial and error. My last assistant was bit by an infected on his first day.”

“So, I’m just better than a guy who got himself killed?”

“Correct.”

“Okay… that makes me feel less comforted.”

“Do not beat yourself up – I said you were learning. That is the most important. Perhaps try trusting me next; my instructions will help you to ‘fuck-up’ less.” Singed makes air quotes around the swear, his half-eaten sandwich still in hand.

“I will endeavour to do so,” you say, wanting to sound smarter than you’ve shown yourself to be over the last few hours.

“Very good,” Singed nods, and the conversation falls silent once more.

The second half of the day is spent tending to various injuries, maladies and illnesses in the clinic. It seemed like practically everyone in town was accident-prone! Patient after patient came and went from the clinic, practically turning the door into a revolving door, as you become increasingly concerned that no one here had any sense of self-preservation. Several Fireflies came in with various broken bones – one with a nail through their hand – all wearing patched-together construction crew gear. Mel, a woman you had previously yet to meet, arrived in a frazzled state, dragging a stumbling Viktor behind her. Who apparently had only fallen asleep at his desk from exhaustion, but due to his chronic illness, Mel had feared he was dead. Singed merely sighed and set the pair home with strict orders for Viktor to rest. The most ironic case was Salo, who had a bad bought of food poisoning and arrived with Grayson’s help (she looked thoroughly unimpressed at the whole affair). After some interrogative bedside conversation while treating Salo, you made a mental note to avoid drinking the cider for a little while.

You learned more about treating the sick that afternoon than you had your whole life… or, at least, you learnt more about how Singed treats the sick.

At the end of the day, Singed clapped his hands together, sent the last patient home, and ushered you out with them (after returning your lab equipment). In the doorway, he thrust a wad of cash into your hands.

“Here is your pay for today. I expect you back tomorrow at seven o’clock sharp – not a moment later! Now, shoo!” Singed orders you, waving his hands to usher you out the door.

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” you laugh, stepping into the sunlight and heading down the garden path. You get a few steps away, before turning around and calling out: “Thank you for teaching me today!”

Singed, who had been standing in the doorway, watching you leave, merely nods his head and says: “You were a very agreeable student.” Then, he turns around and walks back inside.

You head down the trail and toward the grocer, intent on picking up something to serve to Sevika. Knowing her, she probably hadn’t moved off the couch all day and was starving by now. Not exactly ideal for the healing process.

The grocery store has fresh hamburger patties and buns today, so you purchase four of each, feeling extra hungry. You grab a jar of pickles, a fresh tomato, some lettuce and horseradish sauce, content with following your stomach around the store. There are quite a few more people in here today, but thanks to your recent acquaintanceship with nearby half the town during clinic hours, you feel more comfortable being here. You are meant to be here.

You find Sevika exactly where you left her, yet find yourself stunned in the doorway. Having expected her to be napping, you are entirely caught off-guard to find her with a crochet hook and yarn in her hands! Immediately, your brain clicks as to where all of the crocheted blankets came from. You had never expected Sevika to be the source, given that she is missing one hand, and crocheting is traditionally a two-handed activity. Sitting next to her is a small contraption, doing the job of holding the yarn steady that her missing hand would have done. From the stack of granny squares on her lap, she has been at this for quite a while today.

You cough to catch her attention and she jumps, face flushed red as she scrambles to hide her hobby. She avoids your gaze, electing to stare at the floor instead. “You… hungry? I bought some burgers on the way home.”

“Shit, is it that late already –“ you nod – “Yeah, yeah, I could eat. Finished the scrambled eggs a while ago, actually. They were good.”

“Good to hear, you need to eat to heal,” you hum, picking up one of her granny squares and humming in approval. Purely for her benefit – you wanted to assure her that this wasn’t something you were about to judge her on. “These are impressively good, by the way.”

“Thanks,” she says awkwardly, ducking her head away from the praise.

“I like the colours,” you continue. The squares are made up of orange, yellow, brown and red yarn, which blend together in a flower-like design that resembles a cunt if you stare at it for too long. You stifle a snicker, not wanting to offend Sevika accidentally when you’re only laughing at the (possibly intentional) dirty design. “The autumn tones really complement each other. Reminds me of leaf piles just before winter, when they were crispest.”

“Thanks,” Sevika says again, more mumbling it into the granny square she’s working on than anything. Luckily for her, your stomach growls. She chuckles and pokes your gut: “You should get cookin’, before we die of starvation.”

“Alright, alright – I really do think they’re pretty,” you say one final time before disappearing into the kitchen.

 Burgers are easy enough to make – Sevika has a small grill on the deck, which you utilize to cook them to perfection and toast the buns. Then you cut up the tomato, grab a few condiments from the ice box, and lay out everything outside. It’s far more difficult to disentangle Sevika from her yarn and get her outside. Eventually, the two of you manage it, and you get some fresh air into Sevika’s lungs.

In the middle of dinner, Sevika slides the envelope from Vander across to you. “Here, use this the next time you’re buying groceries.”

“Sevika, I can’t; this is –“

“My money to give away. You’re damn good at cooking, and I ain’t doing much of anything right now. At least let me help in the ways that I can, or I’m gonna go stir crazy sittin’ in this house for three weeks. Maybe buy me some yarn when you’re out, too.”

You chew your lip, debating if it is worth it to continue to fight her on this. With a heavy sigh, you relent, realizing that arguing will get you nowhere right now. “Okay, alright. But I’m only buying groceries and yarn. Everything else, I can use my own money for.”

“Deal,” Sevika grunts, stuffing another bite of her hamburger in her mouth and practically moaning. “So fucking worth it.”

~~~///~~~

Routine overtakes you before you even see it coming; it takes three weeks for Sevika’s leg to heal, during which you find yourself growing closer with Zaun’s community. In the mornings, you get up, make breakfast for you and Sevika (usually yogurt, eggs and toast), fluff her pillows on the couch, and tell her not to die while you’re gone. Then, you head over to Singed’s on the edge of town, descending into the basement as you button up your lab coat. He’s always happy to see you – in that unhinged, manic sort of way that leads you into a day’s work of experiments, questions and procedures. He has you do the medical checks for the clinic, assisting when needed but trusting you won’t kill anyone. After the day’s over, he pays you – a nice change from having to wait two weeks to a month back in the old world. Having your pay early was a welcome change, as after work you’d run errands – mostly groceries as Sevika didn’t have a working fridge to keep meat inside of. You became great friends with Salo, as he was usually at the grocery store inspecting the aisles at the same time you were shopping. He gave you the downlow on all the meats – which came in today, which had been frozen, and which would pair best with what alcohol. He was very rarely wrong.

For the first week, you squirrelled your pay away until you could afford a dining table from Grayson. She tried to give you a discount for all your hard work, but you had been so triumphant from finally earning enough for a table that you’d outright refused her. She threw in four chairs, free of charge, and argued you down to inviting her over for dinner one night. You decided that was acceptable (and you’re glad you did, as Jinx and Isha – the young girl you saved – started coming over for dinner practically every night thereafter).

Once you run all your errands, you head home to cook dinner. Sevika was always on the couch, snoring away with her hand folded over her stomach. You would sneak past her – some days she woke up and some days she kept snoring – into the kitchen to cook dinner. By the time it was almost done, Sevika would be up, leaning against the doorframe or sitting on the counter, stomach growling as she watched you work. You would give her any scraps that couldn’t fit in the pan to tide her over. Usually, half a carrot or a few pieces of spinach. By this time, Jinx and Isha would barge into the house, bringing honey from Sevika’s bees, as they had been looking after them for her. Sevika pretended to be annoyed, but you caught her smiling every time Isha gave her a new drawing or Jinx said that Isha picked the flavour of honey for today. Honey was typically saved for after-dinner tea, paired with whatever baked goods you had tried to make that weekend, as you had all your weekends off. Each night, the three of them claimed you outdid yourself with dinner – you weren’t so sure, but you enjoyed the praise nonetheless. You made everything from ribs to chicken to soup, and some days, you were super lazy and just made breakfast or beans, rice and leftovers.

Once dinner was finished, Isha and Sevika would retire to the living room to “play” (Isha usually drew on the floor while Sevika tried to guess what she was drawing), while you and Jinx did the dishes. You had tried to insist that Jinx didn’t have to as she was a guest, but she had argued that since she was eating your food every night, this was the least she could do in return.

Weekends were spent relaxing, with Sevika trying your baked goods and the two of you lounging high and happy on her couches. However, the best part of Sevika’s three-week-long sabbatical is that she has all but insisted you come to bed with her every night. Your bed sits untouched in your room as you curl up at Sevika’s side once the moon looms over your head. The loft is far warmer than the rest of the house, though that could just be Sevika’s body heat leeching into your bones. Your heart hammers each time you lay down with her, curled up protectively in her arms. She is usually awake before you each morning, playing with your hair until you rouse with her.

Until one morning, you’re changing Sevika’s bandages and find only small, white scars.

[giulolosblackmail]

Why did you pick these characters? Good question! there's only 12 slots and these are the 12 male characters canonically in love with magda that i most think would do estrogen of their own volition without any prompting or signs that it would change their relationship with magda in any way shape or form, randall has been left out because i believe he would unironically do estrogen for market research and conclude six years in that he is in fact a cis man and continue doing estrogen anyways

[stil-lindigo]

lead balloon (the tumblr post that saved me)

if this comic resonated with you, it would mean the world to me if you donated to this palestinian family's escape fund.

--

no creative notes because this isn't that kind of comic.

I know I don’t owe any of you anything but I still felt compelled to write about my long term absence. And I feel far enough away from the dangerous spot I was in to be able to make this comic. I have a therapist now, and she agreed that making this could be a very cathartic gesture, and the start of properly leaving these thoughts behind me. I am still, at seemingly random times, blindsided by fleeting desires to kill myself. They’re always passing urges, but it’s disarming, and uncomfortable. I worry sometimes that my brain’s spent so long thinking only about suicide that it’s forgotten how to think about anything else. Like, now that I've opened that door for myself, I'll never be able to fully shut it again. But I’m trying my best to encourage my mind in other directions. We'll see how that goes.

I am still donating all proceeds from my store to Palestinian causes. So far, I've donated over $15K, not including donations coming from my own pocket or the fundraising streams which jointly raised around $10K. In the time since I made my initial post about where this money would be going, the focus has shifted from aid organisations to directly donating to escape funds.

If you'd like to do the same, you can look at Operation Olive Branch, which hosts hundreds of Palestinian escape funds or donate to Safebow, which has helped facilitate the safe crossing and securing of important medical procedures for over 150 at-risk palestinians since the beginning of the genocide.

[julijbee]

girlbossing too close to the sun.

[licorice-allsort]

It's so wild anytime people say that Alhaitham is a quiet person because while he may enjoy silence, he also spends 90% of the time he is on screen infodumping at us. This man will not shut up.

[bookmark-extraordinaire]

Take a shot every time an AI bro equates taking inspiration from an artist to whatever the fuck AI does

[basalting]

something about bruce talking about jason more when he was dead than when he came back...

talking about jason because he doesnt want him to be forgotten vs never speaking about jason because he cant stop thinking about how he failed jason

[stinkrascal]

to the people who make “””tutorials””” but then leave out huge chunks of info bc they assume the reader knows it i hope you get your ass beat

[ioannemos]

i watch this true crime video series where the presenter low-key makes fun of religion and it's a parasocial relationship so i'm not gonna comment on the video asking my gotcha questions but like. idk i guess my thought process boils down to the farquaad meme with ATHEIST on it. buddy you believe in NOTHING. that's not better. stfu

[thinenotthee]

i can't even be mad about people not listening to kogami where makishima is concerned, every time he says something about him he sounds like a conspiracy theorist skjhasksakjsahk

[manyrandomfandoms]

I must speak my truth on this here John Deacon birthday and I just want to say it is DEACY. WITH A C. NOT DEAKY WITH A K. His last name is Deacon not Deakon. Who even started spelling it Deaky in the first place, I just wanna talk

[thegingergal]

listening to the commentaries for HBO ROME and god!! my kingdom for the shooting scripts.

[ponytailzuko]

sentis but they're affected by/feel others emotions due to the nature of being created by the miraculous of emotion. one day at lunch, nino's kind of upset and adrien just drops the line, "nino, your aura is really weird today." nino thinks he must be making a joke to cheer him up, but adrien looks dead serious - concerned, even. nino says, "dude, i didn't know you were into auras and astrology and stuff." to which adrien replies that 'astrology isn't scientifically proven but he thinks its fun.' nino asks, "but auras are scientifically proven?" adrien insists, "i can literally see your aura right now!" after a couple of days of this, adrien starts to sound more convincing to nino so they both just believe its 100 percent real and don't realize its a senti thing until like 10 years after the reveal.

"sentihumans are just like regular humans but made from magic!" is literally so boring to me. if youre gonna make sentis then have fun with it. i think adrien played a wax statue so well because he doesn't actually need to breathe and he only remembers to when people remind him about it.

[tecchan]

Fucking duh

There's 6 of you!! Grow some fucking balls you goddamn pussies ajozfiezfiue

[adelheidvonschicksal]

The Love and Deepspace Boys Trying to Get You to Sleep ⋆｡°✩

Tags: Fluff, teasing, needy boys, mild sexual content, gender neutral reader (I had to re-write so please let me know if I messed up.)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Xavier is surprisingly softer than you expected when you first met him on your mission together. He’s an incredibly powerful hunter but possesses a quiet and gentle, almost oblivious, aura when navigating everyday life, like a ghost floating through the space he takes up. It should also be understood that this very nature of his makes him affectionate, so much so, that he won’t unwrap his arms around your waist and stop pressing his head to your shoulder as you sit at the kitchen bar, typing on your laptop.

“Are you planning on staying up later than the stars?” he mumbles.

There’s a gentle yawn against your skin from the sluggish man, highlighting just how long he’s been trying to coax you into going to bed.

“I wanted to finish this report for work.”

“The report will be there tomorrow,” he says. You swat away his hand that reaches for the power button on the laptop causing him to pout. He grumbles. “You should go to bed. Otherwise, I can’t sleep.”

Smiling to yourself, you decide to tease him. “Oh, so you’re really trying to get me to go to bed for your own benefit?”

“Well, you can’t very well expect me to do it by myself anymore.” Xavier nuzzles his head into the slope of your neck, cuddling you. “It’s your responsibility since you ruined my sleeping habits.”

“Ruined?”

“Ramshackled,” he repeats quietly, causing you to giggle. With an airy sigh, he presses his weight into you more. “How do you expect me to sleep when I can’t hold you?”

Defeated, you save your work and close the laptop. You swivel in your chair, enough to meet his eye, and cup a hand to his cheek. It never stops being endearing to you how he cutely closes his eyes and angles his head to snuggle your palm.

“Alright, alright, you don’t have to beg.”

His eyes flutter open, and the smile on his face grows as he wraps his fingers around yours. Carefully, he pulls on your hand to bring it up enough to begin to lace your wrist with affectionate kisses, tracing your pulse.

“I thought you enjoyed my begging.”

“That’s different.”

“It isn’t,” Xavier mutters into your skin, pressing another light kiss.

“It is.”

“So, you're resolute about that position?” he questions “innocently”. There’s something mischievous about the glint in those arctic eyes, which makes your face warm. You find yourself breaking eye contact, or else you’d lose it.

“Yes.”

Xavier chuckles then begins to lead his kisses down your arm. “In that case, care to explain the difference in detail, love?”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

“Sleep.”

“But—”

“Sleep.”

Zayne narrows his eyes at you from his side of the bed. You can’t blame him for being a little annoyed right now but the movie you put on to fall asleep was much better than you expected; and instead of falling asleep, you were more awake than ever at a very late one in the morning.

“I’m almost done with the movie,” you tell him, hoping he’ll cut you a little slack this one time.

“Everyone dies at the end of their own stupidity,” he bluntly states and grabs the remote. The television turns off with an overly loud click, and you pout. “Now, sleep.���

Crossing your arms over your chest, you huff. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m fine with that title if it gets you to rest,” he explains with a smooth yawn. “Poor sleep habits lead to bad decision-making later. You’re more likely to develop high blood pressure, and with your heart in particular—”

“I get it. I get it,” you say, wanting to be spared the lecture. Zayne is a good person and a better doctor, but you wish he didn’t worry about you so much just because you might have a little big heart problem. Sighing, you squiggle onto your back and pull the sheets up to your collar, kicking them a little childishly in the process (totally not to let him know that you were not pleased with his spoiling). “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“Very.”

Zayne turns over onto his side, away from you, and you frown at the loneliness. Softly, you poke him in the back, once, then twice then a third time before you finally get a hum in response.

“Am I really not getting a good night kiss?”

“Do you need one to sleep?” he asks, his voice deeper from the lack of sleep, urging you to convince him to kiss you even more.

“Duh,” you explain. Slowly, he turns back over to look at you, propping himself up on one arm with a look that says “Is that so” as you continue to ramble. It makes you a little flustered when he watches you so intently. He’s always had this silent dominance that makes you obedient, but you could get what you want from him just as easily with the exact opposite strategy. Cutely, you puff your bottom lip out at him. “There has to be some health benefit to it. Kissing makes people all happy. Happy is good, right?”

It takes a second for him to take in what you say, those smokey eyes closing in on you with thought before he climbs over you. He places both hands at your sides and quickly boxes in your upper thighs with his knees.

“You’re thinking of dopamine,” he says.

“Huh?”

“That makes you “all happy”,” he explains and presses a deep kiss to your lips, leaving you thoughtless and breathless all at once. He moves to your jaw, and you begin to squirm from the pressure of his impassioned lips.

“And Serotonin.”

Another kiss, lower.

“Oxytocin.”

He’s at your shoulder when he starts to nip your skin, and one of his hands moves to ski up the back of your thigh.

“Reduced cortisol.”

Flustered, you grip his arms.

“Zayne, stop, it tickles,” you whine, but it’s the last thing you actually want as he readjusts his position and hovers above you.

His usually neat hair is messier and his breathing a little heavier judging by how his chest laboriously rises and falls. Groaning, you bite your bottom lip as he knowingly leans in and whispers,

“You need it to help you sleep, isn’t that what you said?”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

“Why don’t you just say you don’t love me anymore?”

You look up from your phone screen at the sudden accusation. You’re resting on the couch, your back propped up by the armrest and legs splayed out on the other cushion while Rafayel looks down at you with crossed arms and a less-than-pleased scowl on his face. You’re entirely confused as to what you could’ve done to make him think something like that.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been playing video games for what—the last two hours?” he says, uncrossing his arms to grab your phone. It’s too late to warn him as he glances at the screen, clicking a few times. “What are you playing anyway? An…otome? Sheesh, go ahead and say you want me gone. Come on, tell me you actually hate me.”

Holding in your smile, you shake your head and affectionately roll your eyes. It takes an enormous amount of effort to not laugh as he continues to rant. “So, it’s one of those things. I thought I was actually in trouble.”

And by those things, you mean his dramatics.

“Hush, my complaints are perfectly legitimate,” he demands as he pushes your legs aside and sits on the couch. Leaning over, he flashes the screen at you to show the evidence he has that you’re completely unfair, unfaithful, and downright mean. “What’s this game giving you that I’m not? Are my dashing good looks and even better personality not enough? Is that it?”

Gently, you take the phone from his hand and set it down on the end table. “You’re plenty, perfect even.”

He scoffs and refuses to look at you. “Apparently not. Don’t you ever think about anyone else? What if I want to cuddle with you one day but you’re too busy to notice because you’re playing silly games?”

Ah, there it is. His real want. You never know why he can never just come out and say it.

“Rafayel, do you want me to come to bed and cuddle with you?”

“Want is a strong word,” he remarks but you can see his resolve (can you call it that when he planned to give in all along?) crumbling as he slowly turns back to meet your gaze, “but I wouldn’t be opposed to it. Not that you deserve it or care.”

Humming, you sit up, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and pull him down onto you. Lovingly, you snuggle him, stopping to only take in how red his neck and ears start to get when you squeeze him and start to stroke through his hair. You’re not sure if Lumerians can blow happy bubbles like he claims, but he definitely hums and relaxes his entire body weight to lay on top of you like he wants to sink into your skin.

Teasingly, you coo at him. “You’re so needy.”

“I’d rather say you humans aren’t needy enough,” he fires back as he wraps an arm around your waist and kisses the corner of your lips. “Ah, the sweet taste of victory.”

Giving out a gentle and short laugh, you lightly tap his back. “Go to sleep.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

[shotmrmiller]

pornstar au

f!reader x simon 'ghost' riley

3.7k words (sorry)

tw: teacher-student relationship but it's just a scene for porn. explicit. horrifyingly so.

You burst into the classroom and stride purposefully towards your professor, who is seated in his leather chair, engrossed in his work. Impatiently tapping your foot, you waited for him to finish marking essays. However, after 5 minutes, your patience with this unbearable man ran out.

"Professor."

He hums, a deep sound coming from the back of his throat yet doesn't look up from what he's doing. A real piece of work, he is. How fucking aggravating.

"Professor Riley," your voice takes an irreverent tone.

The hand that had been writing non-stop comes to a sudden pause, and he finally directs his attention to you. Meeting your gaze, his dark eyes are hooded, his lips set in a firm line. His job is to literally deal with students, yet he dares to look annoyed.

"Are you gonna tell me what's wrong 'r am I gonna have to learn how to read minds?" he states.

Taking in a calming breath, you clench the crumpled essay in your hand. "Can you explain to me why you failed me on this? I did exactly as you asked!"

He must know precisely what you're talking about because he simply turns back to the papers on his desk.

"Tha's your problem. You did exactly as I asked, with no thought behind it. Just wrote the bare minimum, if you can even call it writin'. It's copy-paste," Professor Riley sets the pen down and leans back in the chair.

"I need ya to use tha' head o' yours when in this class. Otherwise, you'll fail the rest o' your classes too."

Fucking hell.

Professor Riley shifts in his seat, seemingly done with the conversation, and finishes, "If tha's all."

Shit. Your pause is too long, and the director calls it. Fuck.

"I'm really sorry, Ghost, I didn't mean-" Your words of apology dissolve into thin air as his strong hand finds its place on your hip— giving it a gentle, but firm squeeze.

"S'all righ', love. Mistakes happen. Matter fact," his eyes drift from you to behind you to beckon someone with two fingers. "C'mere, you."

It's the set assistant, and he's brought the script with him. Ghost swiftly stops him from handing it to you, instead pushing it onto the assistant's chest. "Won't be needin' tha', thanks. Tell the director tha' we'll be ad-libin'. Now sod off."

The assistant follows his command in haste, scurrying off to follow Ghost's instructions.

"Hey," he murmurs. Your eyes meet his, feeling the intensity of it quickens your heartbeat. "Say whatever you like, just remember to follow the storyline, alright?"

Follow the storyline. In porn. The irony isn't lost on you, but you bite the side of your gummy cheek to keep from laughing. "Yes, sir."

He drops his hand from where he held you slowly, seemingly almost reluctant to let go. "Ready?" Ghost's thin lips curl into a smirk when you nod at his question. "Good girl."

Your fingers tightly grip the flimsy material of your uniform skirt at his praise, and warmth pools in your lower belly.

His good girl.

A high-pitched voice cuts through your thoughts, signaling the restart of the shooting. You exhale a long breath, unclenching your hands in the process.

Action.

"If tha' all." Ghost reaches for his pen when you frantically grab onto his Oxford sleeve.

"Wait, Professor, please! I can't," you stammer, "I cannot fail this class! My parents would kill me if I studied abroad only to flunk. The tuition—"

His tone is authoritative as he abruptly cuts off your lengthy excuse. "Enough. Nothing can change the mark I've given you."

Your ears pricked up at his wording, and the corners of your lips pulled up into a roguish smile. "No?" Ghost stills before turning to face you, countenance blank. "Nothing at all, Professor?" With a coy tilt of your head, your wide, doe-like eyes meet his as your fingertips trace an alluring path from his forearm down to his knuckles.

"I really can't convince you in any way to change that grade for me?" You lean on the edge of his wooden desk— skirt so short it doesn't even graze the surface of it— and lightly curl your hand around his pointer finger. "It can be our little secret, Professor Riley," you purr.

Ghost lifts a single brow, and settles back into his seat, arms crossed over his barrel chest as his eyes travel from your feet to your exposed cleavage, fixating on the soft skin peeking out from your uniform top.

"Please?" his hushed voice reverberates inside your skull. "I promise to be a good girl."

That catches his attention, eyes flashing to yours, the fire behind them hot— you hope it burns you.

"'Sat, right? Tha' changes things now, doesn't it?" Ghost rolls his chair back, away from his desk, and spreads his thick legs apart in invitation, arms resting on the rests— the dictionary definition of casual. "Convince me then, pet."

"Yes, sir." Sauntering to stand in between his legs, you swallow thickly— the bulge in his groin was quite frankly, intimidating. You've had large, but this was in a league of its own.

"You gonna do it from up there? I know I'm bigger than average but not tha' big." A huff escapes from your lips. A whole comedian.

Knees pressed into the cold, tile floor, you expertly undo the button of his trousers and with his help, pulled them down along with his pants— just enough for his cock to spring free.

Bloody fucking hell.

His cock is monstrous. It rested against his belly, heavy and thick. The pink tip slightly peeking from under his foreskin. There was a groomed thatch of coarse hair at the base, and his balls were also heavy— one hanging lower than the other.

Ghost leans forward and cradles the underside of your jaw with one large hand, fingers gently caressing the delicate skin of your cheek, while the other pumps his rigid cock in anticipation. "Not scared, are ya?" His grin was wicked. "I promise it don't bite."

Grabbing his wrist, you maneuver his hand so that his thumb now rests on your soft lips. "Might not, but I do, Professor." And catch the tip of his finger between your blunt teeth, the subtle sting of it making him hiss.

"Perfect, pretty girl," he says, almost inaudible. His words of praise are for you alone— not for the scene, nor the camera. You peer up at him through your lashes, mewling softly at the expression on his face.

His brow was set, hooded eyes sultry, a rosy hue across his cheeks and nose, and lips parted as he panted quietly.

Delicious.

Ghost then pushes his thumb further into your slick mouth and hooks it behind your bottom teeth, delicately pulling you closer to him as he tips his head down— taking his thumb out with a pop. His warm breath fans across your face as he moves closer until his lips connect with yours. He slid his tongue into your mouth, tasting of frosty mint and his own unique taste.

Your hands come up, fingers digging into the meat of his thighs when he grasps your wrist and moves it to the focal point of his desire— his breath hitching when you give his cock a firm squeeze. Ghost bites your bottom lip before breaking away, a guttural noise escaping him when you begin to stroke him. "Tighten your hand around—" he breaks off, moaning against your kiss-swollen lips when you comply.

He threads his fingers through your hair that sits at the base of your skull, curling them into a fist and tugging back— craning your neck, hair pulled taut.

"So obedient. Jus' f'me, love?" you hum cheekily, a mischievous grin spreading across your face.

"Would you hold it against me if I said no?" he chuckles under his breath, the grip on your hair tightening marginally.

"I'd say tha' you're lyin'." He sucks in a breath when you press down lightly onto his slit with your thumb. "Cheeky."

He loosens the hold he has on you, feeling your scalp prickle with tender relief, and relaxes back into the chair. "All yours, sweetheart."

That light wasn't getting any greener, so with a grunt, you shifted your weight, ignoring your aching knees, and wrapped your lips around his cock.

Barely.

The salty bite of his arousal and musk spread on your tongue as you took him in deep, stilling once he hit the back of your throat.

"Fuck, look at me."

Slightly tipping your head back, you do as he says, your throat closing around him as he slips in even further.

"Fuckfuckfuck," a hiss, "such a hot little mouth, just swallowin' me righ' up." Your lungs burn with the lack of oxygen, forcing you to pull back to gasp for air. Ghost squeezes himself at the base and taps your cheek with his saliva-coated length.

"A dirty slag like you, jus' takin' me like a professional. Tha' what you are? A professional cock sucker, love?" he taunts. Your pussy clenches when he calls you a slag, pressing your thighs together in the hope of some friction; Something to alleviate the throbbing ache in between your legs.

Ghost with eyes as keen as ever, notices. Damn.

"Oh? Little harlot likes to get degraded, does she? Reminded of her place? How I'd love to teach you exactly where you belong, but tha' wouldn't be you convincin' me to change your bad grade, now would it?"

His cock taps on your swollen lips. "Another time, hm? Now open. Make me see reason."

Ghost's wish is your command. With enthusiasm, you take him in your mouth, slowly bobbing your head, place a hand right under your lips, and twist with every push and pull.

It's sloppy, spit covering your hand, dripping down to his balls. Your jaw aches, a burning pressure a little under your ear, but what gives you the strength to continue is the loud moans coming from Ghost. He holds nothing back, his hand engulfing the crown of your head while he gently pushes you down. A performer down to his very bones.

You were about to pause the recording, the pain in your mandible and knees almost becoming too much when he suddenly pulled you off of him.

"Wha—?" Ghost seizes you by the upper arms, forcibly bringing you to your feet, disregarding your pained whimper, and places you on the sturdy desk.

He's curling his fingers into the waistband of your frilly knickers, slipping them down your legs and pocketing them. There's a quiet popping sound when he bends his knees, going eye level with your bare cunt.

In a hushed tone, you say, "This isn't part of the scene." Ghost drags his eyes from your glistening slit to your face, gaze suffocating, smothering the very air in your lungs.

"Just a taste, love." He curls one hand under your thigh, lifting it to perch it on the edge of the desk, the other he throws over his strong shoulder. The only sound in the room is your soft moans as he expertly slides his warm tongue through your slick folds, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

By god does he eat pussy like it's his job. Peering down at him, you can't stop the sounds that spill from your mouth when his tongue visibly splits your pussy lips open, flicking at your clit, lapping up your arousal like it is honey. You take hold of his short hair, tugging at the strands as each swirl of his talented tongue pushes you closer to your peak.

His eyes cut to yours when he presses a thick finger into you, drinking in your desperate expression as you keen, begging for more, blabbering about it being so good, yet not enough, please god more.

Ghost curls his finger, only taking a second to find your sweet spot, and pushes— bursts of light flashing in your peripheral vision. You begin to rock your hips unconsciously, chasing your ecstasy, and Ghost simply flattens his tongue, letting you grind against it.

You teeter on the edge of bliss, a tightening in your stomach, right under where his finger is. Shaky exhales leave you, the leg that's on the desk visibly trembling from the tension that threatens to snap you in half.

He presses a kiss to your sodden pussy, and croons, "Gonna come f'me?" You jerkily nod.

"Yes fuck yes, I'm gonna come for you, just for you, Professor Riley pleaseee—" your blathering turns into a high-pitched squeal as he lightly sucks on your pearl, hips lifting off the desk as a blinding orgasm crashes into you, pleasure bursting through your very core, cunt pulsating with every wave of ecstasy around Ghost's finger.

He wastes no time in rising to his feet and slotting his mouth over yours, the taste of your slick strong, potent on his tongue. Ghost breaks away, his breath smelling of your desire. "Exquisite, like ambrosia. Addicting."

Ghost's hand cups your sensitive quim and whispers, "Think you can take me? Tha' orgasm took a lot outta ya."

Silly question. "I'm a big girl, Ghost. I can take it."

He licks the front of his teeth and glances down to where his hand rests. "Course you can, love. Turn around f'me."

Your movements are sluggish as you turn over onto your stomach, rising to the tip of your toes as you present yourself to him.

Ghost grabs the sides of your waist, and flips your skirt up, tucking the edge into the waistband of it. His hands palm your cheeks, thumbs digging into the meat of your ass to spread you open, completely exposed to him.

"Fuck me if tha' isn't the prettiest sight I've ever had the pleasure of seein'." He doesn't acknowledge your scoff as he spreads your hands out, placing them flat on the table— enveloping your hand with his own, intertwining his fingers with yours.

His leans over your semi-prone body, cock gently prodding at your entrance, gliding easily through your folds. "Ready?"

Arching your back, his tip slips inside, just barely. That's your answer.

You can hear the smarmy grin that spreads on his face, and wanted to snark back but you're rendered mute when he pushes in. Your eyes cross at the stretch of his cock, a feeling so sublime you know that no one will ever be able to duplicate. Your fingers tighten around his as you mewl when he bottoms out, hips flush against your arse.

Ghost sucks in a breath through his teeth when you shift your weight, and whatever you did has him sliding in deeper— turning his hiss into a guttural groan. "Fuck, you have no fuckin' idea how good you feel."

Probably not, but you have every idea how good he feels.

"You okay, love? Took me so well like you were made jus' f'me. So warm and soft, tight like a vice around my cock. Pretty pussy split wide open, stuffed full of me." He speaks unfettered filth to you, dripping over your ears like molasses, thick and syrupy. Your head feels heavy on your shoulders— dizzy, drunk on his scent, his cock that's got you tearing at the seams.

Then he begins to move, pulling out until an inch remains inside, and pushing in until he's nudging the plug of your womb, feeling a deep pinch under your navel.

This is what it's like to get fucked by Ghost. The one everyone covets after, hoping he drags down the very heavens with his bare hands and lays it at their feet. And here he is, fucking you. A newbie, a fresh face no one knows yet, a name that'll probably never grace the front page.

You doubt his motives are altruistic, but goddamn does it not matter; Not with the way he's carving a space inside of you that only he will ever fit in, or the way he's curling his free hand around your neck, thumb pressed right over your racing pulse.

He lowers himself until his strong chest is to your back, his teeth nipping the tip of your ear. "The moment I saw you gettin' fucked by Johnny, I knew I had t'have ya." Your walls clamp down on him involuntarily, wrenching a pained noise from him. "Fuckin' hell, I knew this pussy would be magical."

Ghost's lips skim over the shell of your ear before pressing a chaste kiss on it. "Lemme hear how good I make ya feel, pet. Don't hold back on me now." He grinds into your arse, going in so deep that it feels like he's trying to push past the entrance of your womb. "S'alrigh'. I'll jus' have t'pull 'em outta ya."

He releases you, placing both hands flat on the desk, on either side of your shoulders. "Take em for myself, make 'em mine." Straightening all the way, he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of your waist.

"What a view. Perfection." He rolls his hips, rhythm languid, loud squelching noises coming from where he fills you. "Drippin' cream all over my cock, pet. Can't tell me this isn't 'cause of me."

How the fuck can he still talk? How is he coherent? Why isn't his brain turned into mush like yours is?

"Fuckin' ya speechless, am I? Oh, sweetheart, but I'm barely gettin' started." Ghost slowly pulls out, and curls his hand around your shoulder, nudging you to turn over. "On your back, now."

You lazily flip over, hair sticking to your sweat-slick skin, and he hooks his arms underneath your legs and drags you to the edge until your arse hangs from it. "I wanna see that pretty face when you come." He wastes no time in sheathing himself back inside your swollen channel, walls fluttering at the invasion.

Ghost hooks one leg over his shoulder to lean forward, pinning you to the desk with his upper body, and maneuvers your other to wrap around his wide waist. "That cock drunk look on your face makes my balls tighten, what a fuckin' expression you've got, christ," he growls. "Knowin' I put it there makes it all the better."

He gives you a chaste kiss on the lips and gives you a smile that is all teeth. "Now let's make you sing."

Grunting, he straightens. plants his feet firmly, stance wide, and begins to fuck you. The videos of the famed Ghost you saw are nothing, nothing, in comparison to real life. His full weight is behind every spine-jarring thrust, it makes your teeth clack, it rattles your brain inside your skull. He does it so perfectly because at no point do you feel any discomfort, not even a twinge. It's all a pleasure that blazes, an all-encompassing heat that threatens to swallow you whole, burn you from the inside out.

His cock punches the breath out of your lungs, wails clawing out of your throat, and it's so good, so fucking good— god, maybe he is god, you don't know, everything is so blurry, hazy—

All senses focus on the sudden touch between your legs, an expert thumb drawing tight circles on your slippery clit and there's no way you're going to survive this—

"There she is, the girl I saw in the video. Tha's an expression I see in myfuckin' sleep. Give me what's mine, pet. Let me feel you, cream all over my cock."

He's relentless in his pursuit of your climax, a wave of pleasure so intense, it just might drag you out to sea, drowning you.

Ghost, the fucking god of sex, stops his ministrations to spit on your pussy. Spit. From his full height, a glob of warm saliva drops to your mons, and he smears it with his fingers over your pussy lips before rubbing your clit. His thrusts slow in pace, turning into a firm snap of his hips, making sure you feel every ridge of his cock, and in less than a minute, your spine arches off the desk.

Your mouth opens into a silent scream, lids snapping shut as you break underneath him, warmth gushing from where he's continuously sinking into you, a steady, slow rhythm that never ends.

"Came all over me, didn't ya? Bet you didn't know you could even do tha'."

You didn't.

"Jus' for tha', I'm gonna give you somethin' in return, yeah? A little reward for bein' so good," he praises.

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, swollen and thick, and unconsciousness creeps at the very edges of your mind.

All you can do is lie there and take it, his sloppy thrusts, his harsh panting until he moans, "'m close, so fuckin' close," and with whatever remnants of strength you have left, you use to squeeze him tightly— unwilling to let go because his come is yours now, you've earned it.

"Come in me, Ghost," you whimper.

That does it. He slams his hands on either side of your head and borderline roars out his release, cock twitching inside of your used cunt, filling you with his spend.

Cut.

Ghost's breathing is labored, a harsh pant that fans over your overheated skin, damp with sweat.

His brows are furrowed, his eyes squeezed shut, gulping in air and shivering in the aftershock of his climax.

To be fucked by Ghost is to see the Garden of Eden behind your eyelids.

Now you understand. You understand why he has no equal. He is unparalleled.

Jesus Christ, you're fucked. So, so fucked.

He slowly opens his eyes and peers down at you with a wolfish grin.

"Perfection."

--

A week later, your video with Ghost is the most viewed on the entire website. Not one other video even scratches the bottom of where your video sits.

Ghost truly is the king.

Curiously enough, your friend is the one who lets you know that Mr. life-altering cock himself never kisses during work. Not once in any video of his has he ever kissed, apart from a short pressing of lips to skin.

Your heart traitorously flutters at the thought of it meaning something more. Catching feelings when you get fucked for a living is not the move. But there's no stopping it from misbehaving, especially when you receive another script, to make another video with Ghost.

Another. one.

Fuck. Fuck!!

You cannot wait.

@mishaglass