#temporary one-party rule

[honeqq]

Thinkin' about the mentality of Bill within the Mr Bill Pines au.

Bill wanted the universe to provide further distractions. A nonstop chaotic party central where he doesn't have to think about his obvious repressed genocide related trauma/regrets regarding the whole "oops I genocide my entire society" thing. For him to give that up, it makes me think he saw Ford as a fair trade off for it. Even if only temporary. Ford already makes him feel like he rules the universe so maybe the actual one could wait. Even if their relationship is seemingly all sweet n fluff, that's part of the issue. There probably wouldn't be proper communication. Just Bill dodging any attempts at serious discussion and still, even if he cares about Ford, treats him like a pet where he trades providing him with a happy, idealized and spoiled life for companionship.

GOSH- You explaining my bill so well , my bill flaw with his feeling is quite giving him big insecurity , he hate the feeling ford gave to him the first time they met it's sicken him how he found someone he can related too and be weak because of it. He even consider to stop meeting ford and just find other scientist but still attach to him later, he always trying to ignore his sin put it far back on his mind, And if ford ever found out about it what he did to his Dimension he just think he just need to erase the memory of it, he can't bare to lose another person he loved because of him, even he will not giving ford a chance to talk about it. And yeah He grow fond with other pines too! he feel he finally have family and home to came home too but slowly looking at ford aging make him having a second thoughts

[jymwahuwu]

Um…how about Sunday with virginity reader? 😌🫣💖

cw: yandere, manipulation, gaslighting, orgasm control, non-con, corruption kink, some inappropriate views on virginity

Sunday has been carefully protecting you… from the contamination of the mortal world. As an adult, you followed a friend's introduction and joined The Family. After several religious gatherings, including praising Aeon Xipe, singing songs, and confessing your hearts and past stories, Mr. Sunday noticed you. You are so…pure, innocent, and need to be protected.

He invites you to those parties and singing. No matter what your singing ability is, praise your sincere heart on Sunday. The Lord Xipe needs believers like you. He showed you how much he appreciated you…and you were so flattered. Sunday is the leader of Oak Family and attracts much attention. And you are just a little believer…how could he notice you?

He emphasized that the Family is such a selfless organization and there will be no difference in status. It's not hard to get your information. After spending some time together and drinking SoulGlad, you sheepishly admit that you have never had any sexual experience. Never…never. So you are still a virgin. His smile widened a little as he listened to your admission to him. He said that you need to keep your purity uncontaminated so that the notes you sing are free from noise. (Even though you've heard, The Family has no limits when it comes to sex…)

So, you cannot have any spouse. Nor can you surrender to filth just because of the pleasure of temporary joy. But of course, Sunday is the exception! He has the responsibility to supervise and protect you. That gloved touch on your private parts and. Your nipples and butt must be checked regularly. Lift up your clothes. Let his hands gently squeeze and rub your breasts. See, you're sensitive. If you reach orgasm so quickly, it means you are not resistant to sex and need more testing and training.

He ordered a chastity belt for you. do not worry. That was customized with technology. There is usually no pain or side effects unless you are so eager to be penetrated that it hurts. That will be your own problem. No insertion…at least not for the first few months. After you resist orgasm, Sunday will hug you and compliment you on how well you did. You maintain your virginity while training your ability to withstand adversity and temptation. Of course, if you convulse and moan during orgasm, there will be a round of punishment. This is the rule.

Also love drama - so think about how he would react if you lost your virginity and Sunday wasn't the one to take it. This message may be found in a broken virginity lock, or some sign. You start avoiding him and use the device to giggle and chat with others, or stay up all night. Once this happens, Sunday will stare at you for more than a few minutes. He's not going to be brutally violent or anything like that.

"Who is that?" Sunday asked calmly. And you answer a name in harmonious tones. He chewed the name calmly and repeatedly, like chewing up some bitter food. Sunday will express disappointment in your disobedience and resistance. Didn't he already emphasize that you can't look for any partner?

The Family has accepted you. Why would you want to find another place of hypocrisy? You will be locked up in a particularly luxurious room, and The Family will fulfill any reasonable request you want, but you will be forced to listen to music with Xipe's blessing for a long time in order to forget those unimportant people and things. If you behave yourself, you won't be on his knee that day receiving those daily slaps. And Sunday will keep penetrating you at least once a day. Since you totally don't care about his lead and are desperate for sex <3

[stayteezdreams]

The Holiday Party

Plot: During the company Holiday party, your boss decides to give you a present in private, finally addressing the tension between you.

Pairing: Boss!Lee Minho x Gn!Reader

A/n: No pronouns or gender specific body characteristics are used but the reader is gifted jewelry (I kept it vague as a "chain" so it could be a bracelet or necklace) which can often be seen by some as feminine, but it is not intended to be so.

Warnings: Kissing, touching, mature language. Nothing is fully smut or barely even nsfw, but it does have its 18+ moments.

Words: ~2.7k

Tension.

That was all you could call it.

Whatever this thing was between you and Lee Minho. It was tense, and it was palpable.

He had been transferred to your division at the beginning of the year to act as your temporary supervisor. But then he ended up being hired full-time.

Ever since your first meeting, there was something that sparked between you. You noticed it, and you could tell from the way his gaze scanned over you that he felt it too.

It was just a spark at first, but it grew, and at times became almost unbearable, but you bore it, because you had too.

When others were around, you were able to act normally. Talk normally, laugh, tell jokes and stories. But there were always the lingering stares, the subtle nudges as he walked past, the glares when another coworker flirted with you.

You couldn't help but wonder what would happen if you ever gave in. If you said yes to him when he offered you a ride home when you left work late, if you had agreed to go on the work trip with him instead of saying your coworker was more qualified.

You were running and both of you knew it. Because it was wrong to be involved with your boss. It could cause problems and make you a target of the others in the office who had their eyes on him.

It wasn't a good idea. But you couldn't help but wonder if it would really turn out as bad as you thought it would.

People respected him. People respected you.

You built yourself up without the help of others and people knew that. There were no set rules against dating in the office, and other office couples existed. But he was the boss. The only one who seemed untouchable.

And then there was the doubt.

Doubt that he had serious feelings for you. Doubt that the tension between you was anything other than sexual. You weren't the type to date casually. You wanted a serious relationship, and you weren't sure that was what Lee Minho wanted to give you.

What if you gave in, fell for him, and he left you behind because all he wanted was a physical relationship.

That wasn't you. And you didn't want it to be.

So, you would continue to run, just as you had from the beginning. This was what you were determined to do. But, unbeknownst to you, Lee Minho was even more determined to have you.

He was tired of the tension, tired of the gazes, tired of the jealousy of seeing you with others.

He wanted you.

At first, he thought it was a physical attraction only, but as he got to know you, he realized it was more. You were alluring in every way you could be, and he wanted to know every part of you.

Yes, the physical tension was the most palpable, the most tempting, especially when you were alone together. But his desire to know you in every way was more enticing than anything else.

He wanted to know your morning routine, what shows you watch, what books you read. What your bedhead was like in the morning, and what weird eating habits you hid from others. He wants to cook for you, to hold you, to walk hand in hand wherever you went.

It started out as sexual desire and turned into the desire to love, and be loved.

Hell, you were the only reason he decided to stay with your division. He was meant to leave; he was supposed to leave. But after he met you, he pulled strings he had never dared touch before. Just to stay. Just for you.

But you continued to run from him.

Did you not want him? Did you not want to be with him? Or did you fear his intentions were strictly sexual?

Watching you from the window of his office as you worked diligently, his chest tightened. He would find out just why you were running, and he would finally tell you how he felt about you. No more rising tension, no more yearning, no more running.

You could feel his eyes on you since you entered the room. You had come a bit later than you meant to, so almost everyone had already arrived.

Everyone from your floor and the adjacent ones were mingling and drinking their definitely-not-spiked eggnog as Christmas music played around you. It was the annual Holiday party before you went on break for Christmas and New Years.

There were various tables around the room holding a variety of foods, snacks, desserts and drinks. You mingled with your friends from your department but couldn't focus entirely on what they were saying because of the eyes burning into the back of your head.

When you finally locked eyes with Minho, you felt a shiver run up your spine. You thought when you met his eyes, you would feel the familiar tension you had grown so used to. But this time, it was something else, something both intense, and enticing. He was trying to say something with his eyes, but you couldn't figure it out.

Being greeted by another friend from a different floor, you managed to pull your attention away from Minho.

He let out a sharp exhale as your attention was taken from him. The grip he had on his drink tightened as he nodded along to whatever the manager was saying to him, though he had no idea what it was.

Minho was waiting for people to begin leaving, or to get so drunk their attention wouldn't be on him. He wanted to sneak you away so he could properly talk to you alone. Though from the way you were avoiding his gaze, he figured it wouldn't be very easy.

The next couple hours were agonizing for both of you. Talking to people you barely knew, or those who were way too friendly, while those you did know got slowly more drunk throughout the night.

You were glad you decided not to drink tonight, too fearful you might end up like one of them, or, give in to different temptations...

Finally escaping the dreary conversation of a drunk guy from a few floors away, who had apparently been crushing on you for ages, you turned to leave but jolted to a stop as you nearly ran into Minho.

He looked down at you with a light smile ghosting his lips. How many of the man’s drunk rambles did he hear? Without speaking, he took the glass from your hand and set it on the nearest table.

You rose your brow in confusion as he stepped closer to you, leaning in to whisper into your ear. You held your breath as his hand lightly wrapped around your wrist as he spoke, his breath tickling your ear.

"I need to speak to you about something important. Go to my office."

As he pulled away, he locked eyes with you briefly before turning and walking away, towards his office. You swallowed harshly as your heart pounded. Looking around, you didn't notice anyone watching you, which made you feel a little less anxious about what just happened.

Nervously, you made your way through the room and down the hall towards his office. Your mind was scrambling, thoughts bouncing off each other rapidly. What could he want? How should you escape? Should you escape? It seemed serious, could it be about work?

Before you knew it, you were standing in front of his door. Hesitantly, you grabbed the handle before opening it and slipping inside. Your eyes immediately found him standing at the window, staring out at the night view of the city.

His hands were in his pockets, suit jacket removed and draped over his chair. He said nothing as you approached, but looked over at you when you stopped in the middle of the room, far from him.

His eyes scanned over you slowly and you felt your stomach quiver.

Looking back out the window, his voice came out low. "How long have you known him?"

You frowned before you realized he was talking about the drunk who had been rambling about his feelings to you. Biting back a smirk, you walked over to his desk, looking out the windows as you spoke.

"I don't really know him. I think I've only talked to him briefly a handful of times."

Minho nodded softly, relief washing over him as he realized the man wasn't a threat at all. Looking over at you again, he admired your profile as you looked out at the city.

Taking in a breath he turned and walked towards you, the movement catching your attention.

Your heart began beating quicker as he walked towards you, his eyes remained locked with yours as he stepped closer and closer. You turned to face him but regretted it as you hesitantly moved back as he came almost chest to chest with you.

You were now sitting on the edge of his desk as he peered down silently into your eyes. His gaze was intense, holding more emotion than you could recognize.

Slowly, he brought his hand to your face, hesitating as his knuckles brushed the skin of your jaw. You held your breath as he slowly began dragging his fingers along your jaw, before his thumb gently glided over your lips.

You should be pushing him away, regaining distance between you, or at the very least asking what he was doing. But you were frozen and speechless.

Minho admired your lips as he gently parted them with his thumb before he moved to cup your chin with his hand. Tilting your face so you looked directly into his eyes, he swallowed harshly before he spoke. His voice was deep, but tentative.

"You know I want you, yes?"

If your heart could have jumped from your chest, it would have. Your voice seemed to be absent out of shock, so all you could bring yourself to do was to nod softly.

He smiled softly as he continued, "But what exactly is it you think I want from you?"

You tilted your head slightly as you furrowed your brow. What did he want to hear you say?

"Sex?" He replied for you.

Your breath caught before you could react, but he didn't notice as he continued.

"Is that all you think I want?"

You let out a soft breath from your noise, finding your voice again, "Isn't it?"

He could hear a soft hint of resentment in your tone, and that told Minho what he wanted to know. A soft almost sad smile crossed his face. Moving his hand from your chin to your cheek, he gently caressed your face.

"I will admit at first my attraction to you was sexual. But..." he let out a soft sigh, "then I started to pay more attention to you. And slowly, but truly, I fell for you."

'What?' Your mind began reeling. 'Is this a confession?'

"I want you in more ways than physical. But I never get the chance to initiate it because you run from me. So now I have to corner you in my office to get you to listen."

Stepping forward, so his leg slit in between yours he cupped the back of your head as he tilted it up. He was looking directly down at you, face hovering just above yours, lips dangerously close.

"The tension between us whenever we're close is always so tempting to give in to, isn't it? But it's not just lust Y/n, it's desire. You feared giving in because you thought I would throw you away afterwards, right?"

Your heart was hammering in your chest as he seemed to speak your thoughts out loud. Everything you had worried about. Everything you had convinced yourself of.

Pulling your face just close enough for his lips to lightning brush yours, his voice turned into a whisper.

"I won't throw you away. I want to keep you. I want to keep you all to myself. I want to know everything about you, and I want to show you everything about me. Let me. Give in to me."

You let out a soft breath as his words overwhelmed you. The tension was unbearable as his breath ghosted your lips. Your eyes locked for an almost unbearable amount of time in silence before you slowly parted your lips and spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

"I give in."

How could you not?

If his words were true, if his eyes weren't lying, he did want more from you than you feared. He seemed to want what you wanted. More than just a physical relationship, more than lust, a desire to know and be known.

Minho let out a breath he had been holding before he captured your lips in a desperate kiss. It was harsh and passionate, his tongue gliding through your parted lips as his arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer as he stepped in between your legs.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as you returned the kiss with equal fervor. Your tongues danced together as his hands moved to your hips where he gripped you and pulled you against him, your legs now on either side of him.

Your breaths were uneven and harsh as Minho pulled away, his lips gliding down to your exposed neck where he kissed and nipped at your skin.

Everything around you became a blur, the only thing you could think about was each other as you grabbed and kissed each other fervently.

It wasn't until a loud popping from outside, followed by drunken cheers that you came to your senses. Clothes loosened and nearly torn off, lips puffy, hair messy, breath's uneven and heavy.

He pressed his forehead against yours as he let out a soft laugh, making you smile.

"I guess right now isn't the best time to give in, is it?"

You giggled softly as he gently helped you from the desk, cupping your face he smiled at you, as if bashful. "I didn't mean to lose control of myself, I'm sorry. I really did want this to start slowly. To start right."

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a thin box wrapped in a bow, and you furrowed your brow. He cleared his throat softly as he opened the box and faced it towards you.

Your heart thumped as you saw a small delicate gold chain with a charm. You looked up at him with soft confusion. Taking it from the box he began to put it on you as he spoke.

"I wanted to give this to you as a promise that what I want is not completely selfish. I wanted it to signify the beginning of us, to show you I truly want more than just a physical relationship with you."

Gently touching the chain, you met his eyes and smiled, feeling your heart swell. "So... is this you asking me out?"

He let out a soft laugh as he scratched his neck and nodded, "Yes. it is. Or at least asking you for a chance to prove to you I am genuine in my feelings." Gently taking your hand, he smiled fondly at you, "Can I have that chance?"

You bit the inside of your lip as you thought for a moment. Nothing in his eyes told you he was lying. Yes, he did lose control, but so did you, and you still wanted more than just physical affection. If it was true for you, it could be true for him.

You smiled as you nodded. "Yes. You can."

His smile grew as he stepped closer to you again, putting his hands on your waist as he looked at you with an almost startling amount of affection. Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering before he rested his head against yours again.

“I won’t disappoint you.”

You smiled softly at this as you felt genuine belief in his words. Yes, part of you was still afraid, but you decided to take the chance, take the risk, after all, this could also be the beginning of the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

And though you didn’t know it for certain at this moment, you were right, it was.

xx End xx

((Taglist Form))

12 Days of Christmas Taglist: @multi-fandommaniac, @mbruben-stein

General Taglist: @charmsprout, @brattybunfornct, @bahng-chrizz, @otakutrash669,

@tinyelfperson, @pinievsev, @teenyfinds, @everythingboutkpop,

@shymexican, @stillwjk-channie-lixie, @alexxavicry

Stray Kids Taglist: @laylasbunbunny, @skz1-4-3, @prettymiye0n, @thunderous-wolf, @thedistractedwriter,

@briqnne, @dinossaurz, @carattinymoa, @stay3096, @vnessalau,

@3rachasninja, @life-is-a-game-of-thrones

Lee Know: @hongjoongsprincess

[ifancyharry]

what it is: YN is Harry’s personal assistant and she gets sick, but he’s playing Wembley

word count: 4k

The air is crisp and clean as YN steps out of her hotel into the streets of London, hurrying down the sidewalk as she scurries to the first pharmacy she can find. 

It’s 7.54 in the morning and she’s been awake for almost twenty-four hours. Not on purpose, obviously. And not on her boss’s orders either, despite having there been nights the team deemed important and she was required to pull an all nighter, but those were usually times of celebrations, either spent at an afterparty or waiting until midnight for Spotify to release the album everyone had been working hard on.

The air hurts her lungs as she stops to catch her breathing, the pounding behind her temples not dimming the slightest as she trespasses the sliding doors of the pharmacy, only intensifying with the bright artificial lights shining down on her from the ceiling.

She pulls her sunglasses out of the pocket of her sweatshirt and slides them over her eyes, relishing in the temporary relief washing over her sensitive eyes.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she pulls it out, grimacing at the name on the screen; it’s her boss, Harry, asking her what time she’s ready to leave for the venue. 

Once her turn comes, she quickly explains her symptoms to the pharmacist and just as quickly she pays for the medicine the pharmacist has taken out for her.

She walks out of the pharmacy and types back a short response to Harry, telling him she’s on her way to his room.

She hopes the medicine she has stuffed in her pocket will make her feel better, and she thinks as she’s making her way back to the hotel that she’ll ask Harry to stop along the way to grab a coffee, hoping it will soothe the tension behind her temples. There’s no way she can be sick when her boss is playing at Wembley for the first time.

…

Harry isn’t one to comment on other people’s appearances, his mum taught him that and it has stuck with him since he was a little kid, a sort of an unspoken rule out of kindness, and therefore he’s never asked if someone was sick because they weren’t wearing makeup or if someone had eaten a little more over the holidays.  He never considered other people’s looks something that concerned his range of business, but once he sees YN, he can’t help but wonder if she’s okay.

Her hair is tied in a messy braid, and there’s some strands falling out of it and in front of her eyes. She’s wearing a big love on tour sweatshirt and a pair of yoga pants, but that isn’t particularly concerning, because he’s used to her comfy articles of clothing. 

What’s concerning is her face�� and Harry already feels bad for thinking that, but she doesn’t look like herself. And Harry would know. Of course he would know, because he spends a lot of time looking at her face, especially when she’s not looking, most of the times when she’s reading a book next to him in a moment of rest or when she’s answering emails on Monday mornings. So… he knows her. He knows her skin looks paler than normal, and the circles under her eyes aren’t the same as that one time they partied all night after Harry won album of the year at the Grammys.

He wants to ask if she’s okay, because after a year of working together they have that kind of confidence, but he doesn’t want that to be the first thing he says to her, so he just smiles at her and welcomes her with a side hug and a good morning.

“Hi” she’s quick to greet back, and Harry notices even her voice sounds scruffier than usual.

“Are you ready to go?” She asks a second later.

“Yeah, yeah, the car’s down already?” He asks surprised. Sometimes it takes a while before the drivers find the hotel, and YN and Harry spend that time watching videos on youtube or talking about the day’s schedule.

YN shrugs but doesn’t say anything in response, which is weird to Harry because she’s usually really bright and energetic in the morning, and she’s really meticulous on top of everything: she never lets him wait without finding something to pass the time first.

“Let’s just stay until we don’t know for certain” he suggests.

She agrees with a nod of her head and she heads to his bed, sitting down on the end of it. It’s not uncommon for her, because she’s always in his space, and there have been times where they were forced to basically sleep in the same bed (one time YN fell asleep on his bed, and Harry was so in his song-writing-bubble he didn’t even realize until he was so tired he couldn’t keep his eyes open, so he slipped in next to her and literally passed out).

He still needs to tie his shoes, so he sits next to her and ties the laces of his ratted vans.

“How’d yeh sleep, pet?” He asks, because she’s freakishly quiet and it’s making him anxious. She’s never quiet, and with this being a stressful day already for Harry, every little thing that’s different from normal alerts him.

“Fine” she whispers, knuckling at her eyes, his question bringing back the awful memory of the night she spent tossing and turning in the scratchy hotel sheets, praying for a moment of solace every time she tried to breathe through her nose and failing.

“Me too…” he nods.

YN feels bad because she should be more engaging, but she really doesn’t have it in her to make small talk. 

Some time passes before the driver calls YN’s phone to tell her the van is here, shaking her awake. She remembers closing her eyes to rest them, and next thing she knows she’s sound asleep on her boss’s bed. She’d be a bit embarrassed if it wasn’t for how awful she feels already. 

“Crap! I fell asleep!” She exclaims once she hangs up the call. 

“Yeah” Harry says from next to her, still laying on his bed, “just fo’ like… fifteen minutes though” He’s playing on his phone, and YN pushes at his bicep, “we need to go, driver’s here”

She gets up from the bed and slips on her shoes, grabbing her work bag (it’s really a tote bag but she finds calling it work bag makes her waaaay more professional) from the floor next to the door.

“YN” she hears Harry clear his voice, and she turns around to look at him.

He’s still sitting on the bed, and he passes a hand through his hair before saying, “are yeh all right?” 

She closes her eyes in a furrow and tries not to wince when a sharp pain shoots behind her eyes with the movement, “yes, yes” she stresses, although not convinced.

“Are you sure? C’mon yeh can tell me!” 

“I’m fine, Harry” and despite her words, she sniffles, “maybe I have a cold or something…”

“You can take the day off if you need to, yeh know that” 

“No, there’s no way” she shakes her head swiftly, “no”. 

“YN…” he trails off.

“Harry, I told you I’m fine. I can work! Let’s just go, okay?” 

He sighs but does as she says, following her out of his room.

Harry isn’t a worrier. If someone from his team, or band whatsoever, says they can work, he at least presumes they’re mature enough to know the expanse of their limits. 

With YN, it’s different. He worries.

Not because he considers her immature, but she’s just… different. Ever since she started working for him as his assistant, he’s always looked out for her, despite being the one that didn’t want to hire her in the first place.

She’s young, she works a lot to prove herself to him, despite him telling her lots of times she doesn’t need to prove anything and she’s doing a great job as she is. 

She does unthinkable working hours, sometimes pulling all nighters, other times hurrying to his house in the middle of the night because he’s a little bit of a hypochondriac and she needs to check immediately what’s that new mole he has on his back (turns out it was a speck of dark chocolate that stuck onto his skin).

She’s soft and she always puts her job (him, actually) first, so he doesn’t really trust her to know her limits. If she’s sick she should rest. She should lay in bed and maybe eat a little soup and watch comfort movies tucked under the sheets, but he knows she won’t. And he knows he’s the reason behind that, because he’s playing at Wembley tonight, and she doesn’t want to cause trouble. Harry thinks she in no way could ever be described as trouble. 

And maybe, and he feels a little bit scared to admit this, he could postpone the show just by a couple hours, at least until he knows she’s resting at the hotel. but, she hurries into the van and pretends like she’s just got “a cold or something”, so Harry doesn’t question her further. 

He could just order her to take the day off, but he knows that would hurt her feelings, and he can imagine the look on her face, like a puppy being scolded, so he bites his tongue: there’s no way he could ever hurt her feelings.

…

YN has to stop a couple of times when she starts feeling dizzy on her feet. She shouldn’t run this much when she’s probably feverish, but there’s so much to do! She doesn’t trust to delegate, and not because she’s pretentious, but because she’s a control freak that needs to know how things are being handled, so she would only get much more frustrated and it would eventually just end up in her doing all the work anyway, increasing her fever undoubtedly. 

So, she chugs downs a lot of water and a lot of ibuprofen, taking deep breaths every time she starts feeling nauseous. She should probably inform Harry at least that she doesn’t feel good, so if anything were to happen he wouldn’t be too surprised, but she knows how he is; he would demand she stop immediately and go back to the hotel to rest, and she can’t allow that to happen. 

Wembley is the dream of a lifetime, and Harry sound checks every song two times before passing on to the next one. YN sits quietly in one of the seats, preparing Harry’s next instagram post on her phone. She handles all of his socials, because that’s what she was originally hired for. “A young set of eyes”, Jeff had defined her, and from then, her life had changed completely. 

Of course, she wasn’t aware she’d develop a crush on her boss at the time she was hired. She figured she’d be immune to his charm; she’s younger than him, much less experienced (in every aspect of her life), and hasn’t really seen anything yet, so she thought they’d just be too different to get along. Spending each second of the day together didn’t help, though, because it was then she got to know Harry for who he truly was, and with that, came the awareness of how many things he’d lived through and how many things he could teach her. How soft he was with her, how he would always drape a blanket over her when she accidentally fell asleep on his bed, and how he would tell her she looked pretty even after pulling an all nighter and probably looking like a raccoon. That’s just how he was.

And that’s why she values his dreams more than her health. She would never do anything that could harm him, so she shrugs off the dreadful feeling off her back and keeps working. 

…

“Hey” Harry plops down on the couch next to her, draping his arm on the backrest of the couch. If he’d stretched his fingers he could touch her shoulder, but he doesn’t just yet. He knows she still doesn’t feel good, he can see it in the way she’s hugging herself in the Love on tour hoodie she has on (probably one of his because their laundry always gets mixed up).

“Hi” she says softly, her voice much lower than it’d been the last time he saw her.

It’s closer to show time now, but he’s still not in his outfit. YN wonders if that’s the reason why he came in the dressing room in the first place.

“What are yeh doin’ hidin’ in here all alone?” 

“‘m not hiding!” She pouts, “jus’… resting” 

“Mh, yeah?” He hums, turning his head to look at her, “restin’ your ears? Are you tired of my music yet?” He jokes.

“Never!” She beams, swatting at his chest playfully.

He lets his arm fall down on her shoulder, and he tugs at her, squeezing her against his chest.

She breaths him in, and despite her stuffy nose, she can smell the faint scent of his fabric softener. Musk and lavender. It’s the same as hers.

 “I’m sorry I’ve been a bit of a pain lately…” he trails off, his mouth buried in her hair, “nothing to do with you… was jus’ nervous is all”

She squeezes his hoodie between her fingers to tug him closer, “I’m really proud of you. You’ll do great.”

“Thanks, pet” he grins, breaking away from the hug.

She sniffles and he looks between her eyes warily, “’s there anything you want to tell me before I go on stage?”

“Jus’ to kick ass” she giggles, aware that wasn’t what he was alluding at.

“Mmmh” he muses, getting up from the couch. He knew she’d be stubborn about this so he doesn’t pressure her.

“Hav’to start gettin’ ready” he clears his throat, heading towards the portable hanger YN set up in his dressing room.

He then proceeds to take off his hoodie and his tank top, leaving him shirtless before her.

She’s seen him in his underwear many times, but maybe it’s the fever, maybe it’s the crush on him that’s growing stronger everyday, but she feels her insides get warm at the sight. 

He tugs his sweats down his legs too, kicking them off his feet, and YN pretends to pick up her phone to respond to a message that definitely could have waited. 

He picks up the heart printed overalls he’d be wearing and tugs them over his legs, jumping a little in his place so they could fit over his bum.

Once he’s fully dressed, he looks over at YN and finds her looking at him already, her eyes a little droopy. He feels his heart tug in his chest at the sight. He wishes she’d let him help her. If he could he’d send her back to the hotel straight away, but he has to admit he’s selfishly relishing in the idea of having her here, looking at him perform. It makes him want to do even better than he always does. 

“All ready then” he smiles, dimples denting both his cheeks.

“Mmhh” she hums, getting up on her feet. She walks towards him and adjusts the neck of his shirt, petting it down.

“Good luck Harry” she smiles. He has to refrain himself from lowering his head down to kiss her, and he’s aware these thoughts are way too unprofessional of him, but he can’t help himself. Not when she’s looking at him like that.

“See ya after the show, pet”

…

“Harry!” Jeff pats down on his shoulders as soon as Harry runs backstage, “you just smashed it! Fuckin’ smashed it mate!”

Harry laughs with him out of politeness, but his mind is really on something else.

“Fuckin’ Wembley, Harry! Wembley’s Harry’s house!” Someone else shouts, and he thinks it’s Lloyd but he doesn’t really pay much attention to him. There’s someone missing from the crowd. YN. She’s nowhere to be found, and he’d really like to celebrate with her. She’s the one that should join in on the fun and get a little bit of praise too, because without her, harry doesn’t think he could’ve played Wembley.

Everything was going fine, and he saw her next to his mother standing in the private part of the pit, but then, when he came back after chatting with a couple of fans, she was gone. He wonders if she’s okay.

“Hey, Jeff” he clears his throat, hoping to be discreet with his tone of voice, “where’s YN?” 

“Oh…” he nods, “she wasn’t feeling proper good, so I sent her to your dressing room. I told her to get back to the hotel, but she refused to leave”

Harry nods and after a ‘thanks’ he hurries towards his dressing room, hoping to find her there.

Once he opens the door, the sight of YN sleeping on the couch crouched on herself makes his heart somersault in his chest.

“Hey, pet” he coos softly once he crouches down next to her.

He repeats the endearing greeting, and this time she stirs awake. YN brings one hand to knuckle at her eyes tiredly, and Harry frowns at the sight of her bloodshot eyes. He brings one hand to caress her cheek, but when he realizes how warm she is, he brings it up to her forehead. She’s burning hot. 

He immediately feels guilty. He should’ve sent her back to the hotel as soon as he realized she was sick, hell, he shouldn’t have let her leave his room that morning!

“Harry?” She asks timidly, her voice coming out scruffy. She gulps but flinches as the hurt in her throat doesn’t subside. 

“Yeah, ’s me” he whispers, moving the hair away from her face, “let’s go back to the hotel, okay?” 

“No Harry! The show! You can’t leave… the show! It’s wembley” she stresses, gripping his bicep tightly to refrain him from leaving her.

“Shh, shh” he shushes her, “calm down. ’s okay. The show was great. Everything was great” he coos, pressing his lips down her forehead and flinching from how hot it feels, “you did so great”.

She sniffles and: “great?” 

“Yeah” he nods, reassuring her, “let’s go now, okay?”

He helps her get up on her feet, and she stumbles a bit in her place. She grips the fabric of his overalls tightly between her fingers, and he lets her, hoping to be at least a little bit of comfort.

��

“How are you feelin’? What hurts?” He asks her once they reach his hotel room (he wanted to go back to hers, but couldn’t find her key and didn’t want to startle her too much).

“Everything” she pouts.

“I’m so sorry, darling” he sighs, ushering her inside his room.

She’s stable on her feet now, the little nap at the venue kind of helped a bit in soothing her, but still, everything hurts, and the thought of being in a hotel room and not at her own house bothers her.

She also doesn’t want Harry to look at her like this, all sweaty and red in the cheeks. She must look so embarrassing! 

“I’ll draw you a bath, how about that?” He proposes, not waiting for her response and heading directly towards the bathroom.

Now that he thinks about it, harry’s glad she’s in his room, because (being the Harry Styles) his room has a bathtub, whereas hers doesn’t. He also has lots of salt baths and bubbles to add to the water, courtesy of the hotel, and he adds everything he can to soothe her stuffed nose and make the bath as pleasing as possible.

She knocks on the door delicately, and he turns his head to look at her.

“Bath’s ready” he smiles gently, and he dips his index finger to test the temperature of the water, careful not to make it too hot to not aggravate her fever any more. 

Harry excuses himself from the bathroom, and tells her to give him a shout if she needs anything.

It’s a couple of minutes later when he hears her calling for him, her voice still lower than normal.

He knocks on the door and after he gets her consent he opens it, peeking his head inside. She’s laying in the bathtub, the water submerging her almost to her neck, and he’s aware she’s naked under, but the bubbles cover her body entirely.

“Are yeh all right?” He asks worriedly.

“Mhmh,” she hums, “jus… keep me company?” 

He’s happy she’s more responsive now, and he happily sits at her side, plopping down on the toilet seat next to the tub.

They sit in silence for a while, Harry’s aware he’s still in his fancy (and uncomfortable) show clothes, but he doesn’t care. He’s just happy to dote on her now as she’s been doing with him since she’s been hired.

“I can’t believe you played at wembley and I missed half of it” she says after a while, the water sloshing around her as she turns to look at him.

“There’s always next time” he grins at her playfully.

She throws a smile at him, “bet”.

His mouth opens in a sideway smile, his dimple indenting only one of his cheeks, and more seriously than he did before, he says “I wish you’d told me you weren’t feelin’ good”

“Didn’t want to spoil your day” she shrugs.

He wants to tell her she wouldn’t have spoiled it, that if she’d asked he would’ve postponed his show and crawled in bed with her, cuddling her until she felt better, even with the risk of getting himself sick too, he didn’t care. He would have done anything to make her feel good; but how can he tell her? How can he be honest about something like that without revealing another part of himself to her? He’s her boss. He’s older than her. And he doesn’t know if she feels the same way.

So, instead of making a complete fool out of himself, he ushers her out of the tub, passing her a towel without looking at her. He engulfs her in the bathrobe and ties it tight on her stomach, careful to have her bits covered completely by the fabric of the towel.

When he reaches his room, he takes out a t-shirt and a pair of boxers for her to sleep in, and he leave her to change in the bathroom.

While he waits for her to come out, he texts his mum if she could make that delicious soup she always prepared when he was sick, promising he wasn’t sick himself and that he’d explain in the morning. His mum answers a couple of minutes later with a thumbs up and a kissy face. 

He locks his phone and plugs it in the charger next to the bed, leaving it on the bedside table.

When YN comes out of the bathroom, she looks better already. Her cheeks aren’t as red and her eyes appear to be more rested, but, she still looks tired, and he smiles at her as he tugs the comforter down for her to slip in.

She curls up under the covers and waits for Harry to tuck her in, “comfortable?” He asks.

She nods with her cheek against the pillow, “just wish I was home” she whispers and the affirmation pains him.

“I’ve been overworking yah, haven’t I?” He sighs deeply, feeling extremely guilty. 

She’s quick to shake her head no, flinching when a sting of pain hits her temples with the movement. 

“Yes I have… you’ve been s’good” he smiles down at her.

“You’re a Wembley player now” she whispers, her eyes closing on her as she speaks, and Harry chuckles endeared at her. 

“Get some rest” he coos, but she’s already fallen in a deep sleep that will probably be tainted with a curly headed guy with green eyes and a pretty smile.

He fishes from inside her bag a tab of ibuprofen and, with a glass of water, he places them on the bedside table closer to her side, so, if she’d ever were to wake up in pain, she could take the medicine immediately. 

He takes the shortest shower he’s ever taken, quickly putting on his pajamas and brushing his teeth. Once he’s ready for bed, he slips in next to her, leaning down to press his lips on her forehead to check her temperature. She’s still warm, but the bath seemed to be of help, and probably the much needed sleep, too.

He thinks he’ll give her the rest of the month off. He owes it to her, so she can get back up on her feet and spend some time at home if she’d like. He takes a minute to wonder why hasn’t he ever given her more than a day of rest, and he doesn’t have to wonder too much, because he knows the answer already, one that is overbearing and too deep to even analyze after the day he’s had: he doesn’t want to be away from her that much time. It’s as simple as that. He’s fucked.

Read part 1 to their story here

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[adventures-in-mangaland]

Yet Another Dead Boy Detective Fic Rec List

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

I've been having so much fun with these, so I've decided to make another! See above for links to my other fic rec lists. ♥��

Like We're Gonna Die Young (Again) by RoseGanymede95

The latest installment in the superb Codependency World Cup series has the boys attend a nefarious house party and grapple with old frenemies, 90s fashion and temporary amnesia. Also fleshes out their achingly sad backstories, but compensates with the triumphant return of Pierre the rabbit.

When I Picture You by Gruoch

Charles gets braceleted by the Cat King instead of Edwin and receives his heart's desire... being alive again. This author has a special gift for taking fun sounding premises and turning the angst up to 11. So excellent.

young blood (never get chained) by ghostinthelibrary

University AU in which half-demon Charles intervenes in Edwin's ritual sacrifice and inadvertently binds their souls together... I'm genuinely obsessed with this AU, it has so much potential for tons of delicious tropes. Human!Edwin getting a crash course in supernatural shenanigans! Soulmate vibes!Found Family! Demon lore! What's not to love??

Ghosts and Monsters by justafandomfollower

Charles is also sacrificed and the boys meet in Hell! Fantastic premise and executed really well. I loved Masterful Edwin taking charge and protecting Charles while inwardly despairing. Highly recommended.

back to back they faced each other by ShanaStoryteller

The Night Nurse has a theory about how Charles was able to rescue Edwin from Hell so quickly... I'm genuinely shocked I haven't recced this one already. Sorry guys, I forgor. Anyway, this has interesting "Guardian" (angel?) lore, great meta and we even get some temporary amnesia as a treat.

boyfriend jacket by skadii

5+1 times Edwin borrowed Charles' jacket. The characterisation is on point, and it has some great OCs (Kyle the snarky seeing-eye cat!) and really sweet payneland moments. Plus Charles' jacket doing its most to annoy the Cat King.

Looking Like the Sunrise by letters_of_stars

Edwin thinks he's cursed so he and Crystal must team up to solve the case of his Mysterious and Suddenly Appearing Rizz. Funny and sweet friendship fic with some quality Edwin-Crystal bonding and discussions of trauma.

The Case of the Anonymous Confession by Mayarenerose

College AU featuring Charles posting an 'anonymous' online confession about his complicated feelings for his bestie. The closet is glass, but Edwin is oblivious and Crystal is in pain. Cute and funny epistolary social media fic done really well.

the middle of something wonderful by KiaraSayre

Does what it says on the tin and gives us a trope salad of cosy vignettes, including a time loop, temporary amnesia, sudden corporality and Crystal and Edwin trying to get a good grade in Party. Wholesome.

My heart is like a haunted house (series) by halffulljampot

Charles (unknowingly) befriends the ghost of Edwin's mother and constantly gushes to her about his amazing best friend/boyfriend. Beatrice is a great OC and it's just nice (though extra tragic) to read a fic in which Edwin had loving parents. Read it for Family Feels and wholesome intergenerational friendship.

the first rule of fight club by e_va

The boys are captured by an evil underground fighting ring. The fic is from Charles' PoV, so the prospect of having to fight Edwin was especially stomach-churning. Still, we get Edwin being a badass and a brilliant surprise cameo I don't want to spoil.

The Case of The... by sophisticatedyet

Edwin borrows Niko's negligee and Charles' brain breaks. There's also a case and giant squids, but Charles' Distracted By The Sexy crisis is the main (hilarious) event.

in those heavy days when love became an act of defiance by aletterinthenameofsanity, JUBE514

Daemon AU and first meeting fic! Loved the worldbuilding, insightful character work and lovely use of Greek mythology. Honestly, this fandom needs more daemon AUs.

spinning around and around in an ocean of grief (your ladder came down to the sea) by Ingi

Prequel to DontOffendTheBees' excellent College AU, expanding on the boys being alive and in school together. Also has its own prequel about their first meeting from Edwin's point of view. This one, though, is a Charles' Bisexual Journey/Feelings Realization fic. So lovely.

head in the clouds but my gravity's centered by shadowquill17

Face Touching: The Fic. I just love non-sexual intimacy in fics and this one is so tender. I also love Accidental Kissing and Feelings Realization so my cup runneth over.

i don't want to rest in peace by handwrittenhello

Different First Meeting fic featuring Poltergeist Charles! Loved the concept, even though it made me sad.

the great snogging debacle of '95 by thatgayprince

Edwin disguises himself as a girl and Charles starts and then defers a sexuality crisis for 30 years. Funny, steamy and emotional.

a beautiful day to say goodbye by ofstitches

The agency take on the case of a depressed house. This is another bittersweet Edwin backstory fic with discussions of grief.

Smitten in the Stacks by cordelianoir

Adorable prequel to lolotr's equally adorable library AU. Meet cute featuring (platonically married) Dad!Charles crushing on the hot librarian who leads Children's Storytime.

Jenny Green: Butcher, Hot Mess, Reluctant Queer Elder by Money_Maker

Jenny-centric fic! The focus is on Jenny and her financial, mental and emotional struggles post-canon, but mentoring Edwin through his queer self-discovery becomes a big part of that. This turns into a really sweet friendship, plus Found Family Feels and some fun outsider PoV of the boys' dynamic.

I've always got more recs so watch this space! ❤️

[merakiui]

boyfriend.

yandere!female!riddle rosehearts x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, obsession, implied (cyber)stalking, cheating, dub-con, alcohol/intoxication, characters written as 18+ note - riddle seeks to prune the filthy weeds from your life, starting with your ill-mannered boyfriend. // inspired by dove cameron's boyfriend.

i. i can’t believe we’re finally alone. i can’t believe i almost went home. what are the chances? everyone’s dancing, and he’s not with you.

Riddle has never traveled to this part of the city before—the seedy, unsavory sliver overshadowed by towering skyscrapers, illicit, perilous secrets tucked away in every alley. It’s not as if she’s here under duress. Although if you were to frame it from her perspective, it would feel less like an active, consensual choice and more of a you’ve-forced-my-hand choice. It’s blatant rule-breaking all the same, a stain on her delicate character. Blight on her shiny social status as a golden child, forever marked as the obedient one.

She’s lived her rebellious streak, was punished swiftly and accordingly, and strived to be better in the aftermath. It was one thing to slip out during independent study, and that fun had been trampled upon by a cruel, heeled foot. That was a child’s error. A lesson learned. A valid reason to sever all distractions and improve academically, consequently maturing with sharp, sparkling intelligence and abysmal social skills. 

But Riddle is no longer that starry-eyed, impressionable child, and she does not make the same mistake twice.

Or so she’s always believed, but she’s willing to risk an unforgiving tongue-lashing and life imprisonment at the hands of her mother if it means she can fix things. No matter how she spins it, the truth remains the same: She’s fallen back on an old habit, sneaking out and keeping secrets. She’s an open book to Trey, though, who she’d taken care to message on the train ride into the city, her text mostly cryptic: Should anything happen, this is where I’ll be. It’s wrong to skirt around the truth, especially when it’s your closest friend. She knows this, but then she also knows Trey gives terribly good advice. The type of terribly good advice you often don’t want to hear.

Advice like: “You need to let her go.”

And Riddle can’t—won’t. 

So she steps into the digital footprints left by that brash, brutish party animal you lovingly call your boyfriend, and she follows the string of social media posts like a diligent detective, flicking through each with manicured fingernails. She commits them to memory so that they remain imprinted in her mind before they’ll eventually expire at the twenty-four hour mark.

In the days leading up to tonight, Cater had taken her out for their usual self-care makeover day, which was really just a day dedicated to dressing up and gossiping at the salon. It was a monthly arrangement, and it kept the both of them entertained and sane. The latter of those two was called into question when Riddle, wholly out of character, selected black nail polish for her mani-pedi, which left Cater looking on with brewing curiosity. She gazed at him, pouty lips upturned slyly, and said, “I thought I’d give red a temporary break.”

“Oh, but red is so your color!” he insisted, raising his phone to capture both of them in frame. 

Riddle smiled at the camera. “I know.”

It has always been her color, a staple in her closet. It’s a favorite she can never truly shake, hence why it stains her lips instead. Bright like arterial blood, a blossoming carnation, it stands out starkly on her pale countenance—the only splotch of color on her person. Cater took her shopping when he’d learned she was attempting to fit a new style into her wardrobe of prim, modest clothes. They ran up and down the racks, grinning at each other from across the store and holding up sweaters and skirts, weighing whether either would suit Riddle’s night out. In the end, she settled for the outfit she wears now: a red tube top, a cropped puffer jacket, a pencil skirt that doesn’t pass the fingertip test (not that she cares to follow that rule), tights, and knee-high heeled boots. To finish the look, she’s pulled her hair from its usual plaits, allowing it to cascade down her back like a crimson waterfall. Fingerless lace gloves adorn her hands, stitched with intricate patterns of roses and thorns.

Cater called it the Femme Fatale Friday fit. It’s a Saturday night, but it feels like Friday when she peers at her reflection in a pocket mirror, checking her makeup once more. 

She will not make the same mistake twice. She’s a paragon of perfection—Riddle Rosehearts, for seven’s sake! 

Stuffing the mirror into a matching handbag, she eyes the skyscraper looming before her, sleek with its metal framework and industrial glass. The bright cityscape reflects off of each window, dazzling with luminous specks of light. She considers the contents in her purse, reviews each with a critical eye, and inhales a steadying breath. 

This is necessary.

She’s an adult now, nearly finished with her graduate studies. She lives on her own in a quaint, pet-friendly apartment with her hedgehog, and she works part-time at the café down the street, putting forth her best effort as she weathers the woes of university. Despite all of this independence, she doesn’t feel like an adult. 

Not when she can hear her mother in the back of her head: You look ridiculous. Come home right now before you make a fool of yourself and sully my good name.

Riddle scowls at the concrete, curling her fingers into fists. 

She’s an adult now. She is not her mother’s doll.

Leaving all hostility and self-doubt at the door, she steps through the lobby and beelines for the lift. It carries her to her destination—one of the highest floors. A penthouse suite. 

And not just any penthouse suite. Floyd Leech’s penthouse suite.

Under normal circumstances, she would never willingly set foot in his territory. She survived four years of school with him, which was already a sickening amount, and in that time she watched him glide through his undergraduate with just barely passing grades. That wasn’t enough to stoke the red-hot embers of envy, though. It only made him seem even more like a cockroach, unable to be crushed by the weight of scholarly responsibilities, for he never took anything seriously.

For that reason, Riddle has never envied Floyd. But by the end of their third year, he had something Riddle didn’t. 

He had you. 

How he managed to settle into a relationship when all he did was slack off, party, and break the rules was beyond Riddle. He was a slippery delinquent, hardly deserving of your sweet affections, and yet you looked at him like he was the only one on the planet. Just where was the appeal? His manner of dress is sloppy. The way he carries himself is unpalatable and crude. The way he acts suggests his insipience is incurable. Even when he applies himself, he is still Floyd and that doesn’t clean his slate or shine his reputation. So in Riddle’s discerning eyes, he does not possess a scintilla of romantic appeal.

You don’t seem to agree with these sentiments, for you’ve been with Floyd for four long years. 

Love is blinding, but Riddle has never been in love before and so she doesn’t have adequate data to prove this point. It was forbidden in her home. She’s only allowed to love the men her mother handpicks, plucking each specimen like they’re ripened strawberries from a bush. In the beginning she found all manner of minor details to excuse them from her life, insisting upon a nonexistent list of impossibly high standards. He was too tall. He was too forward with his interest. He wore contrasting colors. He didn’t like tea. These reasons were far too critical and childish, and each man had been sent away in a huff. Her mother would scold her, halving her with a nasty glare: “Are you planning to die alone?”

Yes, Riddle realized by the twentieth admonishment, yet another man cast aside. If dying alone means romantic freedom in life, I’ll do just that.

The elevator spits her out into the hall, which isn’t as silent as she thought it’d be. Bass shakes through the walls, reverberating all the way through her ribs as if it intends to stir up her organs. She catches her reflection in the windows, noting the dark, monstrous scowl, and smooths her face into something courageous. She means business as she clicks down the hall, preparing herself for the whirlwind that undoubtedly waits behind the door. Riddle starts to wonder how Floyd’s neighbors have yet to file a noise complaint and then stops, her thoughts cutting off abruptly. It’s a challenge to make complaints when your father holds parts of the city’s underground in his palms.

He’s got it easy, that spoiled pest. 

Riddle’s gait slows to a halt and she reaches out to knock thrice. The door is thrown open before she can even bring her fist down. Soon she’s staring at a rosy-cheeked stranger, whose eyes trace her figure like he’s trying to paint her on his mental canvas. She’s prepared for the worst, having tucked the spray in her bag, its container disguised to look like lipstick. The strawberry keychain hanging from her purse is a self-defense alarm, ready to be pulled at a moment’s notice. His ogling does not frighten her, nor do his intentions, if he can even harbor any in that intoxicated brain of his. She’s braved scarier horrors. Like living out years of her life with her mother.

“Heyyy, you one of Floyd’s girls? Here for the party?”

Riddle suppresses the disgusted shiver threatening to crawl up her spine, swallowing bile. “Just the party.” 

She is no one’s girl. Definitely not Floyd’s. 

When she’s let inside and the stench of sweat and alcohol assault her nostrils, coupled with the too-loud party music, she considers retreating, her mother’s judgment echoing: You look ridiculous. Her fingers twitch towards her purse. One text and Trey would pick her up. One call and Cater would be on his way. But then she’d be forced to tell them the truth—would have to admit that she’s chasing the one person she can never have. 

She hardens her resolve, pushes through the throng of bodies in an effort to find refreshments, and there you are, her perfect, pretty wallflower in a perfect, pretty silver dress. The dim neon lighting casts you in a luscious pink haze, and she watches you scroll through your phone, your eyelids falling and opening. You’re so beautiful—the sweetest thing she’s ever seen, more saccharine than a truckload of strawberry tarts. Her hand slides away from her purse, and she tamps down a gleeful smile, stepping over to you with newfound confidence.

“(Name)?”

You turn your whole body towards her, your gaze unfocused. She can smell the liquor on you, can see the hickeys not quite covered by a velvet choker. Her gaze narrows. He’s all over you, isn’t he? From top to bottom, you are covered in traces of him. Her nose scrunches. Just what do you see in him?

It should be her teeth on your skin, tearing it open, bruising it, tasting slick copper on her tongue. It should have always been her, but it’s not. Why did you have to settle for less when you’re entitled to so much more?

You peer at her like she’s something in a museum, perplexing and abstract. And then it clicks. You gasp, your mouth falling open in awe, and your words come out horribly slurred. She fails to hide her wince when you throw your arms around her, hanging off of her like a tote on a shoulder.

“Riddle! You…seriously showed up… Can’t believe it’s really you. It feels like it’s been forever.” You pull away, swaying with the motion, and place your hands on her arms. “Your outfit is suuuper cute.”

She’s blushing. She knows she is because her face is burning with heat and suddenly it’s much too stifling in here. “Oh. Ah, um, t-thank you very much… You look very nice, too.”

Really? Is that the best thing I could say? ‘You look very nice’? Honestly, Riddle…

But you smile, and the sight steals her heart all over again. You can have it. By all means take her heart. Take it and love it to pieces. That way it will be fair when she takes yours. An even exchange in accordance with the rules of love. 

Or maybe it’s more so the rules of romantic warfare, carried out to the extreme on a chessboard. Or a croquet court. Something sporty and metaphorical, anyway.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” she asks, refusing to say his name lest she speak him into existence and tarnish her near-perfect evening.

Her question strikes a chord within you, and you heave an exaggerated sigh. You cross your arms over your chest, leaning against the wall for support. “Left me to go hang with the guys. S’not fair!” you whine, sliding further down until you’re sitting in a defeated heap. 

Riddle bends down to your height, her tone as soft and sympathetic as her expression. “Does he always do this?”

Hurt flashes across your face, but you don’t say anything. So he does. Why is she not surprised?

Who in the world leaves their partner at a party, vulnerable and alone? Riddle thinks, anger flaring up in her chest. Someone could take advantage of you. You’re in no state to be standing here by yourself. That fool… He doesn’t know how to treat a lady at all. How have you put up with him for four years? Your patience amazes me.

“It’s not like…” You shut your eyes and rest your head against the wall. “Not like an always-happening thing…”

Riddle isn’t going to sugarcoat it. She wants her words to cut deep, all the way to the heart you’ve allowed Floyd to bind. “Whether or not he does it often, the fact still stands that he left you intoxicated in the corner of this room. That’s careless and unsafe.” She tilts her head, admiring the way you’ve done your makeup, the way your plush lips jut out in a miserable pout. And it just rushes out, words she’s thought but never had the courage to say. At least, not to the sober you. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You deserve so much better.”

Like me, she almost adds, but that’s too direct. And she’s not even sure the admission will land when you’re so out of it.

“Appreciate it…” You scrub your face, groaning. “Ugh. I feel sick…”

“Would you like to get some fresh air?” 

You shake your head, stubborn to a fault. “Can’t. Gotta wait for Floyd.”

Riddle frowns. “I highly doubt he’s coming back anytime soon.” 

“Still.”

“At the very least, let’s get you some water.” She offers her hand, hoping and praying to the heavens above that you’ll take it.

You do. It’s a flawless fit. Her heart flutters, weightless and feathery, when her fingers close around yours. She wonders what moisturizer you use, what sort of lotions kiss your skin. Are they scented, or is that just your perfume? Or have you done away with perfume for tonight and is that a natural fragrance? Or maybe it’s the sweet scent of a fruity wine, printed on your tongue like a delicious tattoo. 

She wants to kiss you. 

“Just how much have you had to drink?” 

“Like a cup or two? I…dunno. Does it matter?”

You stumble when she helps you up, grabbing at her shoulder for support. Riddle almost falls back, but the wall braces her. You place your palm right by her head, and suddenly you’re leaning in, inadvertently pinning her to the wall. Her pupils nearly eclipse her blue-grey irises, and her breath sticks in her throat. Oh, you’re so close. You’re a drunken mess, pushing yourself up against her, your beauty enveloping her like a chrysalis. If this is a dream, she never wants to wake, for the world that awaits her beyond this is cold and colorless. 

Your head lowers to the dip between shoulder and neck, and she gazes heavenward. The ceiling is much nicer at this moment, if only so she can clear her own heady haze of impure thoughts. 

There are people about, she has to remind herself, shaking off the urge to close her fingers around your chin and tilt your head up to meet her mouth. And she has a boyfriend. Just because I can doesn’t mean I should.

But the chance is much too beguiling. You’re right here, quite literally within her reach, and Floyd’s nowhere in sight. It’s too perfect. She can’t quite wrap you in an affectionate embrace—though that is an irresistible urge she must fight off—so she settles to rub circles into your back instead, dutifully reflecting the role of a concerned friend. It’s not the part she wishes to play. Rather, she’d gladly take on the title of boyfriend if it meant you’d feel loved. Every day, at every hour, for the rest of your life. She’d do all the things Floyd ought to do: care for you, appreciate you, protect you, stay by your side through thick and thin. 

Love is a dangerous, thorny thing, but it’s the encroaching jealousy that kills. 

Floyd doesn’t deserve you. If anything, he deserves a mouth full of soap to scrub every profanity he’s ever uttered. Just what does he tell you in bed? That you’re a good girl? That you’re soooo tight? That you can take it? Does he know which ways you like it? Does he know where to touch so you’ll unravel faster? Does he know how to get you properly, thoroughly worked up, so much so that it feels like your skin is aflame with potent want and desire? 

Does he even know your anatomy, or are you simply a body for his avaricious appetite? 

Like roses twining possessively around a trellis, Riddle holds you close in her arms, her hand sweeping across your lower back. Her glacial eyes scan the crowd, warding off anyone who may be curious with her most malevolent death stare. 

“Mm… I need to lie down. My head is…spinning…”

With that, the murderous, overprotective haze sticking to Riddle like a poisonous fog dissipates. A sickly sweet smile widens on ruby-red lips. “Let’s find someplace quiet.”

Together, the two of you stagger-walk out of the room, leaving the party and its inhabitants behind. Crossing through the attached kitchenette, Riddle pilfers a bottled water from the fridge.

Her mind is sharp as a cut diamond. Her skin prickles with anticipation.

Down the hall you go, with Riddle supporting you with what minimal physical strength she has. A door looms before the both of you, cast in a comfortable glow from a neighboring skyscraper, and you struggle to pull your heels off while she pushes the door open. It reveals a messy room, clothing and candy wrappers strewn about sloppily. 

Riddle feels like she’s on top of the world, and she is. Up in the clouds on the forty-third floor of this luxurious penthouse apartment. 

ii. i could be a better boyfriend than him. i could do the shit that he never did. up all night, i won’t quit. 

All throughout her undergraduate, Riddle pined. Hopelessly. Forlornly. Desperately.

Hungrily. 

It was unbecoming to want something to such an obsessive degree. She buried herself in her studies to do away with lustful delusions, each more distracting than the last. But then you would crop up in her life when she least expected it and soon the two of you were studying together. Soon you were visiting her dorm to watch movies during the times in which she allowed herself the break (and she only did so because it was you). Soon you were spending nights in her room, sleeping sprawled on the floor even though she offered her bed time and time again. You’d get ready in the mornings, debating what the breakfast menu would entail. She’d watch your reflection in the floor mirror as you pulled your shirt up and over your head, eyeing the way you slid seamlessly into a lacy black bra. And then she’d change out of her nightgown, and you’d comment on her undergarments. 

“We should go shopping sometime. You gotta get cuter stuff!”

“Why should I? No one’s going to see it,” she insisted with a flustered huff.

“I’ll see it the next time I sleep over,” you told her, smiling innocently as you stepped into a blue handkerchief skirt. “Besides, there are so many cute sets you could wear. You’d look so pretty in something red and frilly. You’re totally missing out.”

Riddle considered it back then. Your eager eyes had almost won her over, but she was firm in her decision. “I’m fine with what I have now.” 

And the conversation ended there. She really wishes you would have pushed it back then because just a little nudge in that direction and she would have given in, entirely at your mercy. 

Selfishly, she just yearned to be stuck in a changing stall with you. 

All throughout her undergraduate, Riddle fostered a special sort of friendship with you. You’d stop by her dorm during finals to insist she take a break, your offer too tempting. She’s always been weak to sweets. You were close enough to exchange intimate details with one another. She listened to all of your dating woes, and conversely you’d sit still and bear witness to her ramblings about fascinating law facts. Sometimes she’d rant about her mother. You always listened. “She sounds like she sucks,” you said once. “How are you even related to her? You’re so nice.”

It was a pleasant three years. If she deluded herself enough, she could have pretended you were her girlfriend and then she’d have something to tell her mother to put an end to the countless attempts at scoring her a husband. I will never marry any of your options, she would think, playing the confrontation out in her head. I have a partner now and we’re very happy together. Sometimes Riddle imagined her mother tossing darts at a board with photographs of men attached to it, disregarding compatibility altogether in favor of upholding traditional rules. But then Riddle realized she’d have to die before she could ever admit her own romantic freedoms to her mother, and so that conversation only ever came about in daydreams. 

I’d rather die alone than live life shackled in a loveless marriage. She wonders if her father thought the same.

Those three years had been a wonderful reality, filled with sugared, candy-coated love. A one-sided love, sure. But Riddle could settle for platonic affections, for that was just as sweet.

And then he arrived at the doorstep to Riddle’s fantasy cottage, kicking the walls down and sweeping you off your feet.

Floyd Leech has always been a nuisance. You were there to shoo him away every time he came knocking, all broad grins and vexatious jeers. He listened to you most days, a mutt without proper leashing, oddly loyal to you. As if you were his keeper of sorts. Riddle was amazed, befuddled, and worried all at once. Unlike her, you could keep your cool, could still smile so kindly even when Floyd was being an utter pain in the ass with his foolish nicknames. When he tried to pluck Riddle’s hairpin from out of her braids—a handmade gift you had given her for her birthday—she slapped him hard across the face and hissed, “Don’t ever put your filthy paws on me again.”

And maybe it was because you were there that she was able to recover shortly after the outburst. (Although she still meant that slap with every fiber of her being.) Maybe you were her collar. Maybe you were her keeper. Maybe she was meant to meet you so that you could color her world, lead her along into the friendship she’d been robbed of as a child. 

Looking back, Riddle realizes that was the catalyst. Because when Floyd cradled his bright-red cheek, giggling like a maniac, you asked him, “Don’t you have anything better to do? Can’t you bother someone else?”

And then you were made the prime target. 

What’s worse is that you reveled in it, adored every ounce of attention Floyd gave you like it was something holy, later admitting to Riddle during a movie marathon that you “wondered if Floyd was seeing anyone.” She wanted to retch. You, a seraph incarnate, with a devil like Floyd? Impossible. But your tone was so whimsical; you were dreaming of it. You liked him. 

She couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it.

By the end of her third year, just as finals gave way to summer, you threw your arms around Floyd’s neck while he pressed you up against the trunk of a flowering tree. Pink petals fluttered to the ground, and with the falling blossoms came Riddle’s hope, crashing and burning in a heartbroken heap. 

She won’t make the same mistake twice, which is precisely why, when you flop onto Floyd’s unmade bed, she turns the lock to keep all outside influences away. The party is but a mere muffle now, thrumming through the floorboards with reckless abandon.

Her nose wrinkles at the pile of dirty laundry. Slob, she thinks, brimming with hate. What does she see in you? You’re a mess, you’re definitely a criminal, you can’t keep a stable job, you throw obnoxious parties every other week, you leave your own girlfriend unattended… What part of that is appealing? She gazes at you next. You’re too good for him, (Name). You can do so much better. Raise your standards. Find someone respectable and attentive. Someone who’ll stay with you forever. Someone who won’t let you get stupidly drunk and then run off to Queen-knows-where.

“Someone like me,” she mutters.

You have to be coerced into drinking, and you’re so sleepy that the water dribbles down your chin. Riddle tuts at you, swiping the liquid away with her sleeve. 

“You’re a mess,” she says, affectionate despite the barb. 

You’re my mess.

She slides your heels off, casting them elsewhere. You look like a starfish when you lay sprawled, or maybe you’re more like a snow angel. Only rather than snow, you imprint yourself amongst wrinkled sheets. Riddle knows it’s wrong, but you’re right here. She’s waited so many years for a moment like this one.

It’s not fair. 

She unzips her boots, kicks them off, and stands at the edge of the bed, locked in a fierce debate. You should have thrown your arms around her that day. You should have kissed her, should have spent the last four years with her, should have stayed in her life like the permanent fixture you were destined to be. She’s never wanted anything more than this. Not even a surplus of strawberry tarts. Not even the dreams she’s working tirelessly towards achieving. She’s only ever wanted you. 

But Floyd took you away, and her world has never been the same since. 

The mattress dips under her weight; she’s made up her mind. 

“Do you remember the promise we made?” she whispers, running her hands up your legs. You lift your head to look at her, eyes glassy with inebriated exhaustion. “The one in which we’d live together after graduation? You said you’d want to live somewhere pet-friendly so we could get hedgehogs and name them Tweedledee and Tweedledum.”

You hum, your lashes fluttering. 

“We could still do that. Just you and me. Without your boyfriend.”

“What?”

Her fingers catch on the waistband of your panties. “Hm?” 

“Mm, no, nothing… You should get going. It’s late…” “Someone has to look after you.”

“Floyd can.”

She presses her thumbs into your hips and the tiniest gasp leaves your parted lips. “But Floyd’s not.”

“He will.”

“He won’t,” she snaps. Something flickers in your eyes, a flash of unrest. Riddle chews her lower lip. “He’s… (Name), what do you see in him? Honestly, truly, what is it? Please educate me. Please… What does he have that I don’t? What makes you stay?”

“Cuz he’s my boyfriend,” you mutter slowly, perplexed, “and I love him.”

“Do you?” 

“Riddle, why are you so…” The words fizzle out on your tongue when her touch strays too close to home. “Wait… We can’t… Not in here.”

“Why not? It’s just one more mess. He won’t even notice.”

“That’s not it… Riddle, wait. I… I don’t like you in that—”

She collapses, anchoring herself to you, her manicured nails digging deep into your arms. And then her mouth is on yours, clumsy and uncoordinated. She doesn’t want to hear it—can’t bear to hear it. She knows the truth. It’s haunted her from the day she met you, a shadow looming like a guillotine’s blade. You were fated to be forever out of reach. Just like those strawberry tarts in the bakery window. The kiss is filthy, all desire and zero skill. Her tongue flashes into your mouth. It’s nothing like the way they describe it in fiction or portray it in films. It’s obscene. Sinful. Libidinous. Her lipstick smears; she tastes the wine in your throat, licks your teeth and nibbles your lip, delicate and gruesome all at once. She tries her best, unyielding. 

The technique doesn’t matter. Not now, anyway. It’s just blind, unrequited passion. She’ll learn it eventually and when she does she’ll kiss you drunk. It’s just another thing she’ll master. And she will because that’s just who she is. Give her a textbook and she’ll have it memorized. Give her a kiss and she’ll return to practice it to perfection. 

She pulls away, panting, her lipstick in disarray. It’s all over you, smudging on the corners of your mouth. Running a hand through her hair, her figure outlined in the tantalizing glow from the city lights, she licks her lips. 

“Riddle…” 

Spoken soft like prayer, it’s a whisper she’ll treasure. Over and over, without end, repeat it like a mantra. 

“Riddle, please…”

“He doesn’t know anything about your preferences, does he?” Your dress is slid up next. She traces a heart into your bare stomach, capturing your navel in invisible lines. You shudder under her touch, grabbing at her wrist with a limp hand. She brings it up to her lips and presses a chaste kiss to the top of it. “I know you much better than he does. I always have.”

To prove it, she presses two fingers to your clothed pussy. You whine, reedy and high-pitched. “But…”

“I read it takes fourteen minutes for women to reach their end during partnered sex.” She levels you with a half-lidded stare, smirking. What she lacks in skill, she makes up for in raw confidence. “I’ll only need less than that, so you won’t have to feign anything for my sake. I know you well enough, my rose.”

A wide range of emotions waltzes across your countenance. Your arm falls over your face next. It’s defeat or hesitant acceptance, but to Riddle it’s love. 

“Ten minutes,” you whisper, conceding. “And then…you need to leave.”

She makes you cum in just five, covers you in lipstick prints, each kiss a sly cover-up. Floyd may be all over you, bites and bruises blooming new and old, but he’s not inside you, wringing you out like a sodden towel. You sob like you’re in heat when she sinks her fingers into your slick warmth, scissoring so slowly, until you’re begging her to make you cum again. Your fluids soak through the sheets. The scent of sex and sweat hangs heavy in the air. She’s alive, wildly untamed, a knight who’s just rescued the princess and slayed a bloodthirsty dragon. 

Her head is between your thighs next, her hands braced on either leg to keep them apart. You watch her with glazed eyes, soon throwing your head back when she slides your hood up to reveal your pretty, pert clit. Experimentally, she licks a teasing stripe up your slit. You shiver and dig your fingers into her scalp, imprisoning her there. It’s where she’s always wanted to be. 

“Tell me,” she murmurs, the words fanning across your pussy, “if he’s so good, why haven’t you proven it? Is this the most you’ve ever cum in a night? Does he please you or do you please him? If he’s everything you’ve ever wanted, why are you still so unsatisfied?” 

“Because… B-Because!”

Your protests are fragmented and spotted with gasps. That’s arguably more telling than a detailed response. 

Riddle smiles like a Cheshire, her eyes narrowed victoriously. Spidery digits creep along your thighs. Her thumbs dip into your pussy, spreading it wide for her viewing pleasure. “Don’t think of him. Tonight, it’s just you and me. I’ll give you what you’re owed. That and so much more.”

Like a fragile statue, you topple. Right into her, bucking against her mouth like the world is ending, and she’s there to steady you.

She always is.

iii. i’m gonna steal you from him. i could be such a gentleman. plus, you know my clothes would fit.

“Sooo… Gimme the goss. How was your night out?”

Riddle looks up from an assortment of nail polish colors, each one more red than the last, and says, “It was more enjoyable than I thought.”

“Yeah?” Cater prompts, brows raised. “Don’t be so vague! I wanna know all the juicy details. It’s rare for you to stay out so late. And to go to a party, of all things, in the city? Hello?! New Riddle, who’s this?” 

“I was only meeting an old friend.”

“That’s what they all say.”

The technician asks her to pick a color. “This one,” she says, pointing. “The one named Sanguine Sunrise.” 

“You’re totes keeping me in the dark!” Cater whines, dramatic. “At least give Cay-Cay some hints! Something! Anything! Spare change, please?”

Riddle smiles smugly. Pride drips from every syllable when she speaks next. “My friend will be spending this Valentine’s Day alone.”

“Bummer.”

“Not quite. She’ll have me and half-priced chocolates. A rather charming combination, no?”

Cater laughs. “GL. I’m rooting for you.”

You don’t need to, she thinks, tracing the love bite stamped into her skin, hidden under the soft fabric of her blouse. Because I’m already winning.

Her phone buzzes with a text: about last night… if i did anything weird, i’m so sorry. i was way too drunk. 

Riddle turns it over, dips her feet in the heated water, and settles into the massage chair, pleased as a peach. “It was one bad decision. Four years of bad decisions, but it’s forgiven. We all make silly mistakes when we’re lovestruck. Hopefully her silly mistake disappears for good and we never have to speak of him again.”

“You’re so scary, Riddle. Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

Another message arrives: i think we might’ve kissed last night. i’m really super sorry.

There’s a brief delay.

ok this is gonna sound weird coming from me but maybe we can do it again??? floyd’s kisses are sorta… :/ 

Her phone vibrates for the final time that afternoon.

actually i’m just gonna stop talking omg i’m crazy. i have a bf and everything. sorry riddle please ignore all of this kk tysm ttyl <3

wait one more text before i forget,, if you wanna meet up for tea i wouldn’t mind. we should definitely catch up when i’m not hungover. kk bye fr this time <3

A start is a start. You can’t grow a rose tree without first planting a seed.

[nanaminsmoon]

Good morning!!!! I love your blog so much!!!!💗🫶🏾 Your writing is amazing???

Baby daddy Choso????

thank you so much!!! but thanks for requesting this fren bc i love this so much🤭

𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. (𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲!𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨 𝐱 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

cw: pnv, unprotected sex, oral (f + m receiving), choking (f+m receiving), spit kink, choso calls reader; 'baby' and 'baby girl', this man is a masochist lowkey, yeah this is a lil nasty

wc: 3858

your twins loved their dad; excited feet would scamper their way to your bedroom, three hours earlier than usual, every friday because they knew it’d be the day they’d see him. and you guys had a routine: you got them ready in the morning, took them to school, then choso’d pick them up, and they'd be his for the weekend.

© Rights owned by nanaminsmooninc. Do not repost without permission.

and, during those 48 hours, there was no beach far enough, nor park busy enough, for choso because he would take his girls wherever they wanted to go. every week, pinkie promises to not tell you about staying up later than rules would allow were made between the trio. then, come sunday morning, the girls would be impatiently jumping into your arms, as soon as you opened your door—usually with some playful change in their appearances. yet this particular one would cause your forehead to crease in confusion,

”what's on my daughter's face?”, you’d ask, once the girls were of earshot. immediately, choso knew what you were talking about but he’d play dumb just to irk you.

”eyes, eyelashes, eyebro—”, he’d start listing, and you’d interrupt him.

”no, dickhead, the thing over her nose”, you clarified and he’d inwardly rejoice at his success at annoying you.

”oh. she saw my tattoo and said she wanted one, so i just got her a little temporary one”, he’d explain, eyes trained on the twins as he waved back at them while they ran around the house.

”and when she wants it for real?”, you’d poke at his chest, and his hand would rise to hold the spot your fingertip had touched as he faked a pained expression.

”i don't know how reckless you think i am, but i'm not gonna tattoo a six year old”, he’d scoff, but his amusement would fall to flatten quite quickly.

as hard as choso tried to fan the hurt fogging his mind, it just wouldn’t leave him. choso could be denounced for his work over, and over, again and he’d bounce back because he was so confident and sure of his abilities. but jabs at his skills as a father never failed to pinch at his heart. people would spend an hour with him, then start to question his parenting abilities based off the way he looked and his reserved manner. the prickling in his chest didn’t come from insecurity, but from sensitivity to reminders of the same baseless assumption. especially coming from someone he deemed to be the perfect parent,

”why do you keep doing that?”, he’d look at you earnestly, and confusion would force your eyebrows together.

”doing what?”,

”making me out to be this bad influence.”,

”maybe it’s because you run around with cancer sticks behind your ears”, you pulled the cigarette from behind his ear, and shoved it in his pocket.

”aside from that. you treat me like i'm gonna corrupt the girls.”, he paused, ”you treat me the way your parents treated me”, due to his appearance and impassive demeanour, most people around you had opposed your relationship with choso. your friends warned he’d be a terrible father, and your parents mistook how reserved he was for coldness, and arrogance. outwardly, he seemed inattentive, rude, and aloof but choso didn’t care because the most important people in his life understood him. he was his daughters’ best friend, protector, and joint number one on their list of favourite princesses to join their tea parties—the other being you.

no matter how many years passed, you’d always love choso. though you weren’t together anymore, the need to defend him against those who misunderstood him had never dissipated. so to hear that you had become one of the people you had spent almost a decade trying to quieten, lunged your heart into your throat.

”choso, i'm so sorry. i didn't know i was being—”, you’d start to apologise, but you’d be quickly interrupted. penitence sunk all your features in a way choso couldn’t ignore; he knew you had no malintent with your words, and he didn’t want you to beat yourself up over it.

”nah, it's cool.”, he waved you off, ”i get it, but you know me. you know i love them to death and i'd never encourage anything that i knew would hurt them. but anyways, i guess i'll go now, i'll see you on frida—”, he’d been stood in the doorway and, as he began to step backwards to leave, your hands would clasp one of his. he’d be visibly surprised, but his feet would still be ladened to their spot.

”let me make it up to you”, you'd propose, and intrigue would raise choso’s eyebrow.

you’d always known there were benefits to your best friend being your neighbour, and today would be the day you’d reap one of them. after instructing choso to sit and wait on the couch, you’d gather the girls’ stuff and take them next door. you’d come back to choso still sat where you had left him, legs spread and large hand dwarfing his phone. the urge to jump on his dick right then and there was stronger than you would’ve liked, but you’d keep composed. even under his fervent glare as he watched you take your shoes off. there’d be a moment of waiting once your eyes met, then you’d beckon for him to follow you. choso’s curiosity was eating away at him, but if there’s one thing he had learnt during your time together it was that he was not to question your plans. even as he realised you were leading him to your bedroom, he’d just scoff to himself and continue trailing you.

once at the door, you’d open it and hold it for him to go in. and, chuckling, he’d enter the room, chills already running down his spine at the way those four walls boxed him into your scent, and swathed him in it. his back being turned to you allowed choso to shamelessly close his eyes, and take it all in. he’d only be brought back to reality by the clicking of the door lock.

”the fuck are you doing?”, he laughed as he turned around.

”making it up to you, now sit.”, he'd raise his hands in surrender, before he’d sit on the edge of the bed, eyes narrowed as he watched you saunter your way towards him.

one thing led to another, and you went from kissing and licking at choso's bulge through his boxers to having his dick throat deep inside you. during your relationship, head had been one of choso’s favourite things. he’d even claimed that, had your pussy not been so good, he’d like head more than sex. there were never enough words to explain it but, to him, there was nothing that drove him crazier than the sight of your eyelashes batting up at him as you took all of him into your mouth, nose tickling his pelvic bone. and, busy with his tattoo studio, choso didn't have a lot of time to date so he couldn't remember the last time he felt a woman's throat enclose around his tip the way yours did. his toes were damn near gripping at the carpet through his socks, as his fingers dug into the duvet. though their one wish was to be entangled in your tresses, scratching at your scalp when you swallowed around him, choso hadn’t forgotten that the reason you had asked him to drop the girls off two hours later than usual, was because you were getting your hair done. so he'd refrain for an entire two seconds, fingers contracting around nothing, before he'd just ask,

”can i put—fuck—my hands in your h—shit, y/n—hair”. and another low ’shit’ would leave his lips when you'd pull him out of your mouth to show him the lewd mix of your saliva and his precum leaking out your lips.

”’f you fuck it up, then you gotta pay for me to get it redone”, you tilted your head to run his length against you lips, and choso’s hands were on your head immediately.

”yes, ma’am”, he moaned out.

though you had been broken up for five years, the mutual sexual attraction between you two had never dwindled, so you two fucking post-breakup was inevitable. that being said, choso hadn't nutted in you in almost two years and he didn’t want the first time in 24 months to be in your mouth. that’s what his heart wanted, but his body would have other plans. head wasn’t just about the feeling for choso, the man loved a performance. knowing this, you’d pull him out of your mouth to allow a string of spit and precum hang from your lips, letting it land on his length again just so you could use it as lube to stroke him a few more times.

”you can’t do shit like that, y/n, i’ll nu—”, his strained voice tried to explain, but it’d be cut short by more of your antics. one second your lips would be around his balls, then the next they'd be damn near touching his pelvic bone, as you took him into your throat again. he'd raise his hand to place it on your forehead,

”w-wait, y/n i'm gonna—fuckfuckfuckfuck—baby, wait i'm gonna cum”, he'd warn, but you'd just take that as a signal to keep hallowing your cheeks and taking him into your throat. the pleasure delayed his reflexes, so choso wouldn’t be fast enough in pulling his dick from your mouth; most of his nut would be inside it and, as you let his dick slip from your lips, he’d get some on your cheek, chin and nose too. the tip of your middle finger would collect some of it, and put it in your mouth, eyes locked with his as you did so.

”i forgot how fucking nasty you are”, he'd chuckle before flopping backwards to face the ceiling, as he just laid on his back.

choso’s love for head wasn’t limited to just receiving, because one of his life’s finest pleasures resided between your legs.

”i just need to get you ready f’r me, baby”, would be his response when you told him he didn’t need to reciprocate. but the truth was, choso luxuriated in the way you grabbed at his hair and closed your thighs around his head—the near suffocation was the closest to heaven he thought he’d ever get. he loved the way your body didn't know what to do with itself, squirming underneath the cold metal of his tongue, and lip, piercing. yet, nothing could dethrone the way the warmth of your thighs taking away all his air made his dick twitch. he'd enjoy the gratifying discomfort they brought, before he'd force your legs open again,

”you taste so fucking good, baby, i don't know how i went without this for so long”, he'd say when he came back up for a breath. his fingertips would dig into your thighs as he placed your legs on his shoulders. fingertips would soon be substituted for large palms, as choso pushed the flesh together to basically cut off his air supply. it felt sick to admit, but he loved the feeling of you essentially choking him out.

choso hadn't intended on eating you out until you came, but once he’d started, he couldn't stop. he’d lost track of time and then, all of a sudden, the feeling of your nails on his scalp was harsher. and if he wasn’t relishing in the feeling, eyes fluttering shut in enjoyment, he might’ve noticed that you were about cum a lot sooner. but he’d only catch on when your babbles became more coherent,

”chos-so, i'm-m cumming, shit”, you'd say, and when his brain finally processed those words, it'd be too late because he'd have your release all over him.

for a few moments, the only sounds audible in your room were your heavy breathing and the sound of choso licking your arousal off his fingers. the glisten of the inside of your thighs would catch his attention, and he’d move to remove them of their shimmer. the feeling of the metal on your skin would coax a jolt out of you, before you’d be backing away from his mouth to sit up and face him. the man looked depraved; hair a mess, and face shining, as he just smirked at you.

the shirt covering your top half would be off, as well as choso’s shirt and boxers. and, seeing your bare body for the first time in years was having visible effects on choso—he was stunned.

”wow”, he said, in a whisper, reaching to hold you but you’d pushed his shoulder.

”what?”, you giggled, and he just shook his head so as to not make you feel embarrassed.

”no, i just…i forgot how beautiful you are”,

”shut up, bruh”, you'd playfully roll your eyes, before pulling at choso’s arm to switch your positions. his interest would be piqued yet again, and you'd quell it with a sloppy kiss to his lips. you’d mount choso to sit at the bottom of his abdomen, and his hands landed on your hips. they'd help you ride the ridges of his toned stomach, taking note of how you moaned into his mouth as your juices smeared all over his lower torso.

you'd soon shift yourself, sliding down his length and choso wouldn’t be able to see much of it because his eyes rolled to shut once he felt you wrap around him. hands placed on his broad chest, you'd move up and down on him and his tatted fingers would dig into your hips. choso’s pleasure was visceral, and he almost wanted it to stop before he got too attached and refused to let it end as he had many times before. when you and choso fucked, you did so for hours because you were both relentless. yet, as good as this felt, choso was ashamed to admit that something was missing.

”this is all for me, right?”, he'd ask breathily, hands stilling you. it’d be hard to formulate thought, because you were just paused with his dick deep inside you. but you'd manage a shabby attempt at a nod.

”well, can you…”, choso’d pause, eyes wandering around the bed, and his uncertainty would make you anxious. when it came to sex, you two had always been honest, and open to try anything. so if it made him cautious, then it was one of two things; something he’d been wanting for a while, or something completely left field.

“could you choke me?”, he'd ask, and your once lidded eyes would be widely staring back at him.

”like…?”, you'd raise your hand, and both of his would engulf it, leading it to his neck.

”this.”, he looked you in your eyes, and your hand grew firmer, ”and just keep it there”, he'd instruct, and you'd nod, before starting to move again.

though new to you, you began seeing the appeal of choking choso very quickly. mainly because of the way his eyelids would flutter, as his eyes rolled to shut, just by virtue of feeling your hand on his neck. not to mention the way his hips would move on their own to rut into you, every time your thumb and middle finger tightened around his throat. he may have been larger than you in stature, but choso was completely under your control. both the tightness of your walls, and the feeling of your hand around his neck—sweat making it hard for you to move while maintaining a secure grip on him—was making him delirious. and he never wanted it to stop.

choso's mouth was making any noise it could muster to express how good he was feeling. he went from quietly cursing under his breath, to just shouting cuss words at you. you weren't far from your nut either; due to both the view and the way his dick’s chase for more pleasure, made choso fuck into you harder. the feeling made your thighs weaken but, ultimately, choso would be the first to let go,

”where d’you want it?”, he asked, and your hand would remain on his neck as you leaned down to speak to him.

”nut in me, choso”, you’d whine, lips latching onto his neck to kiss it. the combination of the sultriness of your voice and your lips attacking the most sensitive spot on his neck, would’ve been enough but choso completely lost it when he’d feel a sting as you marked his skin. he'd cum underneath you, hips stuttering upwards to prolong the pleasure he was feeling. all choso could do was cuss, and dig his trimmed fingernails into you before just laying there, a shell of his former self.

you'd be riding him for a few more minutes, before choso’s control of his limbs would return to him, then he’d have you laid underneath him. no further words would be exchanged before he was slamming into you, silver chains dangling in your face and his hand on your throat, as he fucked you with vigor. as amazing as the opposite had felt, choso much preferred this version of things. he preferred looking down at you as your eyes fluttered and rimmed with salty displays of euphoria, he’d even lean down to lick one as it ran down the side of your cheek. choso indulged in the way you'd grab his forearm as strong as you could, sanguine crescents colouring in the empty spaces in his tattoos. he'd lean down to suck on your nipples, nipping at them just so he could hear the raising in pitch your moans and whines would do when that sensation coursed through you. his eyes would flicker down to the white froth collecting at the base of his dick, as his nut was pushed out of you with his every thrust.

”you're doing this all for me, right?”, he'd ask, and you'd nod, ”this fucked out all for me. taking this dick so good just for me”, he'd say, lips once again around your nipples.

choso wasn't letting up; his pace was merciless, as he fucked you dumb. most times you had fucked, choso would slow down, or pull out, when that familiar constriction of your walls told him you were close. he'd do it until you were crying and begging underneath him, voice growing excrutiatingly hoarse. but, seeing as you already had tears in your eyes, he'd only do it once before he'd just maintain a harsh rhythm as you came around him.

”choso, fffuck”, you cried out, but he'd just keep going. his eyes were so focused on the silhouette of his dick moving in and out of you, as your stomach contracted, that he'd lost all sight of where he was. you could've told choso he was jupiter and the man would've believed you. he couldn't even remember why you guys had started fucking in the first place, all he knew was that he didn't want to stop. to choso, thinking about anything that wasn’t you was a waste of brain power. so he'd turn his brain off and let his body do whatever it wanted to. even if it meant overstimulation for the both of you.

your third nut would be pretty imminent, seeing as choso literally would not stop moving inside of you. but it'd be unlike the others,

”choso, g-gimme a s-second”, you'd say, and he'd shake his head because he knew what you were doing. choso knew your body, and he knew it well; he knew what you were trying to prevent well enough to know that it was the very thing he was striving for,

”you said you doing all this for me, baby.”, he'd remind you, ”’nd i wanna see you make a fucking mess on my dick.”, his words would do nothing but edge you closer to your nut.

”can you do that f’r me?”, he’d ask, and you’d nod your head.

”just f’r me?”, he’d ask, voice laboured, ”i don’t deserve you, baby”, he’d pout before moving down to connect your lips.

and, under his instruction, you’d just let that funny little feeling near your bladder do whatever it wanted to. one of your hands would be struggling to wrap around choso’s wrist, while the other would be gripping the sheets for dear life. the hand choso had placed on your neck would remain stagnant, movement only reserved for the other as it moved to your clit. worries about you moving because of how fast, and hard, he was fucking you were nonexistent because the sweat covering your body meant that you were adhered to the fabric underneath you. choso's tatted fingers would rub on your bud until you came on them, practically spraying him with your release.

a low chuckle would leave choso's mouth at the endearing view of you trying to calm your body down. heavy breaths would slither past your lips, but your eyes remained closed. choso’s hand would plant a light slap to your cheek to wake you back up, but it'd be to no avail. so he’d try once more, this time, grabbing your chin to shake your face until your eyes opened.

”say ‘ah’, baby girl”, he'd ask, and you'd open your mouth as wide as your slack jaw would allow. a line of spit would fall from his lips to your tongue before you'd swallow it, and he'd smirk to himself.

”didn’t even have to tell you what to do”, he’d snicker, and you’d smile contently up at him. the woman choso was seeing was so unlike the one he had met so many years ago, and he dreaded to think that the sweet glint in your eyes had bittered because of him. however, that dread would quickly fade and, in its place, would be a knowing smirk,

”shit, maybe i am a bad influence.”

[weasleyreidstyles]

Serendipity; snippets of navigating fifth year with Fred Weasley

series masterlist

based on a request from ages ago. its a little choppy, but bare with me, ive just suffered the worst bout of writer's block ever😓 (i'm actually so sad that i've neglected serendipity so much but im back and i have so many wips to share with you all!!!!)

pairing(s): fred weasley x fem!reader, brief theodore nott x fem!reader (platonic)

Hogwarts doesn't feel the same anymore. The usual air of magic had been snuffed out with each imposing rule that was nailed to the Entrance Hall walls. There is no more laughter in the corridors, no more soft chatter from the figures inside the magical portraits; instead the repetitive notes of Professor Umbridge's sugary sweet tone rattle over deafening speakers.

All boys and girls must remain eight inches apart from eachother.

There will be no house fraternising during meal times.

Talk of any unauthorised groups will be met with adequate punishment.

Curfew must be met by every member of the student body.

That last one still haunts you in your peaceful moments.

It's the reason you sit on one of the uncomfortable plush seats in Professor Umbridge's office, a cursed black quill clenched in your harsh grip as you write out those very words, the familiar cursive of your own handwriting etching painfully into the skin of your non-dominant hand. She was smirking at you under the guise of sipping lengthily from her pink teacup, watching as the tears steadily building in your eyes finally spilled down over your cheeks, which were flushed red from the pain.

How had you found yourself in this predicament exactly?

You were made a prefect at the start of the year, alongside Hermione and Ron, which you'd found out when you got your letter detailing which books you would need for your fifth year. You remember the pride written across your parents' faces and how elated you had been to be given such a prestigious role, one that many Ravenclaw students in your year wanted just as badly as you. It was a revered spot after all. Everyone was elated for you, but none more so than the oldest Weasley twin.

"Are you going to give us unlimited leeway with pranks now that you hold such a position of authority, gorgeous?" Fred's husky voice joked in a whisper as the two of you sat at the dining table during the small party that Molly and your mother had set up in celebration for the three of you.

"Are you asking me to take advantage of my new position, Weasley?" You ask, a small smirk making its way on your face as you fight the blush threatening to paint your cheeks at his sudden closeness.

All summer, he had been flirting with you. At first you put it down to his lack of contact to the outside world and you laughed at his well-timed jokes and played into his flirtations with rebutting jokes of your own.

But then one night, when you flirted back daringly, he kissed you. He actually kissed you. It wasn't your first kiss. No, that went to Harry in a random game of truth or dare back in second year (something you both agreed was wrong on so many levels; it was never discussed by any of you again). But this kiss with Fred felt incredible and it cemented a closer bond with the older twin, whose brilliantly blue eyes sparkled with something more whenever he stared at you after that moment.

He'd rewarded your achievement later that same evening, after the party, behind the closed door of your temporary bedroom, leaving you smiling and giddy for the rest of summer. It's what prompted Ginny and Hermione's loose bet as to how long it would take for the pair of you to get together officially.

Your elation lasted until the very moment you stepped into the Prefects' Carriage and found out who you'd be partnered up with for the year.

Theodore Nott. Notorious for his aloof attitude as well as his surprising intellect that rivalled Hermione's. He was part of Riddle's group, one of the most popular groups in school, possibly trumping even the Golden Trio. But because he was part of Riddle's crew you had learned to hate him just a little – his teasing remarks towards your friends, especially Ron, always sent you into a spiral of brewing animosity.

So when Alicia Spinnet, who had been given the prestigious role of Head Girl, announced that she was pairing you with him, you cast her a look of utter betrayal, which she vehemently ignored.

You did not speak to Nott for the entire time you were meant to familiarise yourselves with eachother, and he made no effort either; grey eyes misted over as if he wasn't even part of the present conversation altogether. Gods how you despised him.

~∞~

Upon returning to your original compartment, following slowly behind Ron and Hermione, Fred had immediately seen your crestfallen look.

"What's up, gorgeous?" he asked from his seat by the window, ignoring Ron's faux gagging at the nickname. He'd also moved further into the corner to allow you the space to sit down.

You thanked him with a quiet smile before sitting down with a sigh.

"Alicia paired me with Nott for prefect rounds. How unfortunate is that?" You mumble, resting your head dejectedly against his burly shoulder.

"You're joking?!" He says with wide eyes. "What the hell was she thinking?"

"I assume it was because Davies paired Parkinson with your counterpart, so you got paired with Nott as a consequence." Hermione said from the opposite seat. "The Ravenclaws and Slytherins in sixth and seventh year were paired together as well."

Yes that was an overarching trend that had seemed to stick over the years.

"Maybe it won't be too bad." Ginny says and you all turn to her in synchronised disbelief. "What? I've never seen Nott speak. Maybe that'll be a good thing. A mute partner is better than a snarky one."

"Just the thought of being in his presence makes me uncomfortable. Mute or not." You say quietly, so only Fred can hear.

"If he does or says anything to you, let me know yeah?" He replied with equal secrecy and you nod your head imperceptibly in response.

He lets you use his shoulder as a makeshift pillow when you find your eyes closing drowsily, brushing the loose hair that falls into your face and ignoring George's knowing glances.

~∞~

The very first round of Prefect duties was utterly boring and painfully long. You and Nott had patrolled the Astronomy corridor with lacklustre precision, both eager to get away from eachother's presence.

It was like this for a while, a few months to be exact, until you both became accustomed to the silence, to the point where it was actually bareable. No longer were rounds a labourous activity; you and Nott began to partake in small talk, to the most minute extent – in no way did this make you aquainted and in the daylight, you returned to steely looks and barely contained snarls of discontent, which was mirrored by your friends, and his. You barely noticed the extra attention that Voldemort's son seemed to be giving you as your friendship with Theo progressed at a steadily growing pace.

At your budding friendship with the Slytherin Prefect, Fred began showing up at the end of your rounds to whisk you away, never sparing Theo a glance. The two of you would wander the desolate corridors, hands interlocked as you spoke quietly and unhurriedly. You noticed that Fred, always grinning and never unnecessarily angry, would grow agitated in Theo's presence and you never understood why.

Until one night, when Fred was loitering at the end of your last corridor to patrol, Theo had said something that made you burst into pearls of laughter; his face had lit up with a delighted smirk at the sound.

Fred's face was stoic and so unnaturally like his usual cadence that it took you completely by surprise.

"Of course you're waiting here, Weasley." Theo had mumbled, mostly to himself, but Fred had bristled from where he was leaning against the wall.

"You have a problem with that, Nott?" He had snarled and you'd looked at him with widened eyes at the edge in his voice.

Eager to defuse the tension, you took Fred's hand and gave Theo a look that read 'stop being an arsehole', before leading the ginger boy away.

Theo had gone back to his best friend to report that Mattheo's suspicions were indeed correct: you had been learning Legillimancy and had unknowingly spoken to Theo without so much as moving your lips.

And Fred had no idea.

~∞~

This routine continued for you and Fred, leaving you at the butt end of George and Lee's teasing. You came to expect him to be waiting at the end of your rounds, where you would part ways with Theo before spending at least an hour in Fred's presence.

On some occasions when it was far too cold to continue wandering the hallways at night, he would tell you to go straight to the Gryffindor common room, where there would be a fire in the hearth and plenty of blankets to snuggle into.

On such occasions, Theo offered to walk you there, despite him not wanting to be anywhere near the lions' den. It was during these times where your friendship with him became cemented as pure and real. Your friends were surprised when you actively sought eachother out during lessons.

Fred hated your budding friendship, but he said nothing about it; it wasn't his place to undermine your friendships.

But it became hard to hold his tongue when Professor Umbridge unveiled her new Inquisitorial Squad, which Theo and his friends had joined in quick succession.

The Inquisitorial Squad was a massive hindrance for Dumbledore's Army. The lot of you had to be more vigilant with your timings for the meet ups in the Room of Requirement, lest you get caught out by these glorified prefects. The Inquisitorial Squad is how you ended up in her office in the first place.

You had been patrolling with Theo, who was complaining about how frustrating having magicless lessons was becoming in the lead up to ypur OWL exams (you'd felt guilty about the DA not including any Slytherins all year, and this further cemented that feeling), when Adrian Pucey and Professor Umbridge came waltzing around the corner.

"Good evening Master Nott." the Professor says warmly, before her gaze sweeps over to you and her beady eyes catch onto the flashy Prefect badge pinned proudly tp your chest.

"Miss Meadow, why are you out past curfew?" She asks with faux concern, mouth twisting with a sadistic smirk.

"Uh-" You look at Theo, who looks just as startled as you. "We're just about to finish our rounds, Professor."

Umbridge lets out a heinous giggle that grates on your nerve.

"Oh my dear, didn't you see the newest decree?" She asks, her face alight with victory when you shake your head. "I have no need for Prefects anymore. I disproved them as a group."

"Wha- Why?" you ask, disbelief painted across your face. Pucey smirks as he looks from you to Theo.

"The Inquisitorial Squad has overtaken that job, Meadow." He spits your name like its dirt on the bottom of his shoe. You share a look of alarm with Theo.

I knew nothing of this Meadow, I promise you.

He looks sincere and you believe him, word for word.

"This sheer display of disobedience cannot go unpunished." Her harsh giggle is the only sound that fills the corridor.

She hands you a detention on a silver platter and you go into it blind. You didn't know that Harry had been trying to protect you, Ron and Hermione from the same fate as him.

~∞~

She dismissed you with a delighted giggle after an hour of writing the same line over and over again.

Curfew must be met by every member of the student body.

Your hand is throbbing from the pain, but all you feel is numb. You wander the hallways like a ghost, not bothering to pay mind to where you're walking, until you find yourself at the portrait of the Fat Lady leading to the Gryffindor common room.

"Password?!" Elizabeth says impatiently, as if she'd been repeating herself over and over.

"Gillyweed." You mumble and she finally takes in your appearance, completely forgetting to open the portrait hole.

"Oh my dear, are you alright?" She says, voice full of concern, and if she were able to, you're sure she'd reach a hand out and place it delicately onto your shoulder.

"'M fine, Elizabeth. Just need to sit down." You didn't realise how tired you were, but from the slurring of your words and the speed with which the portrait swings open, with no hesitation towards the blue and bronze tie donning your neck, you must be on the verge of collapsing.

Fred sees you first.

"Meadow? What are you doing here, gorgeous?" he asks, voice filled with concern.

"Don't know. But 'M really sleepy." You say and you grip at his arms with barely any strength, which he notes with wide, panicking eyes.

"Shit- okay, come on let's go upstairs."

He guides you slowly towards his dorm, ignoring his brothers and Hermione and Harry's looks of worry. He sees the blood dripping from your hand in the dim light of the room, which prompts him to usher you much faster.

He sits you on the marble of the ensuit bathroom, the cold of the tiles barely registers to you.

He's mumbling a series of healing charms against your hand, jaw clenching when the blood flow slows enough for him to see the culprit of your bloodlust.

"Did she do this to you?" He asks, his voice as low as a growl that has your thigh clenching at the tone.

"Technically," You start with a weak laugh, "I did this to myself. She told me what to write."

"It's not funny, gorgeous." He says with a frown that you manage to wipe away with a peck of your lips.

"It's fine, Freddie."

"No. It's not."

You can practically see the plans forming in his brain and the next day, a series of crazed birds are let loose in the Great Hall, all headed straight for the newly appointed Head Mistress, Fred's smirking face meeting her's with no hesitation.

His hand sports similar wounds to you by the end of the day and you patch him up in the same fashion that he did for you.

~∞~

You don't show up to your scheduled Prefect meetings for the rest of the year, and you avoid Theo in the corridors, much to your friends' delight.

His voice in your mind is the only point of contact that you have with your Italian friend, something you keep hidden from your friends, especially Fred.

You look sad, tesoro. He says from across the Great Hall, days after your first detention with Umbridge. You sit facing the Slytherin table beside Luna Lovegood, who looks between you, Fred and Theo imperceptibly.

I'm not sad. I'm bored.

Yes because I'm sure the Gryffindor table is just a delight to be seated at.

You scoff outwardly at his sarcasm.

"What're you scoffing about, gorgeous?" Fred's voice says from behind you. You sneak a look towards Theo, who seems to have engaged himself in a conversation with Riddle and Berkshire, not showing that he was just immersed in conversation with you mere seconds ago.

"Just thinking about all the ways I want to make Umbridge suffer." You say with an offhanded shrug. Luna giggles into the palm of her hand.

"I have plenty of ideas." He says with a smirk as he drags you from your seat and into the corridors beyond the Great Hall.

Professor Umbridge may have cast a cloud of sorrow over the magic of Hogwarts, but nothing could take away the fun you'd been having in the stolen moments with your best friend's brother.

Not even the fact that he was leaving prematurely. Certainly not after you convince yourself to share your growing feelings for him, to have that snuffed out by his secret declaration.

Your chance with him is taken from you as he and George sail away from Hogwarts with guffawing laughter at the sight of Umbridge's sour face. They're off to live their lifelong dream, taking your dreams with them.

The next time you see Fred is after you watch Sirius' body fall through the veil, mind and body too numb to process any and all of your feelings. You only reach out for Teddy in your mind, a comforting voice of reason for all you'd seen. Even the strangely beautiful sight of the thestrals, that were invisible only hours before, did not phase you.

You fell into Theo's comforting embrace the moment you were able to leave the Hospital Wing, Fred Weasley long forgotten at Ron's bedside.

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[queenshelby]

Auctioned (P. 3)

Pairing: Dark!Thomas Shelby x Virgin!Reader/OC

Warning: Darkish Themes, Prostitution, Smut, Eventual Loss of Virginity, Dubious Consent, Corruption, Destructive Behavior, Massive Age Gap

Notes: Damn, I had this in my drafts for a while but could not publish it as I was a little afraid about how it would be perceived. Also this is the first time I used an OC, so be gentle with me.

You settled into your new life at Arrow House, a grand estate where elegance and opulence intertwined with darkness and danger. As a shy and inexperienced woman, you had much to learn about the ways of pleasing Thomas Shelby, the dominant gangster who ruled over this unforgiving world.

The days passed slowly as you acclimated to your surroundings. You found solace in the stables, where the horses seemed unbothered by the treacheries that lurked beyond the estate's walls. Their gentle presence offered a temporary respite from the weight of your newfound responsibilities.

Inside the library, you delved into books, seeking knowledge and distraction. It became your sanctuary, a place of refuge where the stories transported you to distant lands, far from the clutches of Thomas Shelby's demanding presence. 

The library was adorned with antique furniture, its rich scent of leather bindings and aged parchment elevating the ambience.

You felt safe there, hidden amidst the countless tomes that were silent witnesses to the sins committed within these walls. But even here, you couldn't escape the shadow of Thomas Shelby. His presence loomed over everything, a constant reminder of your precarious position.

Alison often visited you in the library, offering her wisdom about navigating your role as Thomas' "possession". Her guidance was invaluable, yet it never seemed enough to fully ease your fears.

The more time you spent with Thomas, the clearer it became that he was a man of many contradictions – tender one moment, cruel the next.

***

One evening, after a lavish dinner party, you were summoned to his office. Nervously, you followed Alison down the corridor, trying to hide your trembling hands behind your back. She glanced back at you with a reassuring smile, reminding you to breathe and find your centre.

Thomas waited patiently inside his office, seated upon his large, comfortable leather chair. He leaned back, studying you with an unreadable gaze. The room was dimly lit, adding to the air of mystery surrounding him.

"Y/N," he began, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through your core. "Tonight, I require your services as Alison has not been feeling too well." His eyes flickered to Alison, who stood quietly beside you, nodding, and you took a deep breath, feeling your nerves calm slightly as you tried to focus on the task ahead. 

Thomas continued, "You have proven yourself capable before, so I know you can handle this." Your confidence wavered slightly as you considered the pressure he placed upon you. But you knew it was necessary to prove yourself to him once again. 

As such, and without words, you approached him, kneeling on the floor in front of his imposing presence. He allowed you to take control, giving you an opportunity to showcase your talents while still hurrying you along since he had business to attend to. 

"You have fifteen minutes, Love. I suggest you get to it, eh?" Tommy pointed out while he opened his belt and then his zipper. 

Your heart raced faster than usual; your hands trembled as you reached out to touch him. Time seemed to slow down, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breaths and the rustling of his clothes as his erection was revealed to you once again.

His powerful thighs his commanding presence, all enveloped you, making you feel like you were floating outside of your body, a mere observer of the events unfolding.

With shaking hands, you reached forward, letting your fingers brush against his skin, feeling the heat radiating from him. You could sense his impatience growing as you wrapped your hand around his hard, throbbing length.

He wanted satisfaction quickly and efficiently. You focused intently on your task, desperate to prove yourself worthy to him.

"Come on, Love, use your mouth," his eyes remained cold and distant, making you question if your efforts were truly appreciated.

"Yes, Mr Shelby," you confirmed before taking his length into your mouth with a mixture of nervous excitement and determination. Your tongue swirled around the head, tracing patterns designed to bring him pleasure. You listened carefully to the sound of his breathing, monitoring the rhythm to match your movements.

"That's it, Love. Keep going," he eventually groaned as hips shifted restlessly, and you maintained your focus, determined to prove yourself worthy of his attention.

With each passing minute, your resolve grew stronger, driven by the desire to win his approval.

Your mouth moved fluidly up and down his length, creating an erotic dance that matched the tempo of his breathing. His moans and gasps intensified, feeding your confidence as you perfected your technique.

Time seemed to warp around you, as if every second was a lifetime spent entirely under his gaze. Your lips wrapped tightly around him, sucking firmly, creating waves of pleasure coursing through his body. With each movement, you felt your power grow, and your connection to him deepened.

"Good girl, keep your tongue firm against my cock", he groaned, his grip on the armrest tightening, his eyes burning with intensity.

Your hands worked together, caressing his thighs, teasing his balls gently. You could feel his arousal building, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Yes, just like that…" he muttered, his voice thick with desire.

Every word, every touch, served to fuel your determination.

As the minutes ticked away, the intensity of your focus heightened.

You could hear the echo of your laboured breaths, the creak of the leather chair, and the subtle click of the clock. Each sensation brought you closer to achieving the level of mastery you sought.

The warmth emanating from Thomas radiated onto your face, filling your nose with the distinct scent of masculinity. His fingers clenched and unclenched, mirroring the turbulent storm of his thoughts and emotions.

Alison watched from a distance, silently observing both of you, her expression a mix of admiration and concern.

"Almost there, Love. Fuck," he cursed, his hand reaching back to play with your hair. "Don't stop now," he commanded, a possessive tone in his voice. His gaze held yours, daring you to defy him, but you knew better than to test his patience.

You kept working diligently, maintaining eye contact with him, allowing him to see the depth of your commitment. Your lips continued to slide up and down his length, creating a rhythmic pattern designed to please him.

"I expect you to swallow every drop, Love," he went on to say before; with a loud roar, he came, shooting hot liquid into your mouth.

Your reflexes kicked in instinctively, taking his seed into your mouth, savouring the taste as he let out a long, satisfying sigh. His breathing gradually slowed down, and he released you from his grasp.

You gently touched his thigh, looking up at him with a mixture of humility and pride, unsure of how he would react. He looked down at you, a slight grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Not bad, Love. Not bad at all." His praise sent a surge of relief through you, washing away any lingering doubts about your abilities. 

"Thank you, sir," you confirmed before licking the remnants of seed from your lips.

You felt a strange mix of apprehension and accomplishment, proud of your ability to provide him with pleasure yet concerned about what the future might hold.

***

Over the next two days, you spent more time at the stables, and even Thomas joined you on one occasion, taking an interest in your passion for horses. 

As he watched you tend to the animals, you found yourself sharing anecdotes about your life before Thomas Shelby. His attention focused solely on you as you shared stories about your family and childhood dreams. Despite the awkwardness of sharing such personal experiences, it strengthened your bond with him.

He listened intently, asking questions about your past, genuinely interested in understanding who you were beyond the physical aspects of your relationship. It was during those moments that you realised Thomas possessed a complexity rarely seen in others.

As you tended to the horses, he observed you with a keen eye, almost as if he was searching for something deeper. He inquired about your love for horses and how it had begun. Your heart fluttered at the genuine curiosity in his eyes, and you shared your tale with fervour. You spoke of your first horse, a gentle mare named Whisper, who taught you the art of connection and trust. It was evident in his expressions that your words resonated with him, striking a chord that few other subjects ever did.

As you shared your stories, Thomas became increasingly invested in learning more about you. He asked probing questions, seeking to understand the motivations behind your actions and choices.

You couldn't help but be amazed by his genuine curiosity and openness. In the midst of it all, you found yourself drawn to him in ways you never imagined possible. The warmth in his eyes whenever he looked at you was intoxicating, leaving you yearning for more.

Yet, you remained cautious not to let your feelings for him run wild. You cherished these rare moments of solitude where he appeared vulnerable and engaged.

As the days passed, you continued to learn more about him, too. He revealed parts of himself that surprised you, and you discovered a gentler side hidden beneath his hard exterior. However, you couldn't help but notice the darkness that occasionally clouded his eyes, hinting at a past filled with pain and betrayal.

It left you wondering how someone so wounded could find joy in a world that seemingly brought him nothing but suffering. As you delved deeper into his history, you uncovered the reason behind his controlling nature. It was a need to protect himself, and he seemingly enjoyed the thrill of being the one in charge.

Taking charge was exactly what he did that same night again when you were called into his chambers, and it was Alison who gave you a pep talk before your impending encounter. 

"Tomorrow night, Mr Shelby wants to claim what he acquired during the auction," Alison told you softly. 

"You will be spending time with him alone. This is what he wants," she added, her voice steady and confident.

You nodded in understanding, knowing full well that giving in to his desires would keep you safe and secure within his domain. 

She placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, telling you not to worry about it too much.

"You will do well; I have no doubt about it. Despite this, Mr. Shelby seems to have a soft spot for your innocent nature. I think it intrigues and arouses him all at the same time," Alison explained, watching you carefully. 

"But don't fret; it's just another aspect of his personality. He enjoys pushing boundaries and testing limits." She smiled reassuringly, offering advice to calm your nerves.

"Which brings us to tonight, where he wants to see us both to ensure that, come tomorrow, you are ready to lose your virginity to him," Alison exclaimed, and thus, as the night fell, Alison led you through the labyrinthine hallways of Arrow House, guiding you towards Thomas Shelby's private quarters. The anticipation and nerves danced in your chest, each step amplifying the thump of your heartbeat.

Finally, you stood before the imposing door, your palms slightly damp as Alison knocked, her knuckles rapping against the solid wood. The sound reverberated through the silence, announcing your arrival. You had not been in his bedroom before and were surprised that tonight, this was where he wanted you both to come.

The door creaked open, revealing Thomas Shelby, his eyes sharp and piercing as they scanned both you and Alison. His lips curled into a predatory smile, and you felt a shiver trickle down your spine.

"Come in, close the door," Thomas said, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

Alison stepped aside, allowing you to enter first. You walked slowly across the threshold, careful not to make eye contact with Thomas, your heart racing in your chest. You followed the path Alison had shown you earlier that evening, walking towards the centre of the room. As you approached, Thomas' presence became more pronounced, enveloping you in his powerful aura.

"Y/N, stand here," he ordered, pointing to a spot near the edge of the large, ornate bed. As you moved closer, the fine detailing of the furniture around you caught your attention.

The opulence of the room seemed to overwhelm you, a stark contrast to the simple life you had once known. Standing beside Alison, you took it all in – the rich fabric of the curtains, the intricate patterns carved into the bedposts, and the sense of power that hung thick in the air. Thomas' eyes bore into you, his intensity causing your pulse to race faster.

Alison broke the silence, addressing Thomas with a calm demeanour. "Mr. Shelby, Y/N has proven herself capable of pleasing you, so what do you expect of her tonight?" she asked.

His lips tightened, the lines around his eyes deepening.

"Well, first, I want to see how receptacle she is to my touch, and then, we shall see, eh?” Tommy said, and your heart raced as you absorbed his words, trying to hide your nervousness.

Alison seemed unfazed by his crude language, her face remaining composed.

"Of course, Mr. Shelby," she replied coolly, maintaining her composure despite the demanding situation.

Tommy's eyes locked onto yours, assessing your reaction. He leaned back against the bedpost, his gaze turning predatory. "Let's begin then."

You hesitated for a moment, feeling the heat of embarrassment rise within you.

"Undress, Sweetheart," Tommy then ordered, his tone commanding and authoritative. With trembling hands, you began to shed your clothes, revealing your body to him for the first time as you stood there, vulnerable and exposed.

Tommy walked towards you, his eyes trailing across your now-exposed body. You held your breath, trying to mask your discomfort. "Beautiful," he whispered, running his fingers lightly along your skin.

You felt your cheeks flush as you met his gaze, a mixture of surprise and attraction burning in your eyes.

Without warning, he grasped your wrist, pulling you toward him. Your breath hitched as you found yourself pressed against his hard chest, the heat of his body seeping into yours. You closed your eyes, trying to remain composed amidst the intense sensations coursing through your body.

"Don't be afraid, Love," he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

"This isn't something to be ashamed of." Your eyes met his, finding solace in the sincerity of his words. You allowed yourself to relax slightly, the tension easing from your shoulders. As your confidence grew, so did the desire coursing through your veins.

He led you over to the bed, sitting you down on its edge. He positioned himself behind you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. "You must trust me, eh," he whispered into your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

"I won't hurt you." His tender touch made you believe him, even though a part of you wondered if he was lying. Still, you found yourself wanting to surrender completely to him despite the lingering uncertainty.

Slowly, he ran his hands up and down your arms, gently tracing the curves of your body. His touch was gentle yet firm, stirring both excitement and trepidation within you. The warmth of his touch caused your heart to beat faster, filling you with a longing for more.

His touch was masterful, expertly skimming over your skin with just enough pressure to leave you wanting. As his hands continued their journey down your body, you found yourself growing increasingly aroused. You were caught between the desire to satiate your yearnings and the fear of revealing too much of yourself.

Your mind drifted to the various lessons Alison had taught you, trying to find strength in those memories. You remembered the way she spoke of Thomas, describing him as possessive yet kind.

"Now, listen carefully," he began, his voice resonating with control. 

"I want you to lie down, legs spread open so that I can get a good look at what I acquired," Thomas told you before gesturing for Alison to join you on the large bed.

Alison, ever composed, obeyed his order without hesitation. You watched her, taking note of her composure.

"Come here, pet, rest your head on my lap and present yourself to who owns you now," she said, her language surprisingly crude and dominant, just like Thomas enjoyed it.

You felt your heart quicken, unsure if you could fully comprehend her words. But as Thomas' strong fingers wrapped around your nape, you realised that you needed to submit to his will, as Alison had advised you previously.

So, you obliged, placing your head upon his strong lap and looking up into his penetrating eyes. They were cold, like steel, but there was also a hint of tenderness beneath it.

"Spread your legs wide for me, Love," he commanded, his voice harsh yet commanding.

Obeying instinctively, you extended your legs, feeling the vulnerability of your exposed position. As you lay there, exposed and submissive, you couldn't help but feel the intense mixture of fear and arousal coursing through your veins.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice echoing throughout the room. Unwilling to disobey, you raised your gaze to meet his steely eyes.

"Do you understand that you belong to me? That your body belongs to me?" He asked, his tone demanding an answer.

Nodding your head, you acknowledged his claim, feeling the weight of his ownership settling upon your shoulders. You swallowed hard, the lump forming in your throat growing larger with each passing second. As you lay there, feeling the heat radiating from his body, you tried to come to terms with the fact that you belonged to him.

"Good girl," he cooed. "Now let me have a look and see whether you are really still a virgin, eh?" Tommy smirked playfully, his eyes filled with curiosity and determination. Despite your anxiety, you felt a rush of excitement surge through your veins. This was a new experience, one that would change your life forever.

As you lay there, exposed and vulnerable, the room was filled with an electric tension. The atmosphere was charged with desire and apprehension. Your eyes darted to Alison, who remained poised and calm, seemingly unaffected by the intensity of the situation. She smiled at you encouragingly, conveying confidence and reassurance.

Your heart skipped a beat as Thomas approached, his powerful presence casting a shadow over you.

"Are you ready?" he whispered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your core.

Nodding your head, you managed a small smile, hoping it conveyed your readiness. Your stomach flipped in anticipation, and your heart raced in your chest.

"That's my good girl," he responded his approval warming your soul. He leaned in, his rough fingers tenderly tracing your cheekbone.

"Trust me, Love, I will be gentle. I won't claim you just yet, not until tomorrow night," he whispered softly, his warm breath tickling your ear. Your heart leapt, caught between excitement and apprehension. You wanted to give yourself wholly to him, even though doubt still lingered in the back of your mind. However, Alison's assurance that Thomas wasn't entirely cruel lent you some comfort.

With a delicate touch, he began exploring your body. His hands brushed over your sensitive skin, eliciting waves of pleasure you'd never imagined possible before, finally descending to your core to assess the condition of what he purchased.

You felt a mixture of nervousness and anticipation as his fingers traced over your slit before he opened you up slightly. He then used two fingers to spread your pussy lips open slightly, determining the truth of your virginity.

You felt a twinge of pain and discomfort, which only heightened your awareness of your vulnerability. Yet, simultaneously, you found yourself becoming increasingly aroused by the intense sensations.

As he examined you, you felt a strange blend of fear and arousal, a complex mix of emotions that you had never experienced before. The knowledge that you belonged to Thomas, that he could do anything he pleased with you, sent a thrill of excitement coursing through your veins.

"You are already wet, my love. Are you enjoying this?" Tommy asked his voice husky with desire. You nodded, unable to find your voice due to the intensity of the sensations coursing through your body. His fingers were skilled, teasing you expertly, drawing out your pleasure and tormenting you simultaneously. It was a sensation, unlike anything you had ever experienced before, leaving you craving more of his touch.

Thomas's gaze locked onto yours, his expression one of satisfaction and control. "You're so responsive, sweetheart," he purred, leaning in to press his lips against your forehead.

"Let's see how you taste, eh?" Tommy said, wanting to run his tongue through your slit.

You couldn't hide the mixture of fear and excitement that gripped you at his proposal. But as his face drew closer to your core, you felt a surge of trust welling up inside you. Perhaps it was because Alison had been so kind and reassuring, or maybe it was simply your growing desire for Thomas. Whatever the reason, you allowed him to take you in his mouth, opening your legs wider to accommodate him.

As he began to taste you, you closed your eyes, letting the exquisite sensations wash over you.

Thomas's mouth moved skillfully, causing waves of pleasure to course through your body. You moaned softly, lost in the intensity of the moment.

Meanwhile, Alison watched you both intently, silently observing the interplay between you and Thomas. There was a sense of pride in her eyes but also some profound jealousy.

She wanted Thomas to acknowledge her as his primary source of lust, not some inferior second choice. However, she knew that your innocence held certain allurements for Thomas. Thus, she didn't show her feelings on her face, hiding them well.

You, however, were too preoccupied with the sensations cascading through your body to notice her jealousy.

The sensations continued to build, culminating in a powerful climax that left you shuddering. Thomas released you from his grasp, pulling away to admire your flushed face and quivering form.

You looked up at him, the afterglow of passion evident in your eyes. His gaze burned with possession and desire, the power dynamic between you tangible in the air.

"This is just tonight's beginning, Love," he murmured softly, a wicked grin playing on his lips, and your heart raced as you processed his words, anticipation building within you. 

"Now, what do you think, Alison? How many fingers could I get into her virgin hole without tearing her?" Tommy asked, his voice laced with dark desire for you.

Alison raised her brows in a challenge and considered for a moment. "Two fingers, no more than that," she replied confidently. 

"Two, eh?" Tommy mocked. "How about we start with one, Love?" Tommy suggested before asking you to spread your legs wide again. 

As you complied, your nerves became jangled with anticipation.

You looked at Alison, seeking guidance from her as you lay there, exposed and vulnerable. Her cool demeanour seemed unshaken, giving you courage. She smiled reassuringly, telling you that you could handle this.

As Thomas moved closer, his hands slowly caressed your thighs, sending shivers down your spine. He took his time, pressing his first fingers against your entrance, attempting to penetrate you gently.

You cringed at the sudden intrusion, your body tensing in response.

Thomas, surprised by your tightness, forced his digit into you nonetheless.

You cried out in pain, your body resisting his intrusion. He stopped, hesitated for a moment, then pulled his finger out carefully. Alison's expression remained unchanged, unperturbed by your distress.

"You may need some practice, Love," Thomas commented, his voice dripping with condescension. You bit your lip, trying to control your tears, fighting back the urge to succumb to despair. You refused to accept defeat, determined to prove your worth in Thomas's eyes.

"I can take more than one finger, sir," you said defiantly, looking directly into his eyes. Thomas regarded you with a mix of curiosity and appreciation.

"Let's see how much you can truly take, Love," he murmured, his tone hinting at the challenge ahead. Slowly, he pressed his second finger against your entrance, this time applying more pressure. You winced, your body instinctively protesting the intrusion.

Thomas observed your reaction closely, his eyes narrowing in concentration.

As you clenched your teeth, refusing to cry out in pain, he pushed his finger deeper into you. Despite the burning sensation, you maintained your resolve, staring straight into his eyes with determination. Alison continued to watch from the sidelines, her demeanour unmoved by your discomfort.

"Not bad, Love," Thomas acknowledged, his voice imbued with respect. His fingers flexed within you, pushing further in as you tried to bear the increasing discomfort.

Your face contorted with pain, your body struggling to adjust to the foreign invasion. With each incremental advance, you gritted your teeth, silently vowing to overcome the pain.

Alison's gaze remained steady, unwavering, her expression betraying no sympathy for your suffering. As your agony intensified, you felt a renewed sense of determination, fueled by your need to prove yourself worthy in Thomas's eyes.

Sweat trickled down your forehead, a testament to your resolve.

"I can take it," you reassured Tommy again, even with tears forming in the corner of your eyes.

Thomas was now visibly impressed with your resilience. He admired your courage and tenacity in the face of immense pain.

"I know you can, Love, but I don't want to stretch you too much just yet. My cock will take care of that tomorrow night," he groaned, withdrawing his fingers from you, causing a wave of relief to wash over you.

You wiped away the tears, taking deep breaths to calm your ragged nerves. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, trying to regain composure.

Alison watched Thomas's every move with an unreadable expression, her thoughts hidden behind her emotionless mask. She seemed neither envious nor impressed, merely observant.

 You looked at Thomas, seeing something new in his eyes - a hint of admiration, perhaps even respect." Tomorrow night, Love, I will not be so kind," Tommy then said to you, his voice carrying a warning mixed with promise. Your heart skipped a beat, the excitement growing within you before he told you to leave his bedroom so that he could finish off with Alison.

"Mr Shelby, may I watch? Perhaps I could learn something from it for our encounter tomorrow night," you suggested, and Thomas smirked.

"By all means, Love, you can watch while fuck Alison. Although bear in mind that what I am about to do to her is not something you will be capable of enduring just yet, eh" Thomas said before motioning for Alison to come over so that he could fuck her.

She approached him with a cool confidence, undoubtedly aware of the power dynamics between them.

Your eyes followed every movement, absorbing the raw, primal energy of their interaction.

Without losing any time, Alison got on to all fours.

"Very good, Alison. She knows that this is how I like to fuck her," Tommy said before he took position behind her, grasping her hips firmly and pulling her close to him.

He was hard and ready after having toyed with you for an hour, and, without losing any time, he lined himself up with Alison's entrance without giving consideration as to whether she was wet enough or not. 

His forceful entry caused Alison to let out a sharp gasp, her body jolting slightly as she tried to adapt to his unexpectedly brutal thrust.

Thomas, driven by lust and power, took control of the situation, forcing Alison to submit to his desires. Her resistance, if there ever was any, was crushed under the weight of his dominance.

You watched with bated breath, fascinated by the spectacle unfolding before you. Alison's face remained impassive, though her eyes betrayed a mixture of pain and resignation.

In her moments of quiet defiance, she would occasionally look over at you, her gaze holding a subtle challenge. It was clear that she was both envious and threatened by your presence, torn between admiration for Thomas's preference for you and fear of being replaced entirely.

As Thomas continued his brutal assault on Alison, you found yourself growing increasingly aroused by the sight. The erotic tension between them heightened, fuelling your own desires.

You could not help but feel a twinge of envy as you watched Thomas and Alison engage in their fierce, unapologetic union. Their bodies moved in harmony, each thrust eliciting a moan or grunt from the other. Thomas's strength and dominance contrasted beautifully with Alison's feigned indifference, creating a seductive dance of power and submission.

Your heart raced as you observed their fervent exchange, your breath quickening with each powerful thrust.

The atmosphere in the room was charged with palpable sexual tension, leaving you feeling utterly captivated. Alison's performance was a masterclass in maintaining composure despite the brutality of Thomas's thrusts. It was almost as if she enjoyed being on the receiving end of his domination, albeit with a veiled resentment towards you for being his chosen concubine.

As the intensity of their coupling reached its peak, Thomas pulled out of Allison and called for you.

"Kneel and open your mouth. I want you to take my cum" he said, his voice laced with authority. You felt a surge of power as you obeyed him, opening your mouth eagerly, your lips parted in anticipation. Thomas's arousal was evident as he stood above you, his eyes filled with desire.

"Make sure you swallow, eh?" he groaned before shooting his load into your open mouth. Your cheeks bulged as you swallowed, savouring the taste of his seed as it coursed down your throat. The act served as a reminder of your place in his world – submissive and willing to please him at any cost.

Thomas watched you intently, a hint of satisfaction playing across his features. His gaze held a mixture of admiration and possession, making you feel cherished but also owned. Alison, having witnessed the entire encounter, glared at you with a jealous, defiant air.

You held her gaze, unfazed by her hostility. Though you were physically weak, your spirit was strong, unbowed by her disapproval. The battle lines had been drawn, and you knew that your relationship with Thomas would only grow more complicated as time passed.

As you cleaned up, you could not help but feel a sense of accomplishment. Though the evening's events left you drained and sore, you knew Thomas's trust in you had grown significantly.

[studentinpursuitofclouds]

Now that the farmer can have a big ass house with all the beds they want, what if the SVE adventurers (plus canon characters like Marlon) and the RSV ninjas used it as a base of operations when they have joint missions? After all, they wouldn't be collaborating if it wasn't for our dear farmer lol Let's suspend our disbelief and ignore the existance of warp totems and relics and magic for a second. Who would treat it as a fun sleepover/slumber party? Who would be the most normal about it? Who would be so fucking annoyed? Who would share rooms/cook/offer to help with the farm? And if the farmer was married to one of the ninjas or adventurers, how would they manage to balance being a good host with getting some privacy? Don't even get me started with children, I'm sure someone would be stuck on babysitting duty 😂 Anyway Mouse don't worry about replying to this asap, take your time and most importantly have fun!!! sending a tight cyber hug your way 💖

With this situation, Farmer can already film a reality show at their house "My neighbour is an adventurer" or something, it would be hilarious 😂

Love your idea so much, thanks a lot Lotus! Sending you hugs as well 🤗

Warning: there's a lot of text here...

_________________________________________

Isaac:

Isaac will be strongly opposed to the temporary cohabitation in Farmer's house with the "neighbours" for two main reasons. Firstly, it's his pride and the old song about "real adventurers". You know, "only nobles weaklings sleep in their beds until noon, while seasoned adventurers get up at first roster call, and don't need separate outposts to live in" *looks in the direction of one of his colleagues*. Isaac will eat bug meat and sleep outside on his cloak just to prove he's a real adventurer. And secondly, his distrust of the Cult. The Guilds and Cult leaders may have made a truce with temporary co-operation, but that doesn't mean Isaac likes it, and he'll blatantly tell anyone who asks and doesn't ask. But no one asked for the scarred man's opinion, as usual, so here he is in the room of the cosy house in Stardew Valley that Farmer has kindly provided.

Despite the occasional barking in the direction of Jio and Daia, Isaac is a actually acceptable roommate. He doesn't need a big space, only a bed and a bedside table, doesn't rampage, doesn't leave trash, respects the host and the rules of the house, and tries not to interfere with Farmer's family life, if they are already married. Help from him, however, is not expected, but not because of pride. Isaac is not used to civil life. Especially since he's only living here temporarily because of the mission in Stardew Valley and working with the cult, so he'll be busy. Farmer's offer to join them for dinner will also leave him in a bit of a stupor, though he will not refuse hot soup. Everything is so strange, different environment, different life, not like in the Castle Village. There's even something about it (though he's not likely to say it out loud).

Lance:

Well, Lance will gladly accept the Farmer's generous offer to let him stay at their home while the totem shortage and commonwealth with the new clan is resolved. It would save him from wasting time travelling and looking for accommodation in Pelican Town and Ridgeside Village. The price is not an issue, just that the gallant adventurer is still not used to walking around town with civilians, the Guilds and taverns are more familiar to him. He wouldn't be too surprised by the neighbours, as the pink-haired man knew that the Farmer had offered both the Guild and the Cult to stay with them. Relations with the members of the Red Tail Lady Cult would also be ok, even friendly, as Lance believed in their good intentions. Although their methods leave much to be desired, and the adventurer communicates and behaves all the same carefully, so as not to provoke conflict.

In terms of being a roommate - Lance is an excellent neighbour: he respects the rules of the house, the room and things are always clean, and if Farmer allows, he will magically help them in some chores, like cleaning the house (he can do it with a snap of his fingers). Helping out on the farm is a bit different, as Lance doesn't know anything about growing crops other than monster plants. However, he won't refuse help if it's related to his adventurer activities: brewing potions, helping with slimes, that sort of thing. Lance is one of the people who might agree to help Farmer look after their children if he doesn't have an urgent mission. And in the event that he is the Farmer's spouse and lives here permanently, Lance is perfectly capable of finding a balance between living a private life with his partner and providing hospitality to his roommates.

Alesia:

Alesia understands that she is in Farmer's house to save time on important tasks, but sometimes the sniper feels like she's on holiday in Stardew Valley. Still, it's great to be back in her native place, to visit the old Guild, to chat with Marlon a little longer than usual. She's very grateful that Farmer let her and the others stay at their house to save warp totems. Admittedly, the neighbours are giving her.... a bit of a hard time. Alesia's relationship with her Cult members would be something between Lance and Isaac, i.e. unwilling to cause conflict over anything, but not looking for friendship either. They all share a business relationship and Farmer, who pointed out the perfectly rational decision to join forces to fight a common enemy and corruption. But she honestly admits that she doesn't trust the members of the Cult with their methods to fight evil. No offence to Jio and Daia.

As a roommate, she's a dream. Not only does she behave herself at Farmer's house, but she can threaten the other roommates if they start become problematic. Even Isaac will shut up at once, because he knows better than anyone that Alesia is not to be pissed off. Sniper will bring groceries, keep the room tidy, even offer Farmer a taste of her comfort food she's made. Sniper won't be able to help with farming, but if Farmer suddenly needed to feed the cows or carry a couple of bags, she wouldn't mind helping. Within reason, of course, as work is work, and she cannot be distracted.

Jio:

Jio sincerely doesn't understand why they should co-operate at all with the Guilds, who will only get in the way with their moralising and constant surveillance of the Cult's activities. Nor does the elf see any reason to stay the night at Farmer's in Stardew Valley. It's one thing to have these adventurers from the Castle Village, since travelling from that region to here without magic and totems is quite problematic, but why would he and Daia want to do that? Half an hour - and they were already in Pelican Town. But his Lady had insisted that he stay in the house of that old farmer's grandchild for now, so Jio silently obeyed the order.

As for living together with him... *Sigh* If the Republic had a nomination for "Neighbour from Hell" (I don't know if the concept is in Stardew Valley Heaven/Hell, but you get the point), that award would be on a shelf in Jio's room. Because he's... not a good roommate, to say the least. How Daia put up with him is anyone's guess. Naturally, he won't be rude to the host, but all his foul language (human and in elven) will fly in the direction of Castle Village roommates, because Jio has a hot temper when something annoys him (most often Isaac). Always leaves dangerous weapons scattered around the room (not his romm, interestingly enough), bottles of strange liquids and poisons for weapons. You can't expect help in farm chores either, as he's always busy and on a mission. The room is relatively clean (but others have his stuff lying around), so what else do you need from him?

Of course, being Farmer's husband, Jio behaves differently and won't throw dangerous things all over the house, especially if he already has children. But his attitude towards the other roommates, like Alesia and Isaac, is unlikely to change, as Jio still doesn't trust them and fears for the safety of Farmer and their kids. What if they become a tool of the Ministry's manipulation? These adventurers sing about honour, but they have their hands full of blood and black magic, he knows for sure.

Daia:

"Oh, we'll all have a party together, won't we? Everyone will get together, bring some goodies and something drink. It'll be fun~" Daia joked, but to be honest, with this woman you wouldn't know if she was joking or not. Out of everyone, she's the one who's most excited about the idea of staying at Farmer's for a while with Jio's other adventurers from Guilds. The ninja has been wanting to get a better look at the farm for a while now, because there's so much to see here! And she wants to get to know her roommates better ("So this is Lance? Hee-hee, what a cutie. How about we do a mission together~"). Daia genuinely thinks she's going to have a great time here (which really can't be said for the rest of the roommates).

As a roommate, she's in terms better than her partner in Cult, the surly elf, because if you're not scattering shuriken on the floor like Lego pieces, you're already better than Jio. Not counting the constant teasing, which makes Isaac's eye twitch and Jio's voice sit up due to yelling at the girl for her flippant behaviour, it's easy to cohabitate with Daia. For her, it's kind of a normal life she never even dreamed of, so the girl lives quietly in the house and helps Farmer with their chores. Even insists that she be the one to cook a communal meal for everyone. May be the initiator to organise a mini party, "because we're all friends!" (no). Well, at least she, together with the Farmer, can always smooth things over if the other neighbours start arguing. However, she is far from stupid and will exercise caution if the adventurers from Castle Village start going overboard and breaking the rules of their temporary truce.

Marlon:

In general, Marlon didn't see the point of moving into the spare room of the farmhouse, since he lives in Stardew Valley, and he certainly wasn't old enough to walk less. After all, the one-eyed adventurer used to carry Farmer and their belongings on his back almost two or three times a month, from the Mines to their home. So he would quietly continue to fend for himself in his Guild, and wait for the next orders from the Order regarding co-operation with the Cult.

That was until part of the Adventurer's Guild burned down under strange circumstances (it wasn't Farmer, they swear!), and now Marlon is temporarily on the farm while Robin fixes the Guild building.

Poor Marlon thought living in a private room would be quiet, except he forgot to consider that in addition to him, there's the Castle Village and the Cult of the Lady and Red Tail members as well. And it's all one explosive mix. The youths were constantly arguing about something, making noise, and sometimes Marlon could hear the sounds of battle magic (yet, all the rooms were not destroyed). All this noise was weighing on his mind, but in a way, it brought back memories of the old days of his Guild, where the members were also constantly talking and arguing from the very morning, but they all lived as one friendly family.... Marlon himself in terms of a roommate is practically perfect. He would be quiet to the point where Farmer would think he wasn't here. At most, an old adventurer can bark at Isaac and Jio to behave themselves, since they're all guests here.

[liliesof-the-valley]

How do you say…

They react to the fact you can speak another language. So sorry if this isn’t really accurate or that good, I just had the idea and seemingly needed to write it down! Other brothers will come later, in order. As well as side characters!

─── ୨ৎ────

Lucifer

Lucifer already knew that you could speak another language , considering he had gone through your files when he was selecting you as an exchange student.

Though he didn’t exactly pay this information any attention, that is until he heard you speaking this language. The first time he heard the words coming from your lips he was quite stunned. What did you say?

Nonetheless, he is quite amazed at the fact you can speak another language and if you can speak multiple, his pride in you just skyrockets.

In my opinion, he would most likely be able to speak a multitude of other languages, hell, there’s probably a spell to understand and speak different languages in the devildom.

Yet you, someone who has learnt and understood a different language and did so without any form of magic— more likely just hours of memorising grammar rules, pronunciation and translation, isn’t it obvious that he’s going to show you off?

At parties hosted by Diavolo, occasionally you can hear your name uttered by lucifer, a grin on his face—undoubtedly he is boasting about you.

He also does love to hear you speak it, how the pronunciation rolls off your tongue, how you annunciate the vowels, anything really about it.

What stunned you however , is how one day whilst you were watching a series in said language lucifer appeared and sat on the couch next to you. Then he began to speak and that’s when your emotions turned into a mix of stunned and impressed.

If your ears didn’t deceive you, you heard lucifer speaking in your language, fluently it seemed. ‘What are you watching?’ Was uttered , a soft chuckle following afterwards at the sight of your raised eyebrows and confused expression.

Afterward, he explains how it was just a temporary spell he used to speak the language for a period of time. Once he asked you to teach him some of your language and he got the hang of it almost instantly.

Mammon

The way mammon found out is when you were stuck on dinner duty and he was helping , you had needed to ask him to pass something when the word couldn’t translate into English in your head.

‘Whatcha need me to get then?’ He asks, heading to the kitchen cabinets

‘The, uh, the thingy’

‘What’d ya mean the ‘thingy’?’

‘You know…the thing that’s used to season stuff’

‘You’re gonna need to be more specific... There’s about twenty-somethin’ things that could be that ‘thingy’’

‘Get me the chili flakes’ you say, though ‘chili flakes’ is said in your language. He looks back at you, even more confused. Finally, you give up and head to the cabinets pulling out the chili flakes.

‘Yo, that’s not what they’re called , is it?’

And then the realisation that you were speaking in a different language set in but he was still a little confused ‘why’d ya say it in a different language if you don’t speak another…YA SPEAK ANOTHER LANGUAGE?’

I mean, I feel like pride is one of the things that all the brothers would feel when learning this piece of info. Mammon is very much enjoying the fact that you, his human was fluent in a different language , by Lord Diavolo he was absolutely thrilled. Could he somehow market this , let’s see… translator maybe? Well, then he realised he’d have to share your ability with the world and hid din takes over. No one’s gonna hear you speak this other language other than him, ya hear?

Though, his efforts to hide this from his brothers are all ruined when he accidentally spills it whilst in conversation over the dinner you’d just made. Actually, it wasn’t like you were keeping this a secret, mammon was but well, that didn’t go as he planned.

Needless to say he is very excited to hear you speak it,finding your pronunciation and you in general ‘decent enough’ (he means incredibly attractive) and frequently asks questions like

‘How do you say lucifer needs to gimme more money for allowance?’ Or ‘how’d ya say *insert swear word/profanity*’

I also feel like he’d be the type of person to ask ‘how do you say my name in your langauge’ as if it wouldn’t be the same 😭😭

He had had a case in which when he was mad / irritated at one of his brothers he swore at them only in said language and after he was done cussing them out, burst your door open and with his hands on his hips and a devious grin on his face.

‘What did you do?’ Is the first thing uttered from your lips when you saw him

[isatartdump]

What do they do once siffrin starts becoming a zombie/showing symptoms of it? Do they lock him in a room or something

Also how long do you imagine it takes , literally every media does it differently

Do the zombies work out... Can they run...

I was thinking on Mirabelle using healing craft (and maybe asking for anyone that is willing for help on such, as they travel to try and get a cure) to slow the symptoms a little bit. They don't stop the symptoms and he is growing more and more resistant to the healing craft on that sense but ! it gives them some time.

As a temporary solution at least. Once they're too lost (in the sauce) to the virus they'd start looking for a better... Temporary solution before outright making a decision if they abandon siffrin, kill him so he doesn't stay this way or use wish craft for another chance/more time.

Still a firm believer that Siffrin would joke about his predicament. Like that one time he says he can be a ghost to each and everyone of the party but more literal.

"You can have me follow you around."

"As a zombie??"

"I'd be a good pet!"

Or something along those lines. For how long it takes- I'd say I follow the rule of taking a few weeks. Enough time for them to go from Vaugarde to the frountier in search for a good place to study, look for more information (in general) and try and see who's safe and who isn't in the cities they pass. First few days is alright, and then the symptoms go like flu and get around something more akin to dengue (severe headache, pain behind the eyes, muscle and joint pains, the list goes on. Using dengue mostly because I had it a long time ago) to the last ones being loss of self and general zombie shenanigans.

Since King's wish was to preserve Vaugarde (thinking if I keep it the same or change it around or change a lot around to fit the narrative/world/blabla) I don't know if they'd rot, though.

The zombies run. Their intent is infection so they can spread so its a mix. You can find slow and quick ones and you can't really figure out what they are until they notice you. I like big chase scenes and trying to sneak past so I think the mix match is fun!

Also in general (not isat opinion but a zombie opinion) I think slower zombies are dangerous due to people underestimating them. Not much into how dumb people are but just how strangely unpredictable a slow oponent can be sometimes, ha. The fast ones are scary though. So using both is a good on me :p and doesn't feel far fetched. Different people have different ways of walking/running.

HONESTLY. Consider everything a big wip, specially since I decided everything on zombies and what their objectives are but I don't really know about the wishes used in question (ignoring the "I wish to stay with them" portion). Ueue.

[kingkatsuki]

→ Navi → About Me → Rules → Ko-fi → Ask → Main Masterlist

→ Thirst Posts

Eddie Munson → Cherry Bomb. ↳ College is becoming far too stressful and you just need to find a way to relax- luckily for you the local dealer has the perfect solution. 6.5k. → Temptation. ↳ Your friend is determined to drag you to a basketball squad house party, hoping that you’ll finally score a date with a member of the team, but unfortunately for her you only have eyes for Eddie Munson. 8.3k. → Early To Rise. ↳ Eddie’s alarm wakes you up a little too early and you’re determined to get a few more minutes of sleep, unfortunately for you- your boyfriend has other ideas. 3.4k. → Desperate. ↳ It’s a hot summers day and Eddie’s taking you to Lovers Lake. Being the kind caring boyfriend he is wants to make sure you stay hydrated- the only problem now is that you really, really need to pee. 2.6k. → Dial Tones. (multi-chap) ↳ Starting a job as a phone sex operator was supposed to be temporary, you were just trying to earn enough money to move out of your parents home and pay off your loans. The biggest rules were don’t tell your clients any personal information, and definitely don’t fall in love. But you hadn’t counted on one of your clients being Eddie Munson. ?k.

[zal-cryptid]

Toyfolk Glossary Masterpost

Collected in this masterpost is a glossary of terms concerning the worldbuilding of my series Misfits in Toyland.

Toyland - A phantom island of games and toys inhabited by the toyfolk. Also known as the Land of Toys, Island of Misfit Toys, the Doll Kingdom, and Merryland. Although autonomously ruled and governed by a monarch, it belongs to its creator, Krampus. It exists in a parallel plane of existence that dances in tandem with the mortal realm known as the Otherworld.

Toyfolk - People who’ve been transformed into living toys and sent to Toyland as punishment for their misdeeds by Krampus. This punishment is reserved only for adults. They don't possess any vital functions and thus have no need to eat, drink, or breathe.

Rule of Play - the magic that allows toyfolk to interact with toys as if they were real simply by playing pretend with them. For example, toyfolk can move their bodies simply by pretending that they can, despite not having muscles, a nervous system, or any of the necessary organs. Same goes to their ability to speak and sense the world around them. Externally, they can make any toy real for them by interacting with it as if it were real - such as pretending to eat toy food in order to mimic the sensation of eating. There are, of course, limitations to the Rule of Play. For example, it cannot be used to create life (playing with a normal doll or a toy animal won’t cause it to come to life) or cause death (playing dead won’t cause suicide). Toyfolk roleplaying with each other can even temporarily alter their perception.

Phantom Nervous System - named after Phantom Limb Pain, the Phantom Nervous System is what allows the toyfolk to move without muscles, see without eyes, hear without ears, taste without tongues, think without brains, and even feel (temperature, texture, pain, erogenous stimulation, etc.,), all without possessing any organs or nerves. Toyfolk are essentially undead - the mind and soul bound to a lifeless object and animated by magic.

Toy Fugue - Named after Dissociative Fugue (although the two should not be conflated), Toy Fugue is an altered mental state where Toyfolk lose their memories and sense of identity. Their minds are subsumed by their Toy Brain and form a new identity based around the type of toy they are. Toy Fugue is a mental escape triggered by traumatic events and emotionally distressing experiences. It’s often the end result of those who fail to find a way to cope with an existential crisis. Unlike dissociative fugue, Toy Fugue isn’t temporary, nor does it cause one to wander. While some have been able to snap out of it, others may be doomed to remain that way for the rest of their lives.

Toy Brain - also known as Play Brain, refers to the “programming” that all toyfolk have that gives them a collection of instinctive urges to play the part of whatever type of toy they are. Many struggle to find a balance between these urges and their own personalities, and it's a great source of discomfort for many of the toyfolk. Much like a Chinese Finger Trap, attempts to resist these urges will only cause them to intensify and worsen. If toyfolk fail to control their urges, their urges will ultimately end up controlling them and descend into Toy Fugue. These urges can range from specific (such as tea parties) to more broad (such as animal behaviours).

Magic - Magic works differently in the Mundane World than it does in the Otherworld. One can be forgiven in thinking magic doesnt exist in our world, but the truth is exists in its most fundamental and purest form - imagination. In its passive form, it manifests as thoughts, ideas, creativity, emotions, and problem-solving. In its most active form, it can manifest as psionics (also known as psychic powers and ESP). Long-term exposure to another plane will cause an entity to slowly acclimatize to the laws of that reality.

Wind-Up Keys - Wind-up keys have the ability to temporarily influence a wind-up toyfolk's personality and behaviour. Each key contains toy brain traits of the wind-up toy it came from. For example, a toy soldier wound up with a music box key would suddenly start to act more feminine and want to dance like a ballerina.

Voice Boxes - While most toyfolk are able to speak through the Rule of Play, those with voice boxes are bound to the rules of the voice box. Those with pull-strings, for example, cannot speak unless their pull-string is pulled. The voice box isn't just an analog for the larynx, but also functions as the speech center of the brain (particularily the Broca's Area). It contains their voice, vocabulary, speech patterns, accent, language, everything. Damage to this aparatus may cause something akin to aphasia, dysphasia, or dysarthria.

Playing Dress-Up - For dress-up dolls, costumes and outfits can influence their behaviour and personality. For example, a business suit could make them feel and act confident, a girly dress could make them feel and act girly, a maid uniform could make them feel and act like a maid, a collar could make them feel like a pet, so on and so forth. The affects are temporary, only lasting as long as they're wearing the outfit, but their original outfit they ever wore as a toyfolk gets imprinted into their toy brain, making it their default trait.

Currency - The official currency of Toyland is the Standard 52-card deck of French-suited playing cards. Playing cards were chosen over play money on account of the fact they couldn't decide on which nation's or board game's play money to use. They ended up turning to Quebecois history for inspiration. Playing-card money was a type of paper money used periodically in New France from 1685 to the British Conquest in 1763.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

hey I'd really love it if you could write smth about like jealous!peter quill or just him being overly possessive like maybe like you're just friends at the moment and you guys are at this club and like idfk the avengers team could be there 😭😭 and one of them starts flirting with you abd you flirt back and shit ans just how u think peter would react- anything basically with him being just jealous and shit omg thankyou in advance 😭😭

hii!! omg I love it and had fun writing it!! thank you for requesting, hope you like it💌 *I didn't mark it as mature, tumblr did :/ *

jealous

Peter Quill x f reader

wc || 0.7k

warnings || none, just quill being a lil jelly

masterlist + rules

taglist

After the Battle of Earth two years ago, you and the other Guardians remained quite good friends with the Avengers you had met. Every so often, you and the team would be invited to parties at their temporary compound. As it was such a long journey from Knowhere, you all tended to decline the invitations, much preferring to remain in the comfort of home rather than travel halfway across the galaxy. But, as it was coming up the anniversary, you felt as though you were obliged to make an appearance considering what you had all been through. 

-

Rocket lands the Bowie on the landing bay just outside, and you all stand from your seats, stretching your tired legs as you straighten over your clothes, preparing to exit the ship and join the rest of the party. You turn to Quill, sweetly smiling as you extend a hand, silently asking him to take it in his. He laces his hand into yours, firmly shaking as a boyish grin spreads across his lips. 

"No—" you sigh, pulling your hand from his. "You weren't supposed—ugh,"

"What was I supposed to do?" Peter questions, his tone full of sincerity as he watches you walk away with the girls.

"You were supposed to escort her off the ship, Pete," Rocket says flatly, walking past.

"I am Groot."

"I am not a moron." Quill protests. "Drax, you hearing this?"

"You are a moron Quill," he replies simply, following behind Rocket and Groot.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What is this? Gang up on Quill day? Look, I didn't know she wanted me to help her. I thought she wanted to shake my hand, that's all."

"Then go find her, idiot." Rocket adds, nodding Quill along.

Peter makes his way inside the compound to search for you, immediately bumping into people he doesn't recognise. "God, this music is awful," he mumbles, adjusting his jacket as he makes his way to the bar upstairs. Quill hears a familiar Asgardian bellow of a laugh as he walks up the steps, following the sound, he sees the back of Thor with his arm draped over the shoulder of a woman- a girl, Quill's 'girl'.

He rushes over, abruptly interrupting the conversation. 

"Oh hey, Quill," you say slyly, leaning into Thor as you bat your lashes at the clearly jealous-looking guy standing before you. 

"Good to see you," Thor greets, extending a hand. "Missed ya, buddy,"

Peter swats his hand away. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. What uh—what you doing?" he asks inconspicuously, gazing around the busy room with his hands on his hips. 

"He was just telling me a funny story," you pause to laugh, tapping Thor on the chest. "You should tell him. He'd love it."

As Thor described the humourous events of the story, you watched Peter's face begin to contort, barely keeping his composure, his nostrils practically flaring as he stared at your lingering hand. Keeping your eyes glued to Quill's, you taunt him further, lightly circling your hand over Thor's muscular arm as you engage in the conversation. 

"Tree?" Thor pauses the story as he catches a glimpse of Groot above the swarm of people. "One minute," he says, slipping from you. "I'll be right back."

"What the hell was that?" Quill whispers, his tone full of irritation. 

"What was what?" you ask, crossing your legs as you pat the now-empty space beside you, silently urging him to sit.

"You're such a dick," he chuckles, sitting close beside you, his hip pressed to yours as he drapes his arm over your shoulder.

"Yeah, well... so are you," you snicker, resting your hand on his thigh, slowly leaning into him. "God, this music is awful," 

"Right?"

You and Peter sit together in comfortable silence as you gaze around the room of unfamiliar people, watching the conversations play out as you snuggle into one another's side. Both of you avoiding the daunting question. The question of your undeclared situation.

"We really should mingle," you say begrudgingly, tapping him on the leg.

"Ugh," he groans, slipping from your warmth and standing up. He extends a hand, patiently waiting for you to take it. Lacing your hand in his, you shake it with a smug grin across your lips.

"What? I thought you wanted me to shake it," you laugh heartily, wrapping your arm around his side as he leads you through the crowd of people.

"You really are a dick."

@annielr @ugh09876554444 @spacetalbot @bubblezuku

[averagewriter-inthedark]

Got Ink? 💉 | Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd Imagine

Takes place before, during, and after the events of TGM

TGM masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Lt. Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x tattooed model!reader (romantic), dagger squad (platonic)

Content Warnings: fluff, profanity, mentions of pain as a result of tattoos. Slight suggestive content if you blink | Female!reader (she/her) | wc: 6k

Requested 📨 yes/no (rules for requests)

Premise: Art comes in many different forms. And when you technically think about it, your body is a canvas that can be become a mural if you find yourself drawn to the beauty that tattoos bring. For WSO Bob Floyd, he appreciated art in every form and loved how patterns and colors could create something beautiful. When his sister invites him to a party for her job shortly after returning from a special mission with the Navy, Bob meets a woman who was the perfect canvas he’d ever seen.

Note: I cannot tell you how much I loved doing this request. As soon as I got it I was like, ‘I’m gonna love this,’ especially as someone who has tattoos and wants to have a lot (I have at least twenty planned) this was feeding my love for tattoos. To the anon who sent this request I hope you like it, I really enjoyed writing this for you and I hope you’re okay with me choosing Bob since you said you wouldn’t mind if it was him or Jake—since I just did a Jake imagine I wanted to give Bob some love 🥹 Also I made it where reader was born in 1989 so if we were to go by Bob being born in 1993 like Lewis then she’d be about four years older since the events of TGM take place in 2019.

——————————

They often say that when you get your first tattoo it will either be the one and only time you subject yourself to the temporary pain of permanent ink…or it becomes one of many.

“It’s an addiction”, people defend, though they should probably look up the term addiction before using it in such context.

For many it’s the appreciation of art. Whether expressing it by becoming a tattoo artist or wanting to capture the beauty by etching it onto their skin like they are its own personal canvas.

Tattoos come in many different forms. There’s the traditional/old school style that is very recognizable with its bold black lines outlining bright colors. People in their old age, having grown up in the 60s and 70s, are the ones usually seen with these types of tattoos. Neo-traditional is not that far off from traditional, just the lines are not as bold. Delicateness is seen with fine line tattoos. In recent years it’s become popular amongst the younger generation—not just because they are pretty to look at but if one has a job that’s strict on policy then they can hide them better.

The oldest style would be the tribal tattoos. Beautiful elaborate patterns in various sizes, they represent the culture one comes from. Like fine line, watercolor tattoos have become a popular style—taking away the traditional black ink used as an outline so the colors have the spotlight. No color in a piece is blackwork and then there’s realism where it’s pretty much a picture that was printed onto the skin. Go on Pinterest and you’ll find multiple images of patchwork style where a collection of pieces put together can be any style already mentioned.

Japanese style, patch, geometric, black & gray, anime, portrait, the list goes on and on. So many ways to put a design on one’s body where it will remain until they go to the next life. Some people stick to pieces that represent sentimental value, like family or childhood nostalgia, others will simply see something they like and go, “I think it looks cool.”

When looking at Y/n’s tattoos, both aspects were seen in the array of artwork coating her body. After getting all the pieces that represented a person, place, or thing that impacted her life, Y/n started to get whatever the hell she wanted—not having an explanation for anything other than, “it looked badass so I got it. No value behind it, I just wanted it.”

Like many newly turned teenagers itching to get their first tattoo, Y/n was bold and got an intricate design on one of the most painful spots. Her reasoning was if she did it, then any other place in the future wouldn’t be as bad. All through college whenever asked what she wanted for her birthday or holidays the answer was always money to get a tattoo. An artist herself, she majored in drawing while attending Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, New York, also taking on an apprenticeship for a local tattoo artist. There she would get to work on her skills and tattoo people, progressing to doing tattoos on her legs and non-dominant arm. Anytime she traveled to a different state or country during the semester she studied abroad, Y/n got a new tattoo, wanting to have an array of styles from different artists on her body.

By the time she was 26, she had accumulated over 50 tattoos and still had room for more. From her neck down, artwork ranging from fine line to bold and traditional decorated her skin. Both her arms were half sleeves, ending just above her elbows with patchwork along her forearms and hands. The only place free of ink on Y/n was her face, though she did have her inner lip tattooed. If you asked her, it’d be the only place she regretted getting ink because it faded so quickly. But then again, she could get it redone if she really wanted to.

There were looks from people anytime she went out. Y/n loved dressing up in little black dresses and two piece sets to unapologetically show off her tattoos. Older, conservative couples or people who thought tattoos looked trashy on women would look down upon her. Getting hit on was normal, though she never gave the time of day and sending one look that read, ‘get lost’ had men scurry. Sometimes she'd be approached by teenagers asking about certain pieces, saying they wanted to get tattoos once they were of age and were looking for advice. Biker bars were a place she felt comfortable in, Y/n even taking a part-time job as a bartender so make some extra cash. People from all ages—well at least 21–were covered in tattoos like her.

In 2014, shortly after her 25th birthday, Y/n noticed an inbox notification in her instagram. She was used to getting messages on occasion. Being featured on the bar’s and tattoo parlors business instagram pages and accumulating her own following of potential clients had Y/n reach up to 80 thousand followers. The tattoo artist she worked for was very popular, having done work for celebrities and being featured in Inked Magazine.

Speaking of Inked Magazine…..

When Y/n clicked on the icon to open the message, the first thing she spotted was the blue checkmark. Then beside it was in bold lettering inkedmag. Coffee nearly spilled onto the floor when her grip faltered, gasping lightly at the name. She didn’t even realize the page was following her, confirming this by searching herself under their following and found her username staring back at her.

Heart pumping, Y/n opened the message. “Hi, Y/n, my name is Manda Williams and I’m a representative at Inked Magazine. We’re a fan of your profile and would love to work with you on our upcoming campaign. Would you be interested? Please email me at mandawilliaminked@gmail.com, I look forward to talking with you soon.”

Never did she think she’d become a model, let alone a tattoo model. She was taller than the average woman, standing at about 5’10 and strikingly beautiful. On countless occasions family members would say, “if you didn't have all that on you maybe you’d been discovered. You’ve got the height, the style, and high fashion look. Plus you’ll never get a well paying job with all those tattoos.” All they were met with was a roll of the eyes from the woman, annoyed with the constant nagging.

“I’m an artist,” she would defend. “I got accepted into one of the most prestigious art schools in the country and I work for a very renowned tattoo artist who has had Snoop Dogg, Angelina Jolie, and Lady Gaga as clients. Not to mention I work at a biker bar where the people there love me. Want me to go further?” the look on their face would read they didn’t but Y/n would put the nail in the coffin with, “Let me point out the fact I get paid more with both those jobs combined than you working a nine to five in your little office job. Also you should educate yourself. Tattoo models do exist.”

If only those family members could see her now. Posing on a motorcycle in nothing but a bra and booty shorts as the camera flashed in front of her.

“You’re a natural, Y/n,” the photographer complimented, making her flustered.

She adjusted her position, running a hand through her hair, “If you think so I trust your judgment.” Being in a studio felt very different than when she would set up her phone on a tripod in her apartment. It took many tries for her to capture the perfect angle, often deleting fifteen out of sixteen photos. Here with this guy calling out movements, “a little to the left,” “bring your hand up—just under your chin, perfect,” “Now act like you’re suntanning on the beach—tilt your head back as though the sun is in your face,” Y/n felt what it was like to be a model.

Not many tattooed individuals got the chance to sign with top agencies like Ford and IMG. Very few were recruited so it came as a big surprise when an agent from IMG Models contacted her following the release of Inked Magazine’s issue. When she took the job she thought it would be a small section in the magazine itself. Instead, she was on the cover.

“You don’t have an agent?” Bonnie’s tone was confused, staring back at Y/n from behind her desk as they sat in her office at the IMG headquarters. Bonnie had seen her cover on Inked, immediately going to Y/n’s instagram where she contacted her though the email listed on the tattoo parlors page. From there she asked the artist to bring a portfolio, which she was shocked to find out wasn’t much. “That was your first model job?”

Y/n shrugged, making a face like it was obvious, “Unless you count the dozens of comments I get on instagram beggin for my next post, yeah it was. I’m a bartender and tattoo artist, modeling wasn’t something I thought was in the cards.” She refrained from adding, “also didn’t think IMG scouted people like me.”

It was safe to say Y/n was unlike the typical runway model. Every now and then a high fashion show would hire a man with tattoos to walk for them. Very rare would you see a woman on the runway. For Y/n, that seemed to be the case in the beginning of her career. She did walk in the Marco Marco show that year which was the highlight of her life. Inked Magazine got so much response on her first feature that they made her their staple girl. Y/n worked with them the most on campaigns and even got to do a cover shoot with celebrities like Travis Barker and Kehlani. Those features got her a lot of recognition to the point she hit one million followers on instagram.

It wasn’t until Y/n went viral on the internet for her Sports Illustrated cover and becoming the first inked model to be featured in a Victoria Secret campaign that the top designers were booking her. Before long she was auditioning for brands during fashion week, securing Tom Ford, Calvin Klein, and Oscar de la Renta. Due to her tattoos being the star of the show, there were hardly any clothes on her save for tiny tops and skirts or dresses with intricate cutouts. She didn’t mind of course. After all, her tattoos were a part of her and the reason she was getting the opportunities of a lifetime.

Milan, Paris, London, New York. Fashion week was gonna have to get used to a new face in town.

Vogue, GQ, Vanity Fair, Inked. Pick up an issue and you’d find Y/n on at least one page, if not the cover.

Every now and then she’d get asked to appear in music videos for bands. The Weekend once asked her to be the cover art for one of his singles, bringing her more attention as "The Inked Beauty from Blinding Lights cover art.”

She appeared on the Inked Magazine YouTube channel several times. The most popular video being when she did a Q&A released shortly after walking in the last ever Victoria Secret Fashion Show in 2018, becoming the first inked model to walk the VS runway. Though it had low ratings, Y/n’s bit was plastered on every social media site, many tweeting: “the best thing VS could’ve done for their final show was put Y/n L/n in it. She carried the damn thing.”

“Hello, I’m Y/n L/n,” she smiled shyly at the camera, her agent Bonnie and publicist giving a thumbs up. “I’m a tattoo and high fashion model from New York City. You may recognize me from the cover of Inked Magazine, or discovered me through some of my other projects over the last couple years—hell maybe I even tattooed you at one point,” chuckling as she feels her nerves slowly evaporate. “Today I’m here with Inked Magazine, the owners of my heart and career, and I'm gonna answer some questions sent in by you guys about my tattoos and career.”

The producer gives a nod, “Ready, Y/n.”

“Let me hear them, sonny boy.”

“What was your first tattoo and at what age did you get it?”

Thankfully she was wearing a tube top beneath her jacket, removing the clothing to reveal the many inked designs on her chest, and stomach. Pointing to the one just below her ribs, Y/n says, “So this was my first one—as you can tell by how faded it is compared to the others. I got it when I was eighteenth birthday, literally wasted no time and my family is actually who inspired it.”

“As of right now, how many tattoos do you have?” The question has Y/n think for a moment, tilting her head back slightly.

“I counted just the other week and I think it was close to…. seventy,” nodding she adds, “yeah I think that’s right. I know I had fifty when Inked contacted me four years ago for my first feature. So I’ve added twenty to the collection since.” She made a mental note to count again when she got home that night.

“Do you have any tattoo regrets?”

A nervous chuckle escaped, “Fuck, uh….yes,” she looks down shamefully, but gives a shrug like, ‘I can explain.’ Lifting her head back up, Y/n takes her two index fingers and gently pulls down her bottom lip to reveal the messy smudged ink that once read, ‘baby girl’. The camera zoomed in and once they got a good shot of it Y/n let her lip fall back into place, “I don’t know if you were able to read that but when it was freshly done eight years ago it said,” she pulled a face showing she was too embarrassed to say it. “It said ‘baby girl.’ I got it when I was twenty on a dare and frankly I thought it would be hot, but it faded so quick—which,” she raised a finger, “that’s the one place I would say don’t get a tattoo. Even though it’s technically temporary…you’ll end up with a blob of ink like mine and it’s not cute.”

“Where were the most painful spots you got tattooed?” Immediately she lifted her arms to show she had ink on her armpits.

“These basterds right here,” the producer and crew laughed, nodding along with her. “You feel me? Yeah, I thought the ones on my stomach and ribs were bad. Those were a tickle compared to my armpits—-oh and my elbows. I think I actually broke a sweat when I got those done. It’s why I have yet to conquer my knees,” patting the covered area, Y/n shakes her head, “I don’t know If i can do it. But funny enough, these tiny little hearts on my palms,” Y/n flashed her palms up, the camera focusing on the two red lined hearts in the middle of each hand. “These hurt so bad. Thankfully I’m not putting anything else here because I strictly wanted the hearts, so I’m sparing myself.”

“What do they mean?” The producer asked, taking a pause from reading out the next question. The little smile Y/n gave was shy.

“I was told a lot growing up that I keep my heart in the palm of my hand,” while she explained Y/n kept glancing at the hearts, “kinda like the saying, ‘wearing your heart on your sleeve,’ but with me it’s literally in the palm of my hand. So I got these little hearts on my palms—that way when I hold someone’s hand, they can feel the love and care I have for them,” sending a wink to the camera she finishes with, “because my heart is in my palm.”

“Have you ever dated anyone with more tattoos than you?”

“Noooo,” she snorts. “Not because I’m not open to it—I’m very attracted to people with tattoos. And I have dated people with a lot…it just seems that anytime I do get into a serious relationship, I’m the one who has more than the other. And if you’re thinking about who I think you are—,” Y/n points directly to the camera, like a mother scolding her child, “the answer is no, he did not have more than me. Louis has thirty-three, I believe, since the last time he and I talked—which was,” she pauses to think, “I think around New Year’s.”

“Do you find yourself enjoying campaign shoots or runway shows more?”

“That’s hard,” Y/n pouts, causing her agent to chuckle since she knew the answer first hand. “Both are fun in their own way. I love being able to come into a studio or go out on sight and do a photo shoot—except in the fucking winter because I’m usually half naked freezing my ass off.” She pauses to laugh with the crew before continuing. “And then there's this feeling of ‘wow, that just happened,’ when I step off the runway. Getting to work with designers I’ve idolized since childhood and being the face of Mugler is a dream come true. If I had to choose…..it would be campaigns and photo shoots. There I can express myself more freely.”

“Do you see yourself still modeling in ten to twenty years time?”

There was a question she had to think about, taking a moment before answering. “I sure hope so. I love my job and definitely see myself continuing in the future. As long as my agent Bonnie and Inked don't get tired of me,” she laughs, winking at the woman who blows her a kiss. “But honestly I have experience as a tattoo artist so I could see myself opening my own parlor. I’d love to start my own blog or get other tattoo models into the industry. There’s a lot to think about what the future holds, but for right now I’m gonna have fun in the present.”

While home in New York when not booked, Y/n continued to work part-time at the tattoo parlor. She left the bar shortly after signing with IMG, but still visited whenever she could. There was even a picture of one of her Inked shoots framed above the bar.

With her new found fame the parlor had little to no openings each month. Regulars and new clients had to call in to reserve an appointment the second the schedule was dropped, which was sometimes weeks in advance. Several of the friends Y/n made in the modeling industry would get tattoos from her, though they always tended to go for the fine line style. More celebrities booked with her boss, adding Cardi B, Rihanna, and Louis Tomlinson to the list. The latter whom, as mentioned, Y/n actually got romantically linked to in mid 2017. It only lasted a few months, but the photo of the two on the Inked instagram was the most liked on their page.

Louis wasn’t the only high profiled person Y/n was involved with. Unfortunately the downside to fame meant her personal life was to be blasted on every inch of the internet. From starting her modeling career in 2014 to spring of 2019, she’d been spotted with actors Michael B. Jordan, Tom Felton, and fellow model Vladimir Ivanov. Like Louis, they only lasted a couple weeks to months—save for Vladimir which lasted almost over a year—and ended on good terms where they remained friends.

Frankly when it came to settling down Y/n hoped to find someone who was sweet and down to earth. Who was a hard worker—passionate about what they did for a living and wanting to share that with her. Someone who could make her laugh and feel like she was the only girl in the world. It was hard finding someone like when the spotlight follows you around. Y/n had been in the public eye going on six years and due to her connections with big named people she never seemed to catch a break when it came to romance.

All those qualities she desired in a life partner came to her in the form of the adorable weapons system officer she met at a party in November of 2019. The poor guy felt so out of place. From behind the bar Y/n could see him at the corner glancing around like he was searching for someone. Only getting a glimpse at the side of his face, she didn’t recognize him. The party had many from the fashion industry to celebrate Anna Wintour’s 70th birthday. What was ironic was Y/n took up the task of working the bar, kicking into her skills from when she was a bartender at a popular biker club in Manhattan. With her view she was able to see the entire floor as people entered.

The man she’d been eyeing must’ve come in when she was busy making the Hadid sisters their drinks. He wore a white dress shirt with some slacks and a matching blazer. His glasses reminded her of the popular style from the 80s. Come to think of it, they were probably the aviator style. He was tall, roughly six foot so she’d be eye level with him considering she was wearing two inch kitten heels.

Seeing his flustered demeanor and the fact he looked like he didn’t know what the hell he was doing there—not to mention he was handsome from what she could see, Y/n waltzed over, “May I get you anything?”

When he spun around she was met with the most gorgeous pair of blue eyes staring back at her. They blinked rapidly, like they were trying to decipher if she was in fact real. Then they snapped straight to her neck, following the ink of the exposed skin on display from her red latex mini dress—which his face mirrored the color of since he was making it quite known he was checking her out. He had a baby face to him, which was kinda adorable, and Y/n assumed he was maybe a year or two younger than her.

Offering a smile Y/n said, “So what will it be?”

“Huh?” He said confused before remembering what she initially asked before he got distracted. “Oh uh, just water please.” Still smiling, Y/n took a clean empty glass and filled it with ice before adding the water. Finishing it with a straw she placed it on a napkin in front of him.

“Will that be all?”

“Yes. Thank you,” he took the glass, glancing around briefly before letting his shoulders drop.

“You seem a bit out of place,” Y/n wiped down the countertop, catching his attention again. The man nervously laughed, adjusting his glasses.

“Is it that obvious?”

“A bit,” she teased, nodding her head to the crowd in front of them. “All these people walk around like they own the place. You’re the first person I’ve seen tonight who doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing. Are you here with someone?” Part of her was hoping he’d say a friend invited him, feeling a sudden rush of butterflies at the way he looked at her—like he couldn’t believe she was real.

“My sister dragged me along,” he confirms, the model mentally sighing in relief. But she couldn’t get her hopes too high. For all she knew he may have a partner back home. “I was visiting her this past week and she begged me to come. I told her it was a bad idea since I’m not….part of this crowd.”

“Ah,” she hums, biting back a grin at the way he described the industry. “Not a model or influencer, I take it?”

“Nooooo,” his laugh filled her stomach with butterflies. “Not at all. I don’t know how to work social media. Are you?”

Y/n refilled a guest's drink and handed over a beer to another, “I dabble here and there,” it was refreshing to meet someone who wasn’t familiar with her work. Usually at events like the one they were at she had people coming up to her already knowing who she was. “You’re probably like, ‘thought she was just a bartender,’” she giggled at the flustered look taking over him. “I was one before being discovered. I’m doing this for fun honestly—-and because Anna likes what I make her.”

His eyes went to her neck and collarbones, lingering on the ink. She assumed he’d never seen a model with so many tattoos before. “You can look,” she smirked, when he glanced away from being caught staring. “You’re only seeing a small portion of the canvas,” his eyes went wide at her words, making her giggle, “these babies are the reason I’m in this business.”

“You're a tattoo model?”

Y/n raises a brow at the surprise in his tone, “Didn’t know they existed, handsome?”

“No-no,” he quickly apologizes, “sorry I meant no offense. I knew there were models with a lot of tattoos. My sister told me that the industry was starting to expand by signing more people with them.” His words have Y/n intrigued. Obviously his sister was someone in the business, she wondered if she knew her.

“Is your sister one?”

“No, she’s an agent,” Y/n stops what she’s doing, towel long forgotten.

“For a modeling agency?”

“Yeah.”

“Which one?” Just as the question left her lips, Bonnie’s voice interrupted the two, “Bob, there you are! Oh good—,” she grins wide when she sees who he’s talking to, “You guys met!”

Snapping their heads toward each other, the two have the same expressions of, “wait what?”

Bonnie claps her hands, coming beside Bob at the bar and motioning between the two, “Y/n, this is my brother, Robert—the one I was telling you about last week,” mouth slightly agape, remembering the conversations the two had about Bonnie’s brother—in which the agent suggested setting up a date between the two—Y/n watches Bob react the same when Bonnie then says, “Bob, this is Y/n L/n. One of my clients at IMG—I know I’ve mentioned her before to you.”

Not knowing what to do at first, Y/n extends her hand to formally introduce herself, “So you must be the famous, Bob,” butterflies swarm her stomach again by the warmth of Bob’s hand when he goes to shake it. “I’m Y/n. So nice to finally meet you—Bonnie’s told me a lot about you.”

“W-wow,” Bob stutters, mentally hating himself when he does. “It’s really nice to meet you too, ma’am. I wasn’t expecting to meet you tonight, but now I see why Bonnie was so adamant I come.” A pointed look is thrown at Bonnie, who shrugs with a smile like she did no wrong.

“Well seeing as you two found each other without me, I’ll leave you both to it. Bob, let me know if you plan on riding with me back to the house or if you catch a ride. And Y/n I’ll see you bright and early Monday morning.” Winking, Bonnie takes the Cosmopolitan Y/n made for her and scurries off, leaving the two alone.

“I should’ve known,” Y/n laughs lightly, topping off Bob’s water. “Your sister has brought you up the past couple times she and I have gotten together,” lips curl into a smirk, “she wasn’t lying when she said you were a cutie.”

Bob turns red, smiling shyly, “when she told me about the inked beauty she worked with, she left out the fact you’re a walking piece of art.” His boldness impressed her, Y/n leaning closer to him against the bar top, resting her elbow on to so she could lean her head on her hand.

“How long are you gonna be in New York?”

“Till Wednesday,” part of her was disappointed that it was only four days away considering it was currently Saturday. But it was enough time for something to blossom.

“Tell me about yourself, Bob. The night’s early and I could listen to you talk for hours. Let’s see if Bonnie was psychic when she said we’d be quite the puzzle when put together.”

Ever heard of the type of couples where the girl radiates black cat energy and the guy is a literal golden retriever?

That was Y/n and Bob to a tee.

Out in public they stood out—even in a city like New York. Then when Y/n went to San Diego to meet his friends for the first time after four months together—which also resulted in her being stuck in California due to lockdown from the covid pandemic—it was like everyone couldn’t believe someone like Bob was with someone like Y/n.

He was a quiet, reserved naval officer and she was a sharp-tongued, world renowned tattoo model. They were the definition of the couple in high school you’d never expect would hit it off.

When Bob introduced Y/n to the squad, they instantly knew who she was, but had different ways of discovering her. Nat saw her walk in the VS Fashion show, Mickey and Reuben recognized her from The Weekend’s cover art, Javy remembered her from an episode of Ink Master she appeared on, Jake saw her on the cover of Sports Illustrated, and Bradley actually got a tattoo from Y/n when he was in NYC.

The entire period Y/n was in San Diego she grew close to the squad, even Maverick who had a lot of questions about her work and tattoos. “You think I’d look good with them at my age?” Y/n couldn’t help but laugh at the question, ensuring the Captain with a pat on the back.

“Some of the sexiest men I’ve met have been your age with ink more in than me,” she giggles when he goes red. “I worked at a biker bar in New York City. Believe me, Pete. Anyone can look good with some ink.”

Needless to say when it came time for Mav to get a tattoo, Y/n was the one doing it.

A lot of the squad ended up getting work done by her. Jake, Mickey and Rooster had a few already so they were familiar with the process. Nat only had one from a drunk night in college, which Y/n redid on her behalf since it had faded. Payback was a man who liked bold, meaningful tattoos so sometimes Y/n had her work cut out for her but she always came through.

“Yo is this gonna hurt bad,” Javy was practically sweating as Y/n removed the stencil from his shoulder. The design was a geometric sun about the size of an airpod case.

“It’ll sting, but this area generally isn’t too painful. If this was your bicep then it’d be a different story.”

Javy didn’t look convinced, turning to look at the guys while the stencil dried, “How was it for you guys?”

“Didn’t hurt at all for me,” Rooster shrugged, “my bicep was worse—like she said.”

“Yeah, you’ll be fine,” Payback waved a hand. “You see how tiny it is? It’ll be over before you know it.”

Going over the details once more to confirm the colors and shading, Y/n moved her chair closer after turning on the tv to an episode of Chopped. “You ready, Jav?”

“Ready,” he didn’t really sound like it but it was too late to back out. The buzz of the needle filled his ears and soon the stinging sensation they all said had him clutching his first.

“Try to relax, man” Bob sat on the chair next to Y/n, “being tense won’t help.”

After over a year of dating Bob had his fair share of tattoos. His were mostly small and easily hidden by his uniform. When they first got together, Bob loved learning about her tattoos. When she got them, why she did. If there were any meaning behind certain ones and if she planned to get more.

She was like a walking art gallery. So many colors and styles. Large and small. Y/n told him stories about almost every one—even if they were embarrassing like the inner lip tattoo.

“Biggest mistake,” she wiped a tear after she was done, the two laughing so hard. “Not only did it hurt but it faded not even a year after I got it. Now it looks so bad—I should get it redone but what’s the point when it will just end up looking the same.”

Bob hated when people would give her looks of disproval when they’d go out, usually from those who were unfamiliar with Y/n’s work. One time he nearly got into a bar fight with a older gentleman who thought it was okay to call Y/n a Jezebel. Rooster and Mickey had to hold him back, but Y/n simply looked at the guy and said, “Baby, I’m a fucking millionaire because of these bad boys. While you’re about to kick it the dust I’m gonna be on the cover of Vogue magazine next month. So eat shit and die already.” The man was left speechless, making her and the squad smirk in victory. The equally tatted bartender who knew of Y/n whistling and even given her a free round.

“That was so fucking hot,” Bob pulled her into a searing kiss when they left the bar moments later, Y/n smirking against his lips, “You think that was hot? I’m a mess under these pants from seeing you so worked up, baby. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Whenever he and Y/n would cuddle she’d trace the raised ink with a finger, Bob doing the same to hers and committing them to memory. He loved to kiss the ones on her neck and collarbones, but his favorite were the tiny hearts on the palms of her hands.

“What do these mean,” he asked one day during the early days of their relationship. They were laying out on the hammock, taking her hands to admire the collection of small tattoos along her fingers and wrists. He hadn't even realized she had any on the palms until he flipped them over. There his thumbs traced over the red outline of each heart.

“If you ask any person I’ve ever loved or cared for they’d tell you I carry my heart in the palm of my hand,” she flips her hands so they are holding Bob’s, the tattoos against his skin. “So when I hold people’s hands, they know a piece of my heart lies with them.” Letting her head fall back against his shoulder, Y/n shifts so her lips are against his jaw. “And I’m kinda hoping you’re the only one who gets to hold them from here on out.”

Anytime after that Bob would press a kiss to the hearts whenever he held her hands. Then when asked about what tattoo of Y/n’s was his favorite his answer was always, “the hearts.”

His family adored her. At first they were put off by her striking image but learned quickly Y/n was perfect for Bob. The children of his siblings loved taking washable markers to color in the tattoos Y/n had that were black and white. “Can I draw you a tattoo someday?” Little Emma asked shortly after the couple celebrated one year. She was a little artist who loved asking questions about the pretty pictures on Y/n.

“Of course, my love,” she promised. “Draw me whatever you desire and I shall get it done.”

The first fashion show Y/n booked after the pandemic Bob had front row seats. With his phone out he was the ultimate cheerleader, though he refrained from whistling or making noise so as to not embarrass the model, but would be in absolute awe when she strutted past him. It was the Tom Ford show, Y/n had walked out in a long black trench coat, coming to the end of the runway first before removing the item to reveal a silk dress underneath. It was spaghetti strapped with an open back, thigh slit to compliment her legs and the cameras loved it. She walked a few steps back up and turned to strike one last pose before making her exit.

Bob was mesmerized. It was the first time he’d seen her walk the runway and my God if he wasn’t already a simp he sure was then. A photographer captured his reaction to her discarding the coat and it went viral on Twitter.

@ inmyreputationera: if my man doesn’t look at me like @inkedbyY/n bf at NYFW then I don’t want it.

@ Inked✔️: We’re all Bob Floyd when @inkedbyY/n steps onto the runway.

When it came time to pick out her wedding dress Y/n was unsure of the route to go. It’d been five years the two were coming up on, one year of being engaged with the wedding to take place in North Island. A beach wedding in the late fall, Y/n wanted to look elegant and classy.

“Whatever you choose you’ll gonna look amazing, darling,” Bob kissed her head after she sighed when shuffling through bridal magazine pictures of dresses she’d cut out. “You know I love your tattoos—they are a part of you and I don’t want you feeling like you have to cover up for the sake of pictures. Baby, you’re one of the top models in the world. Like you told me when we first met, those babies are what got you discovered. Show them off.” Rubbing her shoulder exposed from her tank top, his lips pressed to the ink covering the skin. “But if you like this,” he pointed to the dress she kept going back to in her pile, it was elegant and pretty with neckline that fell just below her collarbones. “Then you should get it because you love it.”

The ceremony dress ended up being the one with a high neckline. It had open back with Y/n deciding on a her veil cascading down to the floor to become a small train rather than having the dress itself have it. Lace covered her arms, the ink peeking out from beneath to make the material stand out more due to the contrast.

She was stunning. An actual goddess that had Bob’s jaw drop the second his eyes landed on her. For the reception Y/n changed into a white two piece set that showed off her legs.

And you best believe she hired local tattoo artists to do a ‘spur of the moment’ tattoo booth at the party.

It didn’t take long for Inked Magazine to want to do a bridal shoot with Y/n. And if you look at it one way, it was a full circle moment. The issue marked ten years since they discovered Y/n and blessed her with the career of a lifetime that led her to meeting the love of her life.

All because she had a knack for getting ink.

……………..

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