#the ghost of the boy that was ripped away from him

[siri-ike]

It's been 4 months. Litteral, actual, earth months since Cujo showed up and wrecked something. In that time, Danny has been to school, the mall, near cars, and no Cujo. Something has to be seriously wrong.

"You haven't seen any ghost dogs around, have you?" Danny turns to the girl sitting in the car seat next to him.

"LOOK OUT!" She frantically screamed.

"Tea, no, we're not going to crash. These seats aren't even attached to anything." He gestured to the open field around them. Less than a yard away was the road where her and her family died in a car crash 5 days ago. He took her hand in his. Her eyes are a solid pinkish purple. Danny had done this long enough to know what that meant. She hadn't accepted her death yet. And how could she? It was so sudden. And she was only 15. If anyone knew a thing or two about not moving on, it would be Danny.

"AHHH!!!" She cried out.

Danny sighed. "I'll see you again tomorrow." Sometimes they do just need more time to process.

Danny tried to go home, but his dad must have spotted a mouse or something because the ghost shields were up. He might as well check the cemetery. There's usually something there. And if not, he could at least sleep in one of the crypts.

In the cemetery, Danny didn't find a ghost in need of help. He found a ghost, already receiving help. From another boy around Danny's age. Wearing a white hoodie.

"Hello, Jeremiah. Who's your friend?"

A second ghost? This one's a teen, a bit older than Billy. He almost looks living. He must have died recently. "I'm Billy." He could have an open murder investigation. There's a finders fee for murderers, right? "I can help you, t-"

"I didn't ask you." He snapped. He looked angry. No, not angry. He looked betrayed.

"I'm, sorry. Are these your grounds or something? I didn't mean to overstep." Billy apologized. Some ghosts can be territorial. Usually, that meant they met a violent end.

"Are the Guys hiring kids now?" The boys eyes glowed. "You can let them know they're not getting any of the ghosts in my town." He spat.

"What? No, I'm, I'm not with anyone. I just help ghosts move on sometimes. Like, with their unfinished business." It's never a good idea to meet a ghosts aggression with more aggression. They're usually just lashing out because of the trauma from dying. "Maybe I can help you, too." The ghost dog burrowed back up from the man's grave with a book.

"There it is." The ghost cheered. "I knew my sister would bury it with me. She was well aware of how much I hated this book." He glowed bright and disappeared.

"Thanks, buddy." Billy took the book from the dog before he ran straight for the ghost boy. It was an old astronomy book. He looked over to the ghost boy, who stared in shock at the dog. "Oh, do you know each other?"

The air chilled, and the dew on the grass froze in an instant.

The ghost boy breathed faster, his feet left the ground ever so slightly, and Billy's heart dropped.

"YOU TOOK MY DOG!?!" The boys hair turned white, and his clothes turned black. A whirlwind of snow twisted around him. "ITS NOT ENOUGH THAT YOU WANT TO KILL US. YOU HAVE TO TAKE OUR PETS, TOO?!!!" Entire gravestones ripped from the ground and joined the storm.

This was no longer a job for Billy Batson. "Shazam!" Lightning flashed. It steered straight towards him until... it turned? Sucked directly into the twister. That was new. Billy watched in horror as the bolt hurdled through the tornado and pushed the ghost out the other side. The storm subsided, and Billy rushed to the kid.

The boy sluggishly dragged himself up off the ground. Guess Billy shouldn't be surprised that ghosts wouldn't be too affected by electricity. Billy reached out "Are you ok?"

The boy slapped Billy's hand away and huffed. "This," he inhaled, "this is my home. I won't leave. You can't make me."

Billy sat down beside him. "Of course I can't make you leave." The dog came running up to them and firmly planted himself on the ghosts lap. The boy held onto the dog like a life preserver. "Do you wanna tell me what's bothering you?"

The boy sniffed. "I'm Danny." He was silent for a moment.

"Hi Danny, I'm Billy. Let's start with when we're you born."

Danny straigened up a bit. "1990. I died in 2004."

Billy’s Sidegig

Billy has a side gig. It’s something he’s recently cooked up as a way to get cash.

He’ll help ghosts pass on!

Now, granted, ghosts don’t carry cash, but! But, they can lead him to cash. Or food. Or safe shelter! Point is, it’s a very lucrative job. A job that Billy takes very seriously.

Female Ghost (FG):“Well, aren’t you just a dear?”

Billy: “Thank you, miss.” *takes out little notepad* “Now, can you tell me anything about yourself?”

FG: “Well, I was born in ‘09!”

Billy: “19?”

FG: “Yes, 1909. And I was a dancer when I was alive. The only thing I think I’ll need to pass on it for me to perform one last time.”

Billy: “I see, I see.” *scribbles down in notepad* “I’ll see what I can do, miss.”

Billy proceeded to get her a gig at a restaurant. It was safe to say she was floored when Billy corral her inside. She just thought the boy would gather a group of people and have her perform in front of them in the street. She didn’t think he’d get her anything professional!

Then there was a really fancy British guy. He’d been ran over by a train, and Billy could see his innards as he floated in front of him.

He wanted Billy to find a monocle. It left him digging for hours near a train track.

British Ghost (BG):“I believe it was a little further to the left.”

Billy: *digs around there*

BG: “Or was it the right…?”

Billy: *groans and digs over there*

BG: “Don’t groan at me. You are the one who decided to undertake this job, chap.”

It was three hours of searching until he found it. Thankfully, for all his trouble, the British man told him of a nice abandoned building that still had running water.

It was actually in the abandoned building that Billy got another job helping a ghost.

This time a ghost doggy.

Billy: “You want belly rubs?”

Ghost Dog: *barks and rolls over*

Billy: “Don’t mind if I do.” *tries to pet it but hands go through it*

It was through this that Billy went on an epic quest to find ectoplasm. He then dipped his hands in it and was able to eventually give the doggy belly rubs.

It passed on after giving a Billy a few licks on the cheek.

Billy didn’t get anything from the dog, but that was one of his favorite jobs ever.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Mr. Perfectly Fine, Meet the King of My Heart

Jake Seresin x Pop Star!Reader x Bob Floyd

You should’ve known something was wrong that night.

Jake hadn’t kissed you when you showed up. He always kissed you. It used to be the first thing he did—before hello, before even looking at you properly. But when you slid into the Hard Deck, dressed down in jeans and one of his old Navy hoodies that you’d cropped yourself, he only looked over his shoulder and smiled like a man who didn’t quite recognize you.

That smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Still, you didn’t push it.

You were used to busy. You were used to pressure. You were used to distance. That’s what happened when a pop star dated a fighter pilot. Schedules clashed. Time zones blurred. The only thing that made it work was trust.

And God, had you trusted him.

After all, this was Jake.

Jake, who flew you to Catalina Island just for your birthday dinner.

Jake, who stayed up until 4am FaceTiming you between stadium shows.

Jake, who’d kissed your knuckles and called you “darlin’” in front of the entire press line at the AMAs.

Jake, who inspired songs like “Call It What You Want” and “Lover.”

He had been everything. He was everything.

Until the moment he wasn’t.

You were halfway across the bar when it happened. You’d stopped to say hi to Phoenix and Bob—sweet Bob, who always offered you his seat and never once asked for a selfie. You hadn’t even made it to Jake’s side yet when you caught a glimpse of blonde. Slender hand. Red nails. Her laugh, high and flirty, practically floated through the air like it was layered with glitter.

Your eyes found them before your brain did.

Her hand on his chest.

His arm around her waist.

Too close.

Too familiar.

You froze.

Maybe…maybe it wasn’t what it looked like. Maybe she was just drunk. Maybe he hadn’t noticed. Maybe he was about to push her away and tell her he had someone—someone who just released her second platinum album, someone who thought he was the one.

But he didn’t move.

He didn’t stop her.

He just leaned in and whispered something against her ear, and you watched her smile like she’d just won a game you didn’t know you were playing.

That was when he saw you.

It was like someone had hit pause on the entire bar.

Jake’s eyes widened.

“Babe,” he called, too late. “Wait, it’s—”

You were already backing away.

Already blinking hard.

Already feeling the air rip out of your lungs in one brutal gust.

Everyone was watching.

Bob stood like he might go after you.

Phoenix cursed under her breath.

Reuben and Mickey looked like they didn’t know whether to tackle Jake or follow you.

But you didn’t give them a chance.

You turned.

Walked out.

Didn’t look back.

And Jake didn’t follow.

⸻

The next morning, it was everywhere.

“POP PRINCESS & NAVY’S GOLDEN BOY: It’s Over!”

“Jake Seresin Caught Cheating—Publicly. Brutally. Stupidly.”

“She Left in Tears. He Stayed With the Other Girl.”

Your phone didn’t stop buzzing for days.

Your fans wanted blood.

Your label wanted a statement.

Your heart wanted…nothing. It was done.

You didn’t say a word.

Instead, you disappeared.

You hid out in LA for a week, crying into your own merch hoodie and whispering “I should’ve known” between voice memos you couldn’t bear to play back.

But then—

Then you flew to San Diego.

⸻

You showed up on base like a ghost draped in vintage sunglasses and heartbreak. No press. No entourage. Just you, your notebook, and a guitar.

The squad didn’t know what to say.

Phoenix hugged you like a sister.

Bob nodded, gently, like he didn’t want to scare you off.

Jake was…well. He was there. But you didn’t even spare him a glance.

Instead, you made yourself at home in Hangar 3.

Your studio, for now.

A quiet corner of hell where you could write and rage and feel without interruption.

And write you did.

Every single day.

Songs about lies. About betrayal. About still loving someone you wished you didn’t.

Jake watched from a distance.

Bob brought you coffee.

Neither one of them knew that somewhere between “Mr. Perfectly Fine” and “All Too Well,” you started writing new songs.

Not about Jake.

Not anymore.

These were softer. Secret.

Songs about the way someone’s voice could ground you.

About kindness in the quietest corners.

About a pair of ocean eyes that never looked away when you were hurting.

———

It was raining the first time he showed up with tea.

You didn’t hear him at first—too lost in your own head, curled up in the corner of the hangar with your knees pulled to your chest and your hoodie drawn tight around your face. A half-filled notebook lay open beside you, the pages too damp to write on now, thanks to the open door and a moody coastal wind that didn’t seem to care you were mourning.

You weren’t even crying anymore. You were past that.

You were just… tired.

Then there was a rustle.

You looked up, half-expecting Jake.

But it was Bob.

So quiet. So soft. He stood at the edge of the hangar like he didn’t want to intrude, rain dotting his jacket, glasses fogged at the edges. He didn’t say anything at first—just walked slowly over and crouched beside you, setting down a paper bag and a tall cup with your name scribbled on the side.

“Didn’t know what kind of tea you liked,” he said gently. “So I brought three.”

You blinked at him. Your throat ached. Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“I know,” he said. “Didn’t come to talk.”

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He didn’t bring up the headlines. He didn’t mention Jake, or the girl, or the way the entire squad had watched you break like glass in real time.

He just sat.

Pulled out a sleeve of Oreos and placed them between you. Took off his jacket and laid it across your knees. Opened one of the teas—green, lightly sweet—and set it down beside your notebook without another word.

You didn’t speak.

He didn’t push.

But he stayed.

Minutes passed like hours. You listened to the rain. To the rustle of wrappers. To the steady sound of Bob Floyd existing beside you, like some kind of lighthouse in a sea you hadn’t asked to drown in.

And slowly, you reached for the tea.

He didn’t look at you. But when you sipped, he smiled.

⸻

It became a routine after that.

He never asked. Never made it a thing. But somehow, every time you showed up at base with your bag and your notebook and your aching chest, he found you. Sometimes with snacks. Sometimes with blankets. Sometimes with nothing but his calm, anchoring presence.

He’d sit beside you while you scrawled lyrics in red ink, your hand trembling with rage or heartbreak or both.

He never asked to see.

Never tried to pry.

But once—just once—you caught him humming one of your songs under his breath. One of the old ones. A love song, from before.

You didn’t say anything.

But your heart stuttered.

And that night, for the first time in weeks, you wrote a different kind of song.

It wasn’t about Jake.

It was about kindness in borrowed jackets.

It was about the way someone could sit beside you in silence and somehow make it feel like the loudest comfort in the world.

You titled it “Lavender Haze.”

And you didn’t tell a soul.

———

Jake had seen a lot of wild things in his career—enemy missiles, dogfights over desert skies, even a bird strike at Mach speed—but nothing, nothing, prepared him for the gut-punch of walking into the hangar and seeing her laugh.

Not just smile.

Laugh.

And it wasn’t with him.

Bob was sitting beside her on a folded blanket, one arm resting over a box of donuts, the other holding her phone as she showed him something that made her snort. She nudged him with her shoulder and said something Jake couldn’t hear. Bob said something back, awkward and sweet, and she actually leaned her head on his shoulder for a second like it was normal.

Like she did that now.

Jake stood frozen in the doorway.

He hadn’t seen her really laugh since… well, him. Since them.

Now, it was Bob.

It wasn’t fair.

He waited until Bob left—quiet, like he always was. No big goodbye, just a soft little smile and a promise to bring her coffee tomorrow.

Then Jake stepped into the hangar.

You looked up and stiffened immediately. Gone was the easy smile. The laugh. The soft body language. Everything shuttered like a slammed door.

“What do you want?” you asked flatly.

Jake sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Just to talk.”

“About what?” You turned back to your notebook. “You cheat on all your girlfriends or was I just lucky?”

He winced. “That’s not fair.”

You scribbled something in red ink and didn’t even look at him. “You know what’s not fair? Getting humiliated in front of your friends and fans by someone who said he loved you.”

Jake stepped closer. “I did love you.”

“No, Jake,” you said, eyes finally locking with his. Cold. Hard. “You loved that I loved you. You loved the spotlight. The attention. You didn’t love me.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. His jaw flexed. “Are you… with him?”

You tilted your head. “With who?”

“Bob.”

You laughed. It wasn’t warm. “God, Jake. If I was, what makes you think you get to care?”

Silence.

Then:

“Because I miss you.”

Your heart clenched, but not in the way it used to. It was like hearing a song that used to break you and realizing it just didn’t hit the same anymore.

You stood, walked up to him slow.

“You don’t miss me, Jake,” you whispered. “You miss the control. You miss being the one the songs were about.”

And before he could speak again, you stepped around him.

Back to your corner.

Back to your notebook.

Back to the love songs you were finally writing for someone who never once asked to be the center of them.

———

Jake had seen a lot of wild things in his career—enemy missiles, dogfights over desert skies, even a bird strike at Mach speed—but nothing, nothing, prepared him for the gut-punch of walking into the hangar and seeing her laugh.

Not just smile.

Laugh.

And it wasn’t with him.

Bob was sitting beside her on a folded blanket, one arm resting over a box of donuts, the other holding her phone as she showed him something that made her snort. She nudged him with her shoulder and said something Jake couldn’t hear. Bob said something back, awkward and sweet, and she actually leaned her head on his shoulder for a second like it was normal.

Like she did that now.

Jake stood frozen in the doorway.

He hadn’t seen her really laugh since… well, him. Since them.

Now, it was Bob.

It wasn’t fair.

He waited until Bob left—quiet, like he always was. No big goodbye, just a soft little smile and a promise to bring her coffee tomorrow.

Then Jake stepped into the hangar.

You looked up and stiffened immediately. Gone was the easy smile. The laugh. The soft body language. Everything shuttered like a slammed door.

“What do you want?” you asked flatly.

Jake sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Just to talk.”

“About what?” You turned back to your notebook. “You cheat on all your girlfriends or was I just lucky?”

He winced. “That’s not fair.”

You scribbled something in red ink and didn’t even look at him. “You know what’s not fair? Getting humiliated in front of your friends and fans by someone who said he loved you.”

Jake stepped closer. “I did love you.”

“No, Jake,” you said, eyes finally locking with his. Cold. Hard. “You loved that I loved you. You loved the spotlight. The attention. You didn’t love me.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. His jaw flexed. “Are you… with him?”

You tilted your head. “With who?”

“Bob.”

You laughed. It wasn’t warm. “God, Jake. If I was, what makes you think you get to care?”

Silence.

Then:

“Because I miss you.”

Your heart clenched, but not in the way it used to. It was like hearing a song that used to break you and realizing it just didn’t hit the same anymore.

You stood, walked up to him slow.

“You don’t miss me, Jake,” you whispered. “You miss the control. You miss being the one the songs were about.”

And before he could speak again, you stepped around him.

Back to your corner.

Back to your notebook.

Back to the love songs you were finally writing for someone who never once asked to be the center of them.

———

The Hard Deck didn’t hit the same anymore.

It used to feel warm. Familiar. Like summer in a bottle. Like love and laughter and Jake’s arm around her waist while the squad clapped and joked and told her to sing something on the piano, come on, just one song.

Now, it was cold. Loud. Every corner felt haunted by a ghost with green eyes and a reckless grin.

And he was still here.

Laughing, like nothing happened. Sitting with her. The girl he cheated with.

It had been a week. One week since she caught him with her—in public. One week since she stormed out in tears and said nothing to anyone. One week since the internet exploded with breakup headlines and fan accounts posting side-by-sides of old love songs with the caption:

“Was this about him? 😭😭”

She hadn’t said a word. Not to Jake. Not to the press.

But she didn’t have to. She had a pen.

And if he thought she’d be quiet? He didn’t know her at all.

So she walked in that night dressed to kill. Not for him—but for herself. Big sunglasses even though the sun was down. Blood red lip gloss. Glittery boots and a notebook under her arm. She ordered a Shirley Temple, took a seat at her usual corner table, and started writing like he wasn’t twenty feet away with his hand on that girl’s thigh.

She was going to ruin him.

Until she looked up—and saw Bob Floyd.

Quiet, soft-spoken Bob. In a navy tee with his sleeves rolled up, helping Fanboy and Coyote carry drinks from the bar. Laughing at something Phoenix said, his curls a little wild from the breeze, glasses slipping down his nose. Sweet and unbothered and good in a way that infuriated her.

Her breath caught. She blinked. Blinked again.

No.

No no no. This was not happening.

Because suddenly she was writing a new line in the margin of her heartbreak anthem, and it wasn’t about Jake at all.

You’re so gorgeous I can’t say anything to your face…

She looked away, then looked back.

God. His face.

Look at your face. LOOK. AT. YOUR. FACE.

“You’re so cool it makes me hate you so much,” she mumbled to herself, cheeks burning. She scratched the words onto a napkin, shoved it under her notebook like a dirty secret, and immediately took a sip of her drink to calm down.

She could not be doing this. She wasn’t ready. She was supposed to be angry. She was supposed to be ruining Jake. Not suddenly sitting here imagining Bob Floyd holding her hand and telling her to get some sleep. Not daydreaming about his shy little smile. Not wondering what his voice would sound like whispering into her neck at night.

And yet, she was.

When she peeked up again, Bob caught her looking. He smiled.

Waved.

And her heart betrayed her all over again.

———

The album was done. Twelve tracks, thirty-seven minutes, one hell of a story.

The private listening party wasn’t massive — just a handpicked list of industry reps, a few press faces, and the entire Top Gun squadron. Yes, even him. Jake and the girl he cheated with were posted near the back wall, looking out of place in their half-assed “supportive” poses.

She sat near the front, legs crossed, drink in hand, in a black jumpsuit and boots. Confidence radiating. The heartbreak? Buried under eyeliner and heels. The love songs? Still a secret.

Bob slid into the seat beside her with a soft smile and a gentle, “Hey.” He had a little bag of her favorite candy in his lap.

“Thanks for coming,” she murmured.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

He didn’t know. Not yet. About the tracks he’d inspired. About how he helped stitch her heart back together just by being there.

The lights dimmed. A producer leaned over the mic.

“Alright, everyone — here’s the first listen of ‘Lover, Loser, Legend’.”

The first track dropped.

“I was a name in your mouth, a notch in your pride / Now I’m on stages you only dream about at night…”

Phoenix audibly said, “Oop.”

Rooster leaned forward, whispering something low under his breath about how brutal the lyrics were. Jake flinched at the second chorus.

“You said I was dramatic / Turns out I was prophetic…”

By track three, ‘Mr. Perfectly Fine,’ the room was shifting. Jake was white-knuckling his beer. His date was staring at the ceiling like it could save her.

By track five, ‘How Did It End?’, the tears were already welling in her own eyes, but she kept her face calm, unreadable. And then—

“He never looked back, not once / But I kept watching the door…”

Bob’s hand gently brushed her knee. Subtle. Reassuring. He thought she was reliving what Jake did to her — which was half true. But the tears weren’t just about Jake.

Because then track seven began: ‘Gorgeous.’

“You’re so gorgeous / I can’t say anything to your face…”

Her eyes flickered to Bob — who was watching the speakers, brows furrowed.

“And I got a boyfriend, he’s older than us / He’s in the club doing I don’t know what…”

“You make me so happy it turns back to sad…”

His head tilted slightly, like he was trying to connect a thread.

Then came ‘Lavender Haze’. And finally ‘Dress’.

Bob sat frozen, lips parted slightly. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. She could feel the question forming in his head.

When the last track faded and the studio lights came back up, applause broke out. Industry people buzzing. Phones lighting up.

But all she could hear was her own heartbeat.

Phoenix leaned across the back of the couch. “Girl… who are the love songs about?”

All eyes were on her.

She glanced sideways, met Bob’s eyes just briefly — and smiled.

“I guess you’ll find out when the tour starts.”

———

Snapbacks, glitter, black sequins. The stadium was packed. A sea of lights. Signs. Chants. They were screaming her name before the first note even hit.

Bob stood among the VIP section, pressed between Phoenix and Rooster. The squad had gotten seats up front—close enough to feel the bass in their bones, to see the sweat on her brow when the spotlight caught her just right.

Jake was further back.

He wasn’t the one she was singing to tonight.

The stage was fire and vengeance for the first half.

She strutted across it like she was born to, voice raw, fearless, devastating.

“I bet you think I’m sleeping soundly / But I’ve been burning every bridge you ever touched…”

Jake looked like he wanted the floor to eat him. Every other line seemed to call him out by name. The fans knew. They screamed and shouted, middle fingers raised when she sang ‘The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived.’

Then the lights went out. Total blackout.

A hush swept the crowd.

One single spotlight clicked on. A piano. Just her.

“There’s a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you dear…”

Bob blinked.

“I’ve been in a lavender haze…”

Phoenix sucked in a sharp breath. Rooster nudged her.

Bob didn’t move. His eyes were locked on her.

She was sitting now, legs crossed delicately, mic pressed to her lips. And she wasn’t looking at the crowd.

She was looking dead at him.

“You’re so gorgeous / I can’t say anything to your face / ‘Cause look at your face…”

He froze. That line. That smile.

She gave the tiniest tilt of her head. The barest smirk.

“I’ve got a boyfriend, he’s older than us / He’s in the club doing I don’t know what…”

Jake’s eyes widened behind him. “That’s not—”

“Shh,” Phoenix hissed.

“I knew from the first old-fashioned, we were cursed / We never had a shotgun shot in the dark…”

And then—then—came the moment.

The moment the stage went violet, the lights came up, and the synth for ‘Dress’ hit. The whole crowd screamed.

“Only bought this dress so you could take it off…”

She stood again.

Walked slowly, intentionally, to the edge of the stage, eyes never leaving Bob.

“Say my name and everything just stops…”

And he stopped. Every muscle in his body locked.

“I don’t want you like a best friend…”

The implication hit him like a freight train.

His mouth opened just slightly. His breath caught.

Phoenix clutched his arm.

“Oh my god,” Bob whispered.

“Carve your name into my bedpost…”

She smiled.

It wasn’t a seductive smile. It was a knowing one.

She had kept this secret for months. And now it was out, bleeding across speakers, echoing through stadiums, seeping into every pair of headphones around the world.

She ended the song with her eyes still on him.

And when the applause crashed like a wave, when her name echoed from the rafters—

Bob was still standing there, heart racing, mind spinning, stunned into absolute silence.

Because all this time…

Every love song…

Was about him.

———

The roar of the crowd hadn’t faded yet. It pulsed through the concrete of the backstage halls like a heartbeat. Sweat still clung to her brow, her voice was hoarse, her hand clutched a cold water bottle that had long since stopped sweating.

But none of that mattered.

“Ray,” she said, snapping her fingers gently as her ever-faithful bodyguard appeared at her side. “Can you bring Bob back here? The one in the glasses. Blue shirt. Sitting next to Phoenix.”

Ray didn’t even blink. “On it.”

She barely waited a beat before pulling her oversized hoodie on over her stage outfit, pacing the floor of her dressing room like a storm in soft slippers. Her heart was beating too loud. The adrenaline was already starting to crash—but the nerves? Those were just now kicking in.

What if I just made everything weird?

What if he didn’t get it?

What if he did?

A knock on the door.

She nearly tripped trying to get there first.

Ray stepped aside, revealing Bob—still a little wide-eyed, still looking like he hadn’t quite caught his breath. His shirt was rumpled. His cheeks pink. There were about six emotions warring in his expression.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hi,” he answered, eyes flicking to the ground for just a second before finding hers again. “You wanted to see me?”

She nodded, stepping aside so he could enter. It was just the two of them now. The room was quiet, too quiet compared to what they’d just come from. The echo of her lyrics still lingered in the air.

She closed the door behind him gently.

“I figured it was time I stopped hiding.”

Bob swallowed. “They were about me. Weren’t they?”

She didn’t answer with words. She just looked at him. And when he didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat, didn’t deny—that was her answer, too.

“You were the only thing that kept me standing after… you know.”

Bob’s voice was soft. “I didn’t know.”

“I know.” Her lips twisted. “I didn’t want you to. I didn’t think I could handle it if you didn’t feel the same way and then I’d ruin the one good thing I had left.”

He blinked slowly. And then—

“I don’t know how you expect someone to feel the same when they didn’t even know they were in the running.”

She laughed, almost disbelieving. “Okay, fair.”

“You wrote ‘King of My Heart,’” he said, like it had just hit him all over again. “And ‘Enchanted’?”

“I wrote ‘Gorgeous’ the day I saw you helping Phoenix carry out takeout from that taco place,” she admitted.

Bob’s face turned completely red.

“But I also wrote ‘Lavender Haze’ the week you sat in the corner with me and brought me tea and snacks like I wasn’t being completely unhinged writing revenge anthems two feet from my ex-boyfriend.”

He looked down, a little smile ghosting his lips. “I just… wanted to be there for you.”

“You were,” she whispered. “You still are.”

Another beat. Another breath. Then he looked up, really looked at her.

“Do you wanna get dinner sometime? Just us? No instruments. No lyrics.”

She nodded, heart pounding. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Before either of them could say more, the door burst open with a rush of voices—Phoenix, Rooster, Fanboy, Payback, the whole crew barreling in laughing, shouting, hugging.

“You were incredible!” “Best concert of my life!” “Those songs—damn!”

She barely had time to glance at Bob, but when their eyes met across the room—when he gave her the softest, sweetest smile like he was still carrying her lyrics with him—it was enough.

Jake wasn’t there. Neither was she.

But Bob was. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

———

The roar of the crowd hadn’t faded yet. It pulsed through the concrete of the backstage halls like a heartbeat. Sweat still clung to her brow, her voice was hoarse, her hand clutched a cold water bottle that had long since stopped sweating.

But none of that mattered.

“Ray,” she said, snapping her fingers gently as her ever-faithful bodyguard appeared at her side. “Can you bring Bob back here? The one in the glasses. Blue shirt. Sitting next to Phoenix.”

Ray didn’t even blink. “On it.”

She barely waited a beat before pulling her oversized hoodie on over her stage outfit, pacing the floor of her dressing room like a storm in soft slippers. Her heart was beating too loud. The adrenaline was already starting to crash—but the nerves? Those were just now kicking in.

What if I just made everything weird?

What if he didn’t get it?

What if he did?

A knock on the door.

She nearly tripped trying to get there first.

Ray stepped aside, revealing Bob—still a little wide-eyed, still looking like he hadn’t quite caught his breath. His shirt was rumpled. His cheeks pink. There were about six emotions warring in his expression.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hi,” he answered, eyes flicking to the ground for just a second before finding hers again. “You wanted to see me?”

She nodded, stepping aside so he could enter. It was just the two of them now. The room was quiet, too quiet compared to what they’d just come from. The echo of her lyrics still lingered in the air.

She closed the door behind him gently.

“I figured it was time I stopped hiding.”

Bob swallowed. “They were about me. Weren’t they?”

She didn’t answer with words. She just looked at him. And when he didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat, didn’t deny—that was her answer, too.

“You were the only thing that kept me standing after… you know.”

Bob’s voice was soft. “I didn’t know.”

“I know.” Her lips twisted. “I didn’t want you to. I didn’t think I could handle it if you didn’t feel the same way and then I’d ruin the one good thing I had left.”

He blinked slowly. And then—

“I don’t know how you expect someone to feel the same when they didn’t even know they were in the running.”

She laughed, almost disbelieving. “Okay, fair.”

“You wrote ‘King of My Heart,’” he said, like it had just hit him all over again. “And ‘Enchanted’?”

“I wrote ‘Gorgeous’ the day I saw you helping Phoenix carry out takeout from that taco place,” she admitted.

Bob’s face turned completely red.

“But I also wrote ‘Lavender Haze’ the week you sat in the corner with me and brought me tea and snacks like I wasn’t being completely unhinged writing revenge anthems two feet from my ex-boyfriend.”

He looked down, a little smile ghosting his lips. “I just… wanted to be there for you.”

“You were,” she whispered. “You still are.”

Another beat. Another breath. Then he looked up, really looked at her.

“Do you wanna get dinner sometime? Just us? No instruments. No lyrics.”

She nodded, heart pounding. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Before either of them could say more, the door burst open with a rush of voices—Phoenix, Rooster, Fanboy, Payback, the whole crew barreling in laughing, shouting, hugging.

“You were incredible!” “Best concert of my life!” “Those songs—damn!”

She barely had time to glance at Bob, but when their eyes met across the room—when he gave her the softest, sweetest smile like he was still carrying her lyrics with him—it was enough.

Jake wasn’t there. Neither was she.

But Bob was. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

———

The restaurant was one of the best in San Diego—rooftop view, mood lighting, and a private area already cleared out by the time the group rolled in. The Navy crew weren’t used to this kind of luxury. Cloth napkins. Candlelight. Plates that cost more than their monthly car payments.

But they were riding the high of the concert, and their girl—America’s sweetheart with a platinum voice and a heart like steel—had just done the unthinkable.

“Y/N paid for everything,” Phoenix whispered to Fanboy as they were seated. “Even pre-paid the tip.”

“Wait—like for all of us?” he whispered back.

“All. Of. Us.”

“What kind of money is this?”

“Taylor Swift money,” Rooster muttered as he eased into his seat.

She just smiled as they all settled into the massive circular table. Bob ended up across from her—not by accident. He’d chosen the furthest open seat from hers, trying not to make anything look different. Trying to be respectful. Careful. Not because they had anything to hide.

But because he was now, finally, something she wanted to keep.

She caught his eye once, twice, as the waiters poured wine and passed appetizers. He smiled at her over his glass. She tucked her tongue into her cheek and looked away.

They were fine.

The others? Less so.

“So,” Hangman started, swirling his bourbon. “We all know the breakup songs were about me. I mean…” He gestured dramatically to his own face. “It’s not exactly hard to figure out.”

Payback muttered, “Can’t believe she let you live after ‘Mr. Perfectly Fine.’”

“Oh no, ‘The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived’ was personal,” Rooster chimed in, snorting.

“Oh my god,” Phoenix groaned. “She dragged him to hell. And then resurrected him just to do it again.”

Hangman rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed but trying to look cool. “Whatever. I’ve moved on. I’m happy.” He said it a little too loud, a little too sharp.

No one cared.

“What I wanna know,” Fanboy leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was telling a ghost story, “is who the love songs were about. Because ‘King of My Heart’? ‘Dress’? ‘Gorgeous’? Babe. Those were not written by a woman heartbroken. She was writing like she was in love.”

Everyone turned to her.

She blinked, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh come on,” Phoenix groaned. “You’re glowing. You’ve got that ‘I wrote a song about a boy and he doesn’t know it’ face.”

“I’m literally not glowing,” she said, sipping her wine. “It’s just the lighting.”

“You said ‘I got a boyfriend, he’s older than us, he’s in the room’!” Payback quoted. “Is he in the room?”

“Is he older?” Fanboy added.

She shrugged.

Bob, across the table, was silent—his eyes trained very steadily on his water glass. His cheeks were pink. His jaw was tight.

He knew. Or at least, he was starting to.

“I’m not telling,” she said simply, leaning back in her chair and letting the silence hang in the air like a smirk. “You’ll have to keep guessing.”

Hangman scoffed. “What, is it someone famous? Some actor?”

Rooster leaned over to Bob, voice low. “She’s definitely messing with us.”

Bob gave a polite laugh, nodded—but didn’t speak. Because he had no idea what would come out if he did.

And across the table, she met his eyes just once more.

Held it.

You’re so gorgeous, I can’t say anything to your face…

The fans weren’t the only ones trying to figure it out anymore.

———

After four months and thirteen days of quiet dating, late-night studio runs, and secret smiles, it was time.

⸻

The Music Video

It dropped without warning:

—Rocketing chords join low piano keys—

Her voice begins soft, trembling with emotion:

“I, I just woke up from a dream

Where you and I had to say goodbye

And I don’t know what it all means

But since I survived, I realized

Wherever you go, that’s where I’ll follow

Nobody’s promised tomorrow

So I’ma love you every night like it’s the last night

Like it’s the last night”

One shot: her and Bob in bed. Bare feet. Early morning light. Soft laughter as she wakes him with a kiss.

—The chorus rises—

He’s there with her, hand in hers as they run through empty streets:

“If the world was ending

I’d wanna be next to you

If the party was over

And our time on Earth was through

I’d wanna hold you just for a while

And die with a smile

If the world was ending

I’d wanna be next to you��

No CGI. No drama. Just two lovers lost to each other. The world could crumble—they didn’t care.

She takes over, voice shaking with feeling:

“Ooh, lost, lost in the words that we scream

I don’t even wanna do this anymore

’Cause you already know what you mean to me

And our love’s the only one worth fighting for”

They dance barefoot in the living room. His hand around her waist. Her head against his chest. It’s them, finally unmasked.

—Back to the chorus—

Overlapping vocals, echoing through candlelit tender moments:

“Wherever you go, that’s where I’ll follow

Nobody’s promised tomorrow

So I’ma love you every night like it’s the last night”

—Bridge and final moments—

They kiss in front of a fire. Fade to black. Then:

“If the world was ending

I’d wanna be next to you…

I’d wanna hold you just for a while

And die with a smile”

Last lines linger:

“If the world was ending

I’d wanna be next to you

If the world was ending

I’d wanna be next to you”

When dawn broke, the internet died.

“THEY. WERE. DATING???”

“THAT’S BOB???”

“GORGEOUS WAS HIM ALL ALONG?”

Her phone buzzed nonstop as the Navy squad flooded her mentions with pride and disbelief. Jake didn’t comment. He didn’t show up.

Backstage, Bob pressed play on her phone. His eyes filled. He looked at her. Humbled. Nervous.

“You wrote that verse for me?” he whispered.

She nodded, stepping closer.

“Lost in the words that we scream…” she recited, voice soft.

“Our love’s the only one worth fighting for.” – Her eyes on his.

“If the world was ending, I’d wanna be next to you…” she finished, reaching for his hand.

He grinned, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.

“I want the whole world to see how much I love you.”

She leaned in and kissed him.

No cameras. No scripts.

Just two people who risked everything—writing a love story that nobody saw coming.

———

The premiere was for a gritty indie-meets-blockbuster war drama. She had a supporting role—a fierce, grounded medic with three pivotal scenes and one unforgettable monologue. Critics were already calling it her “breakout screen moment,” but all anyone could talk about wasn’t the film.

It was who she brought.

Because when she stepped onto the carpet, Bob Floyd was right there beside her.

Not trailing. Not lingering like security.

Right there. Holding her hand.

He looked devastating in a custom navy suit that matched his eyes, glasses polished, curls soft and brushed back just enough to show off that boyish charm.

She wore black silk. A plunging neckline. Diamonds glinting on her ears. A classic Old Hollywood silhouette—but modernized, fierce. The press gasped. Cameras fired. And then—he looked at her.

He looked at her like she was the only thing that had ever mattered.

Like he still couldn’t believe she chose him.

—

A reporter tried to ask who her date was.

She just smiled and said,

“This is Bob. He’s… the reason behind most of the album.”

And that was it. Chaos.

—

Photo after photo:

• Her whispering something into his ear and him blushing like he’s never been on a carpet before.

• Bob wrapping his arm protectively around her waist as flashbulbs go off.

• Her laughing while he looks at her like she personally hung the moon.

• One shot where she looks dead at the camera, unbothered, but he is staring at her like she’s the only one in focus.

Twitter melted.

“Bob Floyd is the new standard.”

“He looks at her like she’s art.”

“Jake WHO? THIS is love.”

Even gossip blogs had to admit it.

“He watches her the way everyone deserves to be seen.”

“It’s clear: she wrote the breakup songs about Hangman, but the love songs—they were always Bob.”

—

When they got inside, she leaned into him in the plush theater seat and murmured,

“How you doing, Red Carpet King?”

Bob just shook his head, pink in the cheeks, and kissed her temple.

“I’m not used to all this,” he said quietly, “but I’d follow you into any storm.”

She smiled.

“Good,” she whispered back, “because this love story’s just getting started.”

[mediocrecowboyhat]

All hope | Jack Marston x fem!reader

Like a ghost unable to move on, Jack wanders along the border of Mexico and the US after killing Edgar Ross. Not wanting to go back home just yet, he meets a woman, who is about to change his life for the better.

I only recently started to play rdr1 and haven't gotten to the part where you play as Jack yet, so I can only hope that I managed to get his character right in here

Word count: 5.5k

Tags: major spoilers for rdr1, she/her pronouns for reader, reader also speaks Spanish, mentions of loss and grief

Edgar Ross is dead, his body now floating somewhere in the San Luis River and so is Jack, in a sense. It's been how many days now, since he had killed that godforsaken man? He can't tell. All he knows, is that he's been wandering along the banks, along the border of Mexico and the US, unable to move on. Where would he go anyways? Back home? If he can even call it that anymore. Nothing awaits him at the empty ranch, only two graves on a hill.

Edgar Ross is dead, but so are his parents. He has avenged his father, but that won't bring either of them back, will it? Revenge, he has read about it in his storybooks many times before, but no description seems to be accurate to the real deal. Usually the main character feels, what? Fulfilled? Satisfied? All he feels is, well, nothing at all.

Edgar Ross is dead and he does not feel the way he had expected, what he had sought after. That rage, that grief, both still roar inside him, even after he had put a bullet in it's source. No, revenge is a fool's game after all. It doesn't change his situation, but taking a life sure changes him as a person. None of the man's blood has gotten on him, there was too big of a distance between them for that to happen.

But when Jack kneels down by the shore to wash his face, he could swear that the skin on his hands is drenched in red. The water feels cool and refreshing against his face, somewhat snapping him out of his grim thoughts. Then he takes a moment to examine his reflection in the river, but a stranger is staring back at him, blurred by the rushing stream.

It's only fitting, really. He entered his mission for revenge as a man and has left as a ghost. He fears that it won't get better either, fears that he will never feel complete or content again. A sudden shuffling behind him rips him out of his daze and he whips his entire body around. Is it the law? Have they found the body already and are now here to arrest him?

A mental image of himself at the gallows appears before his inner eye and panic settles in. What would his mother think of him? When all she ever wanted was for him to live a good life, an honest life. Look what has become of her little boy, of little Jack. When his head snap up to gaze at the person infront of him, he freezes.

It's a woman, her wide eyes trained on the gun that he had instinctively fished out of it's holster. She's beautiful, no, stunning the way she stands there on that hill. If someone would ask him for a description, he'd say that she reminds him of the moon, providing a guiding light during the blackest of nights.

Or maybe a single, blooming rose surrounded by a field of dead plants. All air is knocked out of his lungs and for a brief moment he forgets himself, forgets how terrified she must be right now.

"I'm sorry, Miss. You startled me.", he murmurs quietly, perhaps even too quiet for her to hear and puts the gun away.

She answers, though on Spanish. He doesn't understand a single word, but judging by her expression and gestures, she might be apologizing for the same reason. When her eyes land on his clueless face, her own lights up in realization.

"Ah, sorry, I thought you- oh, well." The laugh leaving her lips is sweet and has a beautiful ring to it. "I didn't mean to scare you."

When Jack notices that she's waiting for an answer from him and he's been doing nothing, but gawking at her like a complete fool, he awkwardly clears his throat.

"No need to apologize." He stands up and swats off the dust from his pants. "I was about to leave anyways."

"No, don't let me disturb you. I was just passing through." Her eyes dart around, over the ground, as if she's searching for something. "This spot usually has herbs."

That's when he let's his own gaze wander as well, but he doesn't believe he will find any. He remembers his father coming home with some herbs every now and then. They put it in his mother's stew, but nothing was ever able to save the taste of her meals. The memory sends a stabbing pain through his chest and he immediately banishes it to the far back of his mind.

"I won't be in your way for longer than necessary, Miss.", he says and makes his way towards the horse.

Although it seems like a pair of invisible strings are pulling him to the woman. Jack feels the urge to stay and listen to her voice some longer. Her head turns to where he's standing, next to his stallion and he almost squirms under her intense stare. It's as if she's examining him.

"Are you hungry?", she then suddenly asks and he blinks a few times.

"What?"

"I mean no offense, but you look like you haven't eaten in a while. I have food at home, that only needs to be warmed up."

That he hasn't and now that she's pointing it out, his stomach begins to rumble. All he has done the past days was move around and occasionally stop to rest. He shoves his hand into his satchel and finds it empty of any food. He could swear that he had packed an apple and assorted biscuits. Has he really eaten them all?

Even if he did, those things aren't nearly enough to keep a person going for several days. Should he go with her? The wiser choice would be to leave, to get as much distance between him and this place as possible, before anyone finds the body.

Oh dear Lord, now he's thinking of Edgar Ross again.

"I'm sorry, if I was too pushy.", the woman speaks up, ripping him out of his thoughts and Jack hastily shakes his head.

"No, I just- I'm a bit distracted, is all." He takes off his hat to runs his hand through his filthy hair. "I think I'd like a meal, thanks."

That gets a wide smile from her, one that would have any sane man drop down to his knees instantly. When she goes to climb onto horseback, he extends his arms to help her, but she politely waves him off. Once he's sitting in his saddle, she points to the right and they ride off.

Her hands are holding onto his jacket, on his sides and he gets so distracted that he almost misses how she gives him her name. It's fitting, he thinks, suiting her quite fine.

"I'm Jack. Jack Marston."

"It's nice to meet you, Jack Marston.", she replies and he's tempted to disagree.

She wouldn't say that if she knew what he had done.

"Nice to meet you too, Miss.", he mumbles instead.

"So what are you doing out here?", she asks and he chews on the inside of his cheek.

"Just passin' by.", he grumbles, the words coming out flat.

Much to his relief she notices that he's in no mood to elaborate on that and so she refrains from questioning him about it any further. It doesn't take long to get to her home, which he can't say is too much of a surprise, considering she walked by foot towards the river. The property isn't anything big.

There's a house, that could easily keep a small family, without it ending up too cramped. Infront of it is a garden in which she seems to be growing some vegetables. Over to the side is a coop and the chickens are roaming around freely. Another thing that catches his eye, is the lack of a wagon and horses and if he remembers this area on the map correctly, then the next town is quite a distance away.

Although she owns no horses, there's still a hitching post to the side and he leaves his stallion there. Once again, she waves off all offer to help her dismount. His gaze wanders over her home a second time, starting to feel awkward. Now that he thinks about it, wouldn't he be intruding on her and her family?

"Is it really alright that I'm eatin' with you?", he asks, the question leaving his lips, before he even considers it.

"I invited you, didn't I?", she answers, a hint of amusement accompanying her words.

There's more of it gleaming in her eyes when she throws him a quick glance over her shoulder.

"What about your family?"

"Don't worry, I'm alone here." Then she feigns seriousness and raises her finger in a conspiratory way. "But no funny business, Jack Marston. I can work a gun."

The threat is half-hearted and lacks all bite. She's not really believing that he will cause any trouble, but he still plays along and lifts his hands in surrender.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Miss."

Inside, she ushers him to take a seat at the dining table and tells him to make himself feel at home, while she heats up the food. He watches her rummage around in her bag, before fishing out a handful of fresh herbs. She must have managed to collect some then, before running into him.

Now that her back is turned to him, he takes off his hat and reaches up to touch his hair. It's greasy and hasn't been washed in ages, so he'd rather much prefer keeping the hat on. Though he feels a bit rude doing that. Then his gaze drifts to the interior, which isn't a lot.

There are the necessities, furniture one finds in every house, some embroidery and photographs hanging on the walls and a lot of potted plants. They're breathing some fresh life into the old building, with all the green and the occasional colored blossom. Two doors are behind him, probably leading to bedrooms and maybe a bathroom. Ah, what he wouldn't give for a bath.

Maybe he could ask her for that? Since she seems to be nothing but kind and inviting, but he wouldn't want to inconvenience her like that. She's already going above and beyond in his eyes, by preparing food. Lost in his own thoughts, Jack doesn't notice her staring at him at first and he straightens his back.

Judging by the look on her face, she must have said something and is now waiting for an answer.

"I'm sorry, Miss. I didn't catch that.", he awkwardly admits and fidgets with the hat in his hands.

"I was asking where you're from. If you don't mind sharing.", she repeats with that sweet laugh of hers and begins to set the table.

When he crossed the border, he didn't exactly intent on letting anyone know who he is or where he's from. Just in case someone would find Edgar Ross. Jack's initial plan was to slip in and then out again, completely unnoticed and then head back to the ranch.

Well, obviously that didn't happen and now he's sitting here with this wonderful woman, who, for some reason, is treating him similar to an old friend. He's convinced that he doesn't deserve her kindness and she definitely wouldn't be extending it, if she'd only know about his sins.

But she brought him to her home, so it's only fair and proper that he tells her about his. Besides, it doesn't look like she's hiding a whole squad of detectives in her basement or something. Perhaps in the kitchen cabinets then? The mental image makes him almost huff.

"Near Blackwater. My family- I mean, I own a ranch there."

At his correction, she briefly tilts her head to the side, as if wondering what he meant by that. Thankfully, she doesn't question it and instead fills his bowl with a steaming hot stew. The smell makes his mouth water instantly and when he picks up the spoon, his hand almost trembles.

After thanking her yet again for the meal, he tries his first bite and it nearly brings him to tears. When was the last time he had eaten a home cooked meal? The stew doesn't remind him of home, it's way too good for that, but it fills him with the same warmth. Jack grips the spoon so tight, that the whites of his knuckles are showing and he forces the food down his dry throat.

"Is something wrong?", his host, who has taken a seat infront of him, asks with worry lacing her voice.

That's when he realizes how his reaction must look like to her and his eyes go wide in horror.

"No! No, it ain't like that." His gaze drops down onto the bowl and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, the first one since forever. "It's delicious. Really."

In a matter of seconds, he clears his bowl and she goes to give him a refill. Although he's pretty certain that he could finish the whole pot in one sitting, he still tries to deny the second serving. But he's half-assing his protests, so she continues, as if he never said anything. By the time both of them are full, he helps her wash off the dishes or at least attempts to do so.

"It's the least I can do.", Jack insists.

"Don't be silly! You're my guest.", she insists as well.

All the talking and bickering makes him feel like a person again and so dread hits him like a slap to the face, when he realizes that it's time to go. Through the windows, he sees that she sun is setting and he doesn't want to abuse the hospitality of his lovely host. The thought of leaving her pains him, something telling him that he should stay, that things well be alright with her.

"Thank you for everything, Miss, but I think I should go now."

"What? In this darkness?", she argues and vaguely gestures towards one of the windows.

"I wouldn't wanna impose on you for longer than necessary.", he counters, but she firmly shakes her head.

"Nonsense. It would be rude of me to send you out in the middle of the night." Without so much as giving him room to protest, she moves over to take his jacket. "Come on, I'll run you a bath too. No offense, but you kinda need it."

That gets a chuckle out of him.

"None taken."

As he already expected, behind one of the doors is a bathroom. A tub is ready and waiting in the middle, to the side a lit hearth to keep the room warm and next to the tub is a small table with soap and a cloth. Inside here as well, there are plants placed on every surface. Very cozy.

After he takes in everything and inhales the soapy scent, she comes rushing in with a pile of clothes.

"These belonged to my father. They should fit.", she says, putting them down on a stool.

"I can also put these back on.", he suggests, tugging at his shirt and she looks at him, as if he grew a second head.

"What good will the bath be, if you change into your dirty clothes? No, no, I'll wash them tomorrow."

Before he could tell her that it won't be necessary, she already vanishes out of the room and shuts the door behind her.

Once he's finished and slipped into the new pair of clothes, that are slightly too big for him, but still good to wear, he steps out of the bathroom. While he was in there, she had prepared a spot to sleep for him. What he at first assumed was a sofa over at the wall, was in fact a bed. It didn't look like one before, with the amount of pillows she had thrown on. Must have been intentional.

With a full stomach and as clean as a baby, he drifts off to sleep faster than he had ever before. In the next morning, when they're both up and eating breakfast, the dance continues.

"I can't just send you off with dirty clothes. Let me wash them."

"Alright, ma'am."

Then in the noon, when the clothes are washed, he approaches her outside, the laundry basket on the ground beside her.

"And you're just gonna put on wet clothes? Nonsense, they need to dry first."

"Sounds fine to me, Miss."

The clothes take all day to dry in the sun and by the time they're done, it's suddenly too late to leave again. What terrible host would kick him out in the middle of the night, she'd argue yet a second time and Jack would just nod along in agreement.

The next day, when he catches her preparing a basket with vegetables and eggs, looking like she's about to leave, he steps in her way.

"You're walking?", he asks to which she nods. "Let me give you a ride on my horse."

She doesn't argue and with her hands full, she this time accepts his assistance. His calloused hands find her waist and he hoists her up onto horseback. The contact sends a jolt through his body and he hides his flushed face under the rim of his hat.

"How come you don't have any horses?", he questions, once they're on their way.

"I didn't have any money when I lost my family. Had to sell the horses and the wagon.", she explains in a matter of fact way.

Jack doesn't answer, but instead thinks about the wagon he has back on his ranch. It wouldn't be too difficult to transport all her chickens over to Beecher's Hope and then she'd never have to walk again. Her vegetable garden would need to be sacrificed though. Unless they fill the back of the wagon with dirt and dump the crops on it. Would that work?

On the third day, it's obvious that none of them want to say their goodbyes. The excuses become more ridiculous and shallow, until it's nothing but a running joke. Jack starts to help around the small farm and they develop a routine over time. They share the work and one day, after taking a bath, he stops to inspect his reflection in the mirror.

Staring back at him, isn't the stranger from weeks ago anymore. It's Jack Marston or more so a glimpse of the Jack Marston he could be, if he'd stay by her side. He still isn't a welcoming sight for sore eyes, he thinks. That mop on his head that he calls hair, still frames his face in a disheveled way. That nose, still crooked from the time he had broken it.

But the crease between his eyebrows isn't as deep anymore and the corners of his mouth aren't constantly pointing down. There are still remnants of his signature scowl, the Marston special that he has inherited from his father, but he looks closer to relaxed than to brooding.

When he steps into the main living area, he finds it empty. Jack turns his head to look through the window and finds his sweetheart sitting comfortable on the porch. It feels wrong to refer to her as his host at this point. If one would ask him, he'd call her his savior, his personal guardian angel, but she'd smack his arm at that.

So sweetheart it is, though she has no clue about the nickname. It's a secret between Jack and whoever is looking over him. He doesn't believe that he will ever have the guts to tell her how he feels. His gratitude for her generosity, patience and kindness, he tries to shower her in everyday. What she had done for him, is more than he could ever repay.

But he has also fallen for her. It was inevitable, really, from the day they met. The way she had appeared in his life, like a gift from the heavens, like a sweet apology for putting him through all hell. Jack had crushes before obviously, but none of them had hit him like this, like a freight train going at full speed.

Maybe he should have insisted on leaving, instead of allowing these things to develop, because he knows that he doesn't deserve her. She's too wonderful, too good. Guilt is gnawing at him, day in day out, because he still hasn't told her about the baggage he carries. It doesn't feel right to keep her in the dark, when she has been nothing but honest.

Sighing, he walks out and shuts the door behind him. She beams at him, delighted to see him and he could have screamed and punched the air right then and there. The setting sun drowns the farm in a deep orange and his knees go weak at the sight of her. Excitedly, she pats the spot next to her and he joins her on the wooden bench.

"I got us something from town. For a job well done.", she tells him and hands him a glass.

With a triumphant grin, she holds up a bottle of whisky and opens it up with a plop. He forces a smile when she fills up their glasses, not wanting to sour the mood, but she notices. She always does.

"What's wrong?", she asks and places a warm hand on his knee.

The contact makes it difficult to grasp a single clear thought and he downs his whisky for courage.

"I gotta confess something, Miss." He swallows the lump in his throat. "And I won't blame you, if you decide to hate me afterwards."

"I could never hate you, Jack Marston."

Just you wait.

And so he lays down all his cards, telling her exactly what he did and what had lead to it. From his father being forced to hunt down his former friends or more so family to Jack wandering along the river. He tells her about Edgar Ross, the reason why he has lost both his parents and that he's now floating somewhere in the San Luis River.

Unless he's been washed up to the shore or someone has fished him out, that is. By the end of it, he's gripping the glass like his life depends on it and he stares at his feet, unable to meet her gaze. The bench creaks softly when she leans back and the long stretched silence torments him.

"That's why you were so jumpy that day.", she speaks up after a while and he nods.

"I thought you were the law or something."

There is a long pause.

"He sounds like a bad man. This Ross. If you ask me, he kind of had it coming.", she then answers and his head snaps to the side. Her expression is one of confusion. "What?"

"You ain't upset?"

"Why would I be?"

"I killed a man and I kept that from you.", he points out and she takes a sip from her whisky.

"You really thought I didn't know that you did something wrong? Do you not remember what you looked like when we met?", she argues and he runs a hand over his face.

Hearing this, he's not sure if she's a saint or a fool.

"So you knew I was bad news and still took me in?", he questions, almost sounding accusatory.

"You weren't bad news. You were..." The liquor in her glass sloshes in circles, as she swirls it around. "Lost."

Lost.

She hit the mark with that description. Jack Marston was a lost soul during that time, wandering the border like a ghost that simply couldn't move on. This woman, his sweetheart, has taken him in, clothed and fed him. Now he's admitting that he's done one of the most horrible crimes one could think of and she's not even judging him a little bit.

No, she says that Edgar Ross had it coming. He doesn't know if he should laugh or cry or do both.

"Thank you. For everything.", is all he manages to bring out.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end at some point. He knows it, she knows it. It was only a matter of time until they had to part ways, with Beecher's Hope waiting for him back by Blackwater. The way she's standing by his horse and biting down on her lip, as if to prevent it from quivering.

"I'll write to you.", he says and wraps his arms around her.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He cups her cheeks and stares into her lovely face, memorizing every detail, before leaving. A voice deep within him demands to lean forward and kiss her, but he knows better. A kiss would make things harder and so he let's go.

She has packed food for him, for his journey back home. Calling it home doesn't sit right with him, not when it's abandoned and empty. After a long time of riding along dirt roads, he finally reaches it and it looks just as hopeless as it did the day he left to take revenge.

His boots sound hollow inside his house and he wrinkles his nose at the thick layer of dust that coats every piece of furniture. It's strange to be all alone again, to not hear her voice from the other room or feel her gentle touch on his back whenever she talked to him. There's also an alarming lack of plants in here, he now notices.

So at the next best opportunity, he goes out to town to buy pots. In Blackwater, he grows back to his jumpy self. He gets a sense that every pair of eyes is watching him, judging him. Have the news gotten around that Edgar Ross is dead? Has anyone found his body? Although terrified of the answer, he still buys a newspaper.

His eyes dart from article to article, but none covers the death of the retired Detective. Perhaps the river has carried his body away, to a place unknown or unreachable to man. God, he sure hopes so.

The following days, he busies himself, working hard to fix the house and the rest of the property. It's partly to distract himself from the sense of impending doom and partly, because he has gotten so used to the physical labour back on her farm. When he's not imagining to be gunned down by a group of armed lawmen coming for his hide, then his mind is filled with thoughts of her.

Sometimes he gets so lost in them, that he hears her laughter in the wind or sees her dress in the corner of his eyes. It drives him mad in the worst and best possible ways. At times, when he wakes up from a particularly realistic dream, he swears he could smell her cooking in the air.

Jack writes letters regularly, the moment he gets an answer from her. It tends to take a while, since she has to walk on foot to the next town, but he learned to be patient for her. He mainly writes about his work on the ranch, joking about how much he misses her home cooked meals. His dreams, thoughts and feelings, he keeps to himself though.

Some of her letters are partly written in Spanish in an attempt to teach him. During his stay at her farm, he had picked up a couple words, but she makes a point to continue the lessons. Oh, how he yearns to hear those sentences from her lips, to meet her again in general.

It torments him, this distance. He feels elevated thanks to her, but also more lonely than ever. One day, he tells himself that it's enough, that he must see her again otherwise he feels like he will perish. Though he can't just show up empty handed.

Should he get a bouquet of flowers? He knows what her favorite ones are, but they will whither and die by the times he gets there. Jewelry then? He has never seen her wear any, but that doesn't necessarily mean she doesn't like it.

No, none of them are enough. If he'd have any ounce of decency, then he'd take the moon and stars down for her, but alas that's out of his capabilities. Instead, he heads to town, buys the sturdiest Shire the stable has to offer and attaches it to his wagon. They could throw the chickens into the back and bring them here.

But what if she doesn't want move to him, to the states? Well, then both the Shire and wagon stay there. Jack can't stand the thought of having his sweetheart walk one more mile in this heat. On his way to her house, his mind is spinning and running laps. What will he say? Most importantly, what will he do?

He imagines scooping her up in his arms at her doorstep and kissing her senseless, like they do in those romance novels. Though something tells him that he should refrain from doing that. He has never been a ladies man and smooth is at the very bottom of his characteristics. If he'd attempt anything of that sort, they would both fall and probably break a limb or two, if he knows himself right.

The palms of his hands are growing clammy from sweat and his heart drums against his ribcage, when her house appears in the distance. He parks the wagon to the side and jumps off the driver's seat, kicking up some dust in the process. Nervous and fidgety, he takes off his hat and quickly pats down his dark hair to make it look like he at least put some effort into looking decent.

The chickens are outside, as always and some of them flock to his legs, having recognized him. Their presence has a strange relaxing effect of him and he takes in a deep breath, before knocking at the door. Nobody answers and he can't hear any movement coming from inside. So he slowly opens the door and pokes his head through the crack, while calling out her name.

No answer and he let's himself in. Surely, she won't mind after he had practically lived here for a month or two. Her basket is in it's usual spot, so she couldn't have gone into town. The gears in his head are working on overdrive, as he thinks about the many different possibilities. What if something happened to her during his absence?

Quickly, he banishes those grim thoughts and steels his nerves. Obviously she must have headed to the river then, to pick some of the herbs, she mentioned on their first meeting. As much as he'd prefer to avoid the river, his legs carry him towards it nonetheless.

Jack stops at a hill and gazes down at the shore. Someone is crouching down on the ground and cutting some plants free. His heart skips a beat at the sight and he finds himself unable to move a single muscle. She's beautiful, the way she kneels there, her dress pooling around her legs. How on earth he had gone without her, back at his ranch, is beyond him.

The thought of leaving her again seems oh so ridiculous now. Slowly, she rises back to her feet and he watches her stuff the herbs into her bag. The knife she's holding, she slides into some kind of holster attached to her belt and then she turns around. Their eyes lock and Jack forgets to breath for a moment.

A strong sense of déjà-vu overcomes him and he recalls the two of them standing here, not too long ago. Only now their spots are reversed and she's the one gawking at him, as if she had seen a ghost. The surprised expression on her face is quickly replaced by pure joy.

They both move at the same time and basically crash into each other for a bone crushing hug. Her fingers are digging into his back and he buries his face into the curve of her neck. Inhaling, he fills his nose with her scent and lets her overpower his senses entirely.

"You're here!", she exclaims in both shock and delight and they pull away to look at one another.

"I'm here."

Not knowing what possesses him, he slides one hand to the back of her neck, the other around her waist and presses his lips on hers. It was an instinct, kissing her, an act purely based on impulse. His emotions are boiling over and he pours it all into this moment.

She doesn't move and he fears that she will reject him, but then she grab the collar of his shirt, deepening the kiss. He melts into her, their bodies fitting together like two puzzle pieces.

Edgar Ross is dead, but his ghost isn't haunting Jack anymore.

[mostlyghoestly]

Nothing Like me | Ray Young

Summary: A classic opposites attract prompt. Bad boy x good girl. I eat that shit UP.

Requests: None

A/N: Keep requests coming, as of now, they're open. Plus-sized reader in mind

You knew the second you stepped out of your friend's car that this was a bad idea. The lot was packed — neon lights reflecting off the hoods of cars, too pretty to be legal. The smell of burnt rubber and gasoline hung heavy in the air, engines rumbling like beasts in their cages. Every person here looked like they belonged. Dark clothes, combat boots, sharp eyes.

And then there was you.

In a soft, pale blue sundress that hit mid-thigh and fluttered in the warm night breeze. A pair of strappy Mary Janes. Glossy lips and subtle pink shimmer on your eyelids. Hair pinned back with a few loose tendrils framing your face. You stood out like a petal in a storm. “God, I feel like a Hallmark movie extra,” you muttered, hugging your arms around yourself.

Your friend snorted as she slammed her door shut. “Girl, you look hot. Let ’em stare.” You didn’t have a choice. Heads turned as you followed her toward the meet. Not cruel, not mocking — just surprised. Like you were a glittering chandelier dropped in the middle of a biker bar. And then you saw him.

Leaning against the driver’s side of a matte black Charger, cigarette dangling between his lips, one hand in the pocket of his ripped jeans. Ray Young. Everything about him screamed don’t get close — from the scowl etched deep between his dark brows to the cocky tilt of his head. Bad news in leather and denim. You knew him by reputation alone. Street legend. Fight-starter. Uncatchable.

You were the kind of girl that usually crossed the street to avoid guys like him. And yet… here you were.

Your friend waved to someone and vanished into the crowd, leaving you alone by the food truck. You fiddled with your phone to avoid making eye contact with the tattooed, smirking guys nearby. This wasn’t your scene. You preferred movie nights, old records, and baking something too sweet at midnight. You didn’t even like racing. You just didn’t have the nerve to tell your friend no.

“Did you get lost, princess?” The voice hit your spine like a low, rough spark. You looked up — and straight into the stormy, bored gaze of Ray Young. Up close, he was worse. Gorgeous in that messy, dangerous way. Dark hair falling in his eyes, a scar along his cheekbone, you knew he had a story no one told. The kind of guy who got away with things he shouldn’t. And he was looking right at you.

You swallowed. “I’m good. Thanks.” His gaze dragged down, slow, from your glossy lips to the curve of your waist to your thighs, bare under the hem of your dress. Not leering — more like he was trying to figure out how someone like you existed in a place like this.

“You here with somebody?”

You held his gaze. “My friend dragged me here.”

He grunted, flicking his cigarette to the ground and crushing it with his boot. “Figures.”

You arched a brow, heart hammering. “Figures what?”

“That you’re not the type.” You weren’t sure if it was an insult or not. It felt like a challenge.

“Well, maybe I’m braver than I look.” Something flickered in his eyes. Approval? Amusement? Either way, his lips quirked into the ghost of a smirk.

“Doubt it,” he murmured, then turned, heading for his car. And just like that, you were dismissed. Heat flared in your chest, a mix of embarrassment and something sharper. You weren’t here to impress him. But damn it, part of you wanted to.

The races were starting soon. Your friend appeared, cheeks flushed, holding two sodas. “Was that Ray Young you were talking to?!”

You shrugged, trying for casual. “Yeah. Briefly.”

“Holy shit. He’s usually an asshole to new people.”

You lifted a brow. “He was an asshole to me.”

“Yeah, but he talked to you.” She wiggled her brows. “Maybe he’s into Disney princesses.” You rolled your eyes and turned back to the lot. The cars lined up. Engines snarling, headlights cutting through the dark. The crowd pressed in as two cars took their marks — one of them Ray’s Charger. You hated how your stomach flipped at the sight of him behind the wheel, one hand on the stick, hair falling into his eyes.

The flag dropped. The cars exploded forward.

And God, it was thrilling. Dangerous and fast and stupidly beautiful. You found yourself holding your breath as Ray’s Charger devoured the pavement, weaving around his opponent, the roar of his engine making your chest ache. He won, obviously. Pulled back into the lot like a king returning from battle. You told yourself you weren’t going to go over there. But your feet betrayed you.

He was leaning against the car when you approached, toweling sweat off his neck, hair a wild mess. He looked up, and his lips twitched. “Decided you’re brave after all?”

You shrugged, trying not to fidget. “Guess so.”

His gaze softened, just a fraction. “That’s a nice dress,” he said, like it was a secret between you. “Don’t see that shit around here.”

You flushed. “Didn’t exactly get the dress code memo.”

“Good.” His eyes flicked down again, lingering. “Would be a shame to cover all that up.”

Your stomach fluttered — both mortified and wildly, stupidly flattered. “Do you always hit on girls who don’t belong here?” you asked, surprised at your own boldness.

He huffed a low laugh. “Don’t usually hit on anyone.”

That surprised you. A guy like him, with that face, that attitude? He probably had people lining up. You opened your mouth to say something when a tall girl in tight black jeans came up, pressing a little too close to Ray. “Hey, baby, wanna grab a drink?”

Ray barely glanced at her. “Busy.”

She scoffed, shooting you a glare before stomping off. You blinked. “Did you just—” “I don’t like people touchin’ me unless I ask ’em to.” And somehow, you knew he wasn’t just talking about her. A warmth spread in your chest. He shifted closer, voice low. “You stick out like a sore thumb, princess.” “I know.”

“But it works for you.”

You swallowed. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

His grin was crooked, dangerous. “Careful. Might start thinkin’ you like me.”

You lifted your chin, pulse racing. “Maybe I do.” For a beat, everything slowed. The sounds of the races blurred into background static. His eyes, sharp and stormy, locked on yours like you were a puzzle he wanted to take apart.

Then, softly, “You should let me take you out sometime.”

And somehow you knew — for him, this wasn’t a line. Wasn’t a game. It was an ask. A real one. You smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He nodded once. “Good.” And as he turned back to his car, glancing over his shoulder with that crooked smirk, you realized something else. Maybe you didn’t belong here. But Ray Young? He made you feel like you did. And for the first time in a long time — you didn’t mind standing out.

[batfambrainrotbeloved]

People so often obsess over their grief of Jason- the double vision looking at someone that never left and yet is completely gone

They forget he's mourning himself

[leafyeyes417]

Delivery

Danny really didn’t like the bowing and formality of being the Ghost King. Yes he had a lot of power but as long as you were decent he didn’t feel the need to exercise it. So Danny decided to disguise himself. His choice, a messenger.

He used to have only two forms, his human side and ghost side. Now he has four. A Royal form and his messenger form. His normal ghost form could now could be considered his comfy form, which he uses when he’s just hanging as friends.

Anyway what started the whole messenger thing was when he found out there was an entire room full of paperwork just relating to one guy. Like good for him in his Soul Evasion but not for the poor Ghost King. So he decided to return to sender.

Once in disguise (Thank you minor shapeshifting), he used a portal to get to the guys vicinity. Which happened to be in the middle of a Justice League meeting. Great. Okay Danny you got the bored look down, just do your supposed job.

“I’m looking for a…” he checks a clipboard he pulled out of nowhere. “John Constantine.”

He hears a curse to his left and glances over. Yep that’s the guy. Someone asks, “Why are you looking for him?”

Danny smiles blandly. “I need to deliver a package. It is quite large though so I will need a…” He glances at the clipboard again. “12 by 24 by 30 foot room to place it in.”

Constantine blinks confused. “But I didn’t order anything? Especially not from one of your kind.”

Danny nodded. “Yes this is a late return order I’m afraid. We finally got through some of the back log.”

Perturbed Constantine agreed and Danny was led to a place in the Watchtower after getting a signature for confirmation of delivery. Checking that the measurements were correct, Danny opened the portal and with a whomp the piles of paperwork landed in the room. Impressively none of the towers of paper toppled over, only swaying a little.

The heroes that had followed out of curiosity gaped. Constantine sputtered out a, “What the ‘ell is all this?!”

Danny gave a toothy smile. “This? This is all paperwork tied to you. The Ghost King decided that if you wanted to create so much paperwork then you can be the one to fill it out.” Ripping open another portal Danny waved and said his goodbyes. “Well my job is done. Bye!”

Once back in his keep he couldn’t keep himself from breaking out into laughter. It was so worth it to play messenger boy for that.

Later (not really a connected scene but had to share):

Danny floated into one of the Demon Princes receiving rooms. Constantine had gone through some of the paperwork and he needed to deliver the finished copies. Turns out being a messenger gave him a lot of wiggle room in going to new locations.

As Ghost King he would need to ask permission, get a bunch of gifts, etc etc. Messengers just needed a ‘hey I’m neutral and temporarily entering your territory’ and as long as Danny stayed out of restricted areas he had basically free rein.

Upon getting the sigil of confirmation from the Demon Prince he handed him the papers. The Demon frowned as he started reading and then snarled. “What is this?! That human’s soul was mine so why do I suddenly not have full claim?”

Danny shrugged. “I’m just the messenger but at a guess, the guy took advantage of the fact the bureaucracy was back logged and got some more deals. Heard the Ghost King is having him work through his own paperwork as punishment for making so much.”

Snarling and grumbling, the Demon shooed him away. He smirked. It was fun to see everyone react upon receiving bad news.

[kismetlotts]

call of duty p-links -`◇´-

♡︎ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴅᴏᴠᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴀᴛ ♡︎

18/21+, MDNI, mature themes

triggering, upsetting and explicit content below

proceed at your own risk ⬏

Simon Ghost Riley

Riding Colleague Simon Riley and watching his cold, harsh exterior shatter, revealing this broken, needy man beneath who almost submits to tears when you finally lock eyes.

Ex boyfriend Simon Riley who spits on his fingers and stuff them inside you when you beg-plead him to stop stalking you and raping you.

Boyfriend Simon Riley who drags you into a random room at a gathering before fucking you hard and trying to stay quiet, he doesn't care that people are in the other room, he doesn't care that someone could walk in because he needed you there and then.

Hopping into the bath with your roommate Simon because you were way too impatient, you needed him inside you desperately- he can just wash his grimy, sweaty, work-orientated body later.

Taxi Driver Simon Riley who cant help but give in to his sick desires as he hops in the back to fuck you, ripping off that skimpy little dress you were wearing and pulling your hair.

Heartbroken best friend Simon who fucks you in the kitchen after sleeping over your house, relieving some of his post break-up blues and stress with the help of your sloppy tight cunt.

Toxic boyfriend Simon who fucks his cock into your mouth when you wouldn't let him in your pussy, making your eyes water and your body twitch in regret.

Sex deprived Husband Simon who breeds you the moment he returns home, he had been loyal to you while away on deployment and he just couldn't contain himself when he finally had the chance to bury himself in your wet gooeyness.

Toxic Boyfriend Simon who fucks you hard to let off all of his steam, spanking, slapping and hitting your body because he was fucking pissed at you and nothing else could calm him down- you deserved it anyway you fucking whore.

Captain John Price

Boss Price who calls you into his office for some steamy cunnilingus when everyone is packing up ready to go home, lapping his teeth around your clit and diving his wet tongue into your greedy hole- let him have a taste, its the least you can do for your boss.

Birthday-boy boyfriend John who walks into the bedroom to see you all wrapped and tied for him, completely at his mercy in white material-prepped and ready for him to use or disrespect.

Stepdad Price stuffing your hole and leashing you up while your mother is away with work, treating you like some stupid fucking bitch and forcing you to do exactly what he tells you since he is in charge and you abide by his rules.

Older boyfriend John who proposes that the two of you start by doing mutual masturbation, he didn't want to scare his young pretty girl off just yet with how rough he can be and his fingers were already itching to feel the inside of your fresh pussy.

Husband Price who fucks you deeper when you beg for it, pounding into you so hard his eyes are shining with pleasure and legs are aching in tiredness, feeling your wetness drip out and coat his dick filling the room with your heavenly squelches- so wet and so fucking feminine.

Friends with benefits John Price who fucking loves watching your arse shake and jiggle with every thrust, he loved your arse in general and was always happy to bite, eat, fuck, taste and finger it- but nothing beats the tasty sight of your cheeks swaying beneath him as he absolutely wrecks you.

Dads best friend Price who fucks you like an animal in heat, if you had taken a second longer to undress your clothes would be ripped to shreds ad hanging off you with how badly he couldn't wait-he didn't even give a shit your heels were still on because he had waited a lifetime to get inside you.

Toxic Husband John who drags you over his lap and toys with you for his own pleasure, smirking to himself when you cry from his spanks and whimper from his fingers- giving his sweet baby a little treat and punishment at the same time because he couldn't understand which one he liked more.

Step dad Price who is way to desperate for you to cum on his fingers, soak his hand in your cum and just to let yourself go, be taken care of and protected by an older male- who cares if it is wrong or not- he just wants his darling daughter to be happy and calm.

Johnny Soap Mactavish

Stalker Johnny who rearranges your guts fast and hard against your bed as soon as he gets his chance, meaty thick cock ramming its way inside with no care as he shamelessly blabbers on how you are his sweet little dove and that he thanks god for giving him this opportunity- you'll never know how badly he actually wanted his hands on you.

Greedy Hook-up Mactavish who makes you squirt just so it feels better for him, your folds leaking and dribbling with your essence but Johnny only cared about the warmth coating and lubricating his tip, making you so sodden it seemed he was sliding into warm, soft, melted, butter.

Best friend Johnny who proves you wrong when you assume hes lying about being able to make any girl cum by just his fingers, dragging you onto his bed and fingering you steadily, mouth salivating in thirst as he watches your cum propel outwards and squirt all over his sheets.

Perverted Boyfriend Johnny who cant stop himself from sucking harshly on your nipples, mind already engrossed with sick fantasies of drinking your milk, you cupping him in your arms and feeding him gently like the good boy he is for you- you'd never find out though, to you he was just teasing your breasts, sucking, pinching and having a little fun, totally normal.

Step Brother Mactavish who fucks you in his room late at night, the pints he'd had previously making him increasingly more open and confident than usual, his tip hitting the spot you craved it to his gaining a small little spank from you and a whisper to keep quiet- you cant let mummy and daddy hear the two of you.

Childhood Best Friend Johnny who fucks you so hard you squirt all over yourself and him, finally seeing him after so many years and letting him fuck your ass had gotten you so excited you couldn't hold yourself back- Johnny wasn't fucking complaining each squirt that shot out of you made him almost cum- fucking your tight hole on the brink of orgasm, he never would've guessed you were capable of that.

Perverted neighbour Johnny who invites himself in to show you just how trained his tongue is, guiding it all over your thighs and pussy, working you easily and calmly it has your eyes watering in delight.

Simons best friend Johnny who fucks you in Simons bedsheets, thick dick filling you up more than his ever could until your left a collapsed mess in ecstasy, the scent of your boyfriend on the duvet and the groans coming from his best mate sent guilt straight to your stomach but it was already overwritten by pleasure- Disgusting fucking tramp sleeping with other guys and enjoying it.

Kyle Gaz Garrick

Boyfriend Kyle who just wants to feel your soft lips on his monster cock, he would never force you to do anything you didn't want to do and it would be silly to ask you to suck him- but could you please at least spit over the tip or maybe just lick it a little?

Roommate Gaz who cant survive the day without a morning quickie, your arse bouncing right in front of him and hole lustfully swallowing his juicy dick gets him in the perfect mindset for his hard work, morning television roaring in the background as you both chase your orgasms- you don't mind, do you?

Boyfriend Kyle who fucks you as fast as he can the second he hears 'faster' spew from your glossy lips, his stamina and pace unmatchable and sometimes you feel like you're about to explode with how powerful he is, Kyles a sweetheart but he isn't always so soft, slow and romantic- the man can fuck like a king.

Husband Kyle who has an obsession with filling your stomach with his massive cock, seeing the thick outline of himself through your skin deep in your stomach stirred something up inside him, fucking you harder and harder sometimes you bleed from his accidental roughness, it set him alight watching it bulge- made his savage side snap into action.

Konig

Obsessive stalker Konig who watches your window as you shower and finally builds up enough courage to join and fuck you in it one day, picking you up from behind and slipping inside your warm homey hole, drool falling from his mouth and onto your shoulder as you cried, he didn't understand why you were so adamant for him to get off of you and stop making love to you, it was no big deal- if he made you dirty and sweaty again he will just help you wash again.

Step Brother Konig who rapes you while you sleep and accidentally creampies your hole once you wake up and whimper, he didn't mean to cum honestly, he whispers apologies and a long string of worried 'fucks' as he pulls apart your cheeks watching his semen leak out of you- please don't be angry at him.

Boyfriend Konig who makes sure to use three or four of his fingers to stretch you out and prepare you for his cock, its just that big- he will kiss you on the cheek, licking away your salty tears of pain while he fucks his fingers until you, it is only a matter of time until you grow accustomed to the feeling- it will only hurt for a little more you just have to trust him.

Perverted Boyfriend Konig who fucking loses it when he sees you in your cute innocent frilly little panties, not being able to hold back his groans and his cum as he absolutely saturated them, painting them white- it is okay though, he promises to buy you a new pair- only if you let him keep these used ones- for personal reasons of course.

Brothers best friend Konig who selfishly ruts against your clothed pussy at night, breathing heavily and shaking as his precum soaks through the cotton of your panties, the room pitch black from the darkness aside from your lamp and he was supposed to be sleeping next door on the floor with your brother but here he was- sick look in his pleasure-ridden eyes as he looks down at you- whispering for you to just go back to sleep- he promises he wont go inside.

Philip Graves

Boss Graves who spanks your ass repeatedly when you disobey his orders, you work for him and you do exactly what he fucking says- there should be no 'Why's or 'No's it is 'Yes Sir' or else you are staying behind at the end of the day, and trust him when he says he will not be letting you leave until he is satisfied that you have learnt your lesson.

Toxic Boyfriend Philip who honestly does not give a fuck if you are tired or not, he will touch you, eat you, fuck you and rape you if he has to because to be in a relationship with him is an honour that you are taking for granted- he will treat you however he wants- at the end of the day your just a piece of pussy.

Boyfriend Philip who loves your perfect little nipples, he loves squeezing them, pinching them- sucking, biting- you name it and he loves it, he loves when you were silly little tank tops around the house that shows them pointing through and he loves when you let him cum on them- the minute he come face to face with your breasts and nipples, its like the world melts away.

Manipulative, Insane Boss Graves who hates when you crawl away from him and his hard cock- you know you want it, he can see it in your big doe eyes, its fuels him with rage when you cry and threaten to report him if he puts it inside you so he threatens your job back, promising you that if you ever told anyone or reported him that he would come for you and no matter how fast you tried to escape that he would always outrun you.

Husband Graves who upsets you during an argument so he decides to tug your panties down and fuck you in all the ways you love just before bed, his breath hot on your neck and sweat forming under both of your pyjamas from how fast his cock was entering you- the music of your panting and the scent of sex in the air made it safe to say neither of you got much sleep but at least he is back in your good books.

[damselneedssaving]

「 KISS ME THROUGH THE PHONE 」

OLDER!CLINGY!DAMIAN WAYNE X F!READER

★ SYNOPSIS: Unable to be apart from you for long, Damian chooses to call you while on patrol—and when that isn't enough to satiate his aching heart, he swings by your window to wish you a good night in person, and maybe a bit more.

★ TAGS: damian is 18+, suggestive content, longing/yearning, fluff, it physically hurts damian to be without you

★ A/N: inspired by 'kiss me thru the phone' by soulja boy, more longing/yearning Dami because no one can convince me that man is not a complete romantic who feels like his chest is being ripped out whenever his beloved isn't next to him 🥰

line divider by @cafekitsune

"I miss you," Damian's voice calls from the other side of the phone, tone so sincere, so loving, that you can feel it in the warmth of the moonlight spilling into your room.

Your lips curve up, eyes melting as you stare out your window like he's right there, stood at your fire escape just waiting to be let in. "You've said that five times already, Dami."

"And I'll say it five more: I miss you, Habibti."

The smile on your face grows without your permission, and your finger practically has a mind of its own when it moves to the sill of your window, tracing little hearts on the surface like some sort of lovesick schoolgirl.

He's always known how to reduce you to one.

"Isn't your dad with you? I thought he doesn't allow calls to partners on patrol."

You can practically hear the eye roll in his voice. "Tt. That man wouldn't know true love if it hit him over the head with a frying pan."

His words make you perk up, slumped over form suddenly upright with life and light and all the stars twinkling in the sky of the night as you exclaim, excitement seeping into your tone, "You watched Tangled!"

"Of course," he replies, firm but soft, like it's obvious, but without all the derision that usually comes with that. "You asked it of me."

His words are simple, but they're kind, sweet, like the candy floss he bought you on your date the other day—and just like how it's flaky strings melted on your tongue, you, too, melt on the spot.

"Dami..."

It's all you can say, his name all you've ever known, and all that you wish to know, as you stand there, under the rays of the moonlight, eyes closed and mind swarmed with the ghost of his touch.

"I miss you, Habibti."

You miss him too.

But your eyes open, crinkling further at the corners as your gaze drifts down and you whine out with all the fluster of a girl embarrassed by her man, "Dami..."

"Hm?" a smile speaks through his tone.

You kick the air. "Stop that..."

"Stop what?"

"Saying that..."

His chuckle sounds from the other side of the screen, hot enough to warm your insides.

"Saying what? That I miss you?" he asks, though you know that he knows the answer to his question, going on to then say, "Would you prefer I tell you how cold the night is without you by my side? Or how it feels like there's a hole in my chest as I jump under the starry sky?"

"Dami..."

"It's true."

"No"—you shake your head, turning away from your window with one arm crossed over your chest and a smile upturned on your lips—"I mean—I miss you too..."

The line goes quiet. Too quiet.

"Dami?"

No response.

"Damian?"

Still, nothing.

Your teeth graze your lip, biting down on it by the smallest hair as you feel your insides turn into ice, fingers readjusting themselves around your phone.

The silence is loud—

—until it isn't.

Like glass, it's shattered through by the sound of tapping, and when you turn, heart in your throat, you all but melt at the sight that greets you.

There, with one hand holding his phone up to his ear, and the other tapping its fingers against your window, is the love of your life.

Relief washes over you like a wave, drenching your form until your shoulders fall from its weight and you're left floating step-by-step towards your suited-up boyfriend.

Under the whites of his mask, his eyes hide, unreadable, but they don't need to be, you know by the fall of his shoulders and the slight smile on his face that he's just as eager to see you as you are to see him.

Splaying your hand over where his rests on the glass, you give yourself a moment to take him in, to calm the swell of your heart as you feel the way he stares at you like you're the only one in the world.

A beat passes with the two of you just staring at each other through the glass.

For a moment. All is right. All is warm. All is sound.

And then your heart cries out, and you find yourself lifting your window not a moment after.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, breathless, disbelieving.

"You said you missed me."

Then he adds, without even opening his mouth:

'So here I am.'

Your eyes crinkle for the umpteenth time, and he wastes no longer to perch himself on your windowsill and reach for your hands with his own gloved ones.

"Damian, you have to patrol."

He rolls his eyes, smile still on his lips. "The streets are safe enough in the hands of Batman alone." Then, his eyes crinkle. "I'd rather be here with you."

Warmth swells in your heart, and you almost can't help the way you lunge forward, wrenching your hands from his grip to instead, throw your arms around his neck and bury yourself in his chest, smile a little too wide against his suit.

The position is a little awkward, but it still feels right, natural, when he winds his arms around your back, and the warmth of him bleeds into your form.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, Habibti."

Raising your head from his chest, you usher him in, and it's only then that his eyes wander, head tilting down a little in that familiar way it does when he's taking you in.

And as you take a step towards your bed, as you move to lead him further into your room, your body is abruptly halted, wrist in his grasp, before you're yanked with a firm tug straight back into his chest.

A smirk tugs at his lips.

"Habibti," he whispers, smug, like the word is a secret shared between just the two of you, his head dipping until his nose brushes your own. "Do you always wear such attire to bed?"

Your eyes widen, breath hitching in your throat as his gloved fingers start to play with the hem of your shirt.

"Perhaps you knew I wouldn't be able to resist visiting, and wore such clothing on purpose?"

His teasing runs hot and heavy on your ears, and he pulls you closer by the waist before you can even think of turning your gaze away.

"In that case, you wouldn't mind if I were to indulge, would you?"

[soulsforsales]

"I love you. I'm sorry."

Jason didn't mean to say it. Not like this. Not now. Not when he's buried deep inside you, holding you like this might be the last time he gets to.

But it happened when he wasn't thinking - just feeling.

You don't even notice it at first. You are lost in the rhythm, the warmth, the way he looks at you like you're the only good thing he's seen all his life.

You don't notice how his hands tremble, how his breath catches every time you sigh his name, when you moan it into his mouth.

He's not rough. Not tonight. He's soft, taking his time, like he's trying to memorize the feel of having you against him.

Jason is all calloused hands and desperate lips, tracing every curve and dip of your body he can reach, worshipping you in ways you didn't think were possible.

When he finally lets go, he trembles, both from exertion and emotion. He's buried in you, breaths coming in stutters because the feeling in his chest has nothing to do with the pleasure he felt. Because it's too much and not enough all at once.

Your eyes are closed, lips parted, and to Jason, you're poetry incarnate. You're someone who sees him, without the mask, without the guns, and you stay.

You see the broken boy who carries too many ghosts, and you still stay.

The feeling in his chest is unconscionable, and then, it slips. Soft, quiet, like someone ripped it out of him.

"God, I love you."

Jason freezes the second it's said, eyes wide, and you feel the panic in the way his body tenses. Like, he could reverse time with sheer will. Like, he wants to pull it back into his throat, but it's too late.

His truth is out there now, raw and naked.

You blink at him, dazed, a little breathless beneath him and his stomach tightens.

"Forget it," he says, voice sharp, not cold. But you can sense the fear underneath.

You know. You always do.

He tries to pull away. Tries to pretend like he didn’t just shatter himself open.

But you grab his face with both hands and force him to look at you.

"Jason," your voice is soft, but it makes him flinch.

Like, he's bracing for another person to tell him there's no love.

Like, he's waiting for you to laugh at him.

Like, he's waiting for you to see him the same way he sees himself.

But you smile. Warm, real, knowing, and it kills him.

"Say it again," you whisper, pressing his forehead to yours.

Jason shakes his head because saying it again makes it real; it means giving meaning to the storm of feelings inside him.

"I can't -"

"Yes, you can."

Your fingers slip into his hair, thumbs brushing the edge of the mask he wears even when it's not on his face.

Your expression softens when you look into his eyes. Scared, shining with tears, and carrying many more emotions than he thought he was capable of.

"Say it again, Jay."

He closes his eyes, and his walls crumble.

"I love you," His voice breaks at the words, and he's barely holding on but the last thing he wants to do is sob into your neck like the pathetic, scared boy he is.

But he also knows that you'll let him, that you'll hold him, and tell him it's okay.

And that terrifies him. Because you treat him like he's worth all the demons he brings along.

You're everything Jason convinced himself he would never deserve.

Jason inhales, blinks away the tears in his eyes, and then; lets go.

"I love you, I love you, I love you."

He buries his face in the curve of your neck and you hold him there.

He repeats the three words like they've been circling inside his chest since he met you (Spoiler: they are).

He says them like it physically hurts not to.

And then, after a few quiet moments, his face still hidden against your skin.

"I didn't mean to say it like that," his voice is soft, slightly shaky, like he's trying not to cry, "not like this. Not until I knew... you felt it too."

You laugh at that, "Of course I do, you idiot."

Jason pulls back at that, a ghost of a smile on his face, and presses his forehead to yours again.

"I love you, Jason."

His smile widens and he closes his eyes like he wants the words to seep into his bones, like he wants to carry them in his heart.

Because he never thought he'd hear them. Not like this, not from someone who truly means it.

"I'd die for you. Again."

He says the words, and suddenly your heart feels too big for your chest.

"I know, but I want you to live for me."

Jason nods and exhales like he's never breathed before. Like nothing made sense until this moment.

Like he could live here forever, and it still won't be enough.

After, he holds you all night. He falls asleep with his arm thrown around your waist and his nose pressed against your collarbone.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

[k6tzie]

COD P☆RN LINKS

ghost: your clingy boyfriend just wants to be closer to you, he wants to be inside you. literallysuch a sweet boy with mommy issues, just wanting to be taken care of :( doesn't wanna commit yet and go the full way... stop being so clingy! he was trying to do some paperwork :/ so incredibly jealous ghost coded surprising you when he comes back home but you have a meal for him prepared :) soap: don't even need to take your panties off fully, just push them aside!< pretty red tights are getting ripped off tonight 😊 whilst soap fucks u hard and merciless, ghosts fat cock is throbbing in ur mouth :( he can't stay away from ur pretty lips gaz: he likes recording your puffy pussy when you cum like your own paparazzi! don't worry, he'll lick it up afterwards his pretty cowgirl riding that dick like she owns it 😵 late night after the whole teams' at the bar, you 2 sneak back to his car... staying in a tent for a mission...this close...is never a good idea price: price stuffing his thick dick in you after you 'joked' about breaking up :(he's gonna be deployed for awhile, why not make the most of it? he DID promise good aftercare, don't blame him halloween mission gone wrong! :( your weight is no match for him alejandro: average alejandro camera roll smh he loves seeing u wet all over, and a mark on how much he's done titty man :) sleepover at ale's barrack after dinner rudy: he missed feeling you, so soft and plushy - better than a pillow <3he was too shy to say anything so thank god you removed it typa shit rudy's on pussy so soft and healthy eating that puffy pussy like it's the last supper

[tojisteddy]

Daddy issues | “and if you were my little girl, I’d do whatever I could do…”

cw: 18+ MDNI, 4.1k words (omfg), smut with plot, meanie!simon (he’s a crazy, asshole), Daddy kink, daddy issues (obvi), dd/lg dynamics, mentions of abuse, sexualization of ‘pa, kiddo’ (truly a case of if you hate it just scroll), oral (f receiving), dacryphilia, creampie, full nelson, age gap (reader mid-late 20s, Simon early-mid 30s), no use of y/n (I use [+]).

a/n: obviously influenced by daddy issues by the neighborhood (I know it’s not about this at all, take it up with god), also by take you down by sza :3

You weren’t used to being this needy in your entire life.

You swore you didn’t need anyone, let alone Ghost Riley. You’d been repetitively normal in all your past relationships.

But he’d run through your mind like the Flash going back in time— the older man ruined some of the circuits in your brain.

You’d two gotten into an argument, shocker, but this time over how you were acting. The usually chilled out girl who Ghost would call when he wanted to see his little kitten purr, was now desperate for every little bit of his attention. The blonde despised every bit of it.

“You’re bein fuckin greedy.” He told you, walking away from where you stood after you told you’d wanted to stay over again for another week. Of course, you easily followed right behind, attempting to match his long stride. You never could.

“By wanting to be with you? Aren’t boyfriends supposed to want to see their girlfriends? Supposed to spend time together? There are probably a million girls and guys with sweet boyfriends—“

“—Do I look like one of those buddy buddy, pretty boys you like to fuck to you, [+]?” He turned on his heal, luckily you didn’t crash into his chest like you usually did. His voice was ice cold, “Answer me.”

“No sir.” You mumbled, the air was thick, tightly wrapping around your vocal cords.

“Then why the hell are you bein so damn needy? I told you, I won’t give you all my attention. I’ve got my own shit to take care of and you want me to, what? Hold you on my fuckin hip like a baby?” Well, hey— “Stop bein a damn brat and get the fuck out my face.”

“ ‘M not askin you to take care of me Si, but, I just want-“

“—Cut the shit [+]. You’re pissin me off, why can’t you just fuckin listen? I hate the clingy, desperate shit, get it out of your damn head and get it out of my fuckin house.” He stormed off into one of the bedrooms with a slam of the door.

Simon never had to tell you when he was kicking you out. You’d always go on your own.

He swore if he saw you and you were still stuck on the idea that you had to cling to him, he was gonna rip you a new one.

Did you take him serious?

On a good day, never.

You’d be stuck thinking about how good he looked, blonde hair a mess, veins popping out his neck and his arms, large muscles flexing, face screwed up towards you— you’d lick up all the poison he’d spewed to you over and over. It’s funny, at times like that you’d just wanted to know, if he’d fuck all his anger into you? Maybe you’d cum so many times just from finger fucking you, you’d be a babbling mess, begging for more—

Delusional.

Maybe when he was actually angry with you, not when Ghost was aggravated to the point he didnt want to physically see you.

And at the absolute worst of times, you’d trusted his words. You stayed away for a couple weeks just as you were told because you so desperately wanted to be told how good you were when you got that call. How you weren’t a needy bitch, but the prettiest & smartest girl he’d ever been with.

And of course you could’ve heard those simple words from anyone in a ten mile radius, ask your online followers for a few complements and you would’ve gotten them like clockwork. But you needed to hear it from that meanie.

Did you have a praise kink? Perhaps.

Did you need men’s approval to live? God forbid.

You just wanted Ghosts approval. His rough hands from those long days of being in action to touch your body, the playful head pats you swore you hated it cause it messed up your hair, a good smack to the ass as praise when he instructed you on how to change a car tire, fat fingers trailing your back as you sat in his lap, reading those books you loved a loud. Gruff voice praising after you had such an amazing day at work— as if you’d been the one to align everything so it could all work in your favor. ‘Good job doll, you’re doin well for yourself.”

Those underlying daddy issues would tear themselves out of you— like some junkie, you craved to hear his praises, feel it on your skin. It tingled the ivory inside you like a piano.

You tried taking your mind off it, throwing yourself into work, hanging out with your friends, doing a stream or two just to see if anyone showed up, get your mind straight so you wouldn’t be so dependent.

But giving a stray attention then yanking it away would be plain rude.

Your brain was in turmoil, front of your brain started to thunk, thunk, thunk from how much you were over thinking. To top it off, your father had called you just as you’d gotten done having lunch with some friends.

It’d be a long fucking night.

“No, I'm not moving back to the US just so I can be married off to someone stranger. Are you crazy?” You practically shrieked once you’d heard your stupid father on the other side of the call. No ‘hello,’ ‘how are you?’ ‘It’s been a while’ just straight bullshit.

Something about an arranged marriage with the son of a businessman he was trying to partner with. You wanted to punch him square in his jaw— ooooh calm down. You were okay. It’s perfectly fine.

“It’s for the betterment of your future, [+]. Why am I the only one who cares about that? You can’t go playing around with dogs all day—“

“I have serious clients dad, famous ones. Rich one’s. I’m not grooming dogs for nothing, even talked about opening my own place.” You tried. It was your dream, something not even your boss knew about. But Simon knew, in fact, he was the one who pushed you the most about really chasing after what you wanted. He had the most faith in you, and you yearned to hear him reassure you right now. Even if it was just him saying, ‘dont let those cunts get in your head, you’re my smart girl, aren’t ya? You know best.’

You would’ve killed to hear that right now.

Your father chastised, “A little grooming license isn’t a bachelors degree, is it?”

Oh. You blinked. He always had to take it there when he couldn’t get his way, because everything needed to go your father’s way or no one could be happy. You wiped your hand over your face in frustration, huffing as you continued on to your apartment, tuning out whatever the man was saying with ‘mmhm’.

Like a knight in shining armor but the opposing enemy, there the skull mask wearing man sat in his big black truck right in front of your apartment building. Simon didn’t even have to say anything when he caught your brown eyes, just motioned his head. ‘Come.’

Did he have to tell you twice?

You climbed in the car, heart pounding, not even listening to the words that were coming from the other side of the line because someone ten times more important had showed up.

“Where’ve you been?” He’d filled the cars silence in a hushed tone. Just enough so you could hear but your father couldn’t.

You fumbled around with your purse, looking at anything you could but the man beside you, “…You told me not to come over.”

“And you actually listened?” Simon griminced, eyebrow raised at you as he continued to drive.

Because usually, you’d show up even if you were the one who was mad. Ignoring him like he did you, even if you two were in the same space but you were still together. He’d still pull you in his arms, rubbing his head in the crevice of your neck because you were so damn cute with those eyebrows furrowed and pout.

“I didn’t wanna make you more upset this time.” You wanted to hide yourself but that truck left no room for it.

Well that didn’t work, did it? It just made him more annoyed. To the point Price had to tell him to ease up on the lower ranked soldiers during training. Even if he did push you away, you were a boomerang, always finding your way back to the older brute— a constant. You were a stray cat that would brush into Simon each time he gave you a little attention, a little food, a little love. And he liked it, his cute little thing that would ease his mind from everything even if you were a little annoying. Something to care for.

Like, a puppy? A kitten? No, more. Girlfriend? Of course. A step down to hell. His baby girl. His baby—

Before Simon could get another word out, the rambling from your phone the both of you were ignoring turned into yelling. His hand gripped the wheel with a scuff. Simon hated your father to say the very least, an annoying, prude that man was. He had a nasty habit of calling you and spewing utter bullshit in your ear, critiquing every little one of your life choices even though he didn’t raise you, didn’t pay for anything— he was just another entitled sperm donor. Simon had to tell you to hang up different times because he couldn’t stand someone talking to you like that.

It took Simon back to his own father, that abusive, psychopathic prick. Didn’t know what the hell he was doing with him and his younger brother, fucker always was on ballistic shit. Throwing things against the wall, putting his hands on anyone in that God forsaken house that breathed wrong, drinking non stop and the goddamn yelling. He didn’t want that for you— didn’t want to end up like that bastard. Simon cared about you too much, he wouldn’t let that happen. So in his fucked up way of caring, he’d push you away. Saying anything that came to mind, only meaning 61% what he actually said.

But that proved to be a new dead end.

Which led to a new resolution: he’d fix whatever issue went on in his head and keep you if it meant not having to see you very clearly, shut yourself down to cope or having to hear your annoying father talking down on you like an imbecile.

Ghost’s own head was reeling— he would never let anyone talk to you like you were an idiot. Couldn’t even imagine it. Yes, you were a little agitating, a little fucking dumb— but that was fixable. Nothing Daddy couldn’t fix. And if you trip and fall on your mistakes, the older man was right there to catch you. He’d refix your problems a thousand times over if he had to, why? Because he adored you to pieces.

But you weren’t an idiot, you can’t fix inherent incompetence.

His princess wasn’t incompetent.

That’s why every fuckin time you were on the phone with your father, which was already rare, he wanted to shove his booted foot right the man’s ass. Sew his asshole shut and keep feeding him, and feeding him, and feeding him. Water board the guy and show everyone how he was the fuckin embarrassment and not his sweet precious daughter—

Simon would try to hold whatever anger was festering this time because you, for your mothers sake, were trying to fix the relationship you didn’t break.

He was off the rocker, yes, but he’d get the shit together. Quick. Somehow. For you.

Be good, good, be good, be good—

“—And I bet you’re still fucking around with that ass aren’t you, [+]? You can be such a fucking idiot, it’s time to grow the hell up-“

You weren’t a fucking idiot. Never. If Simon didn’t call you that, what made anyone think they had the right to?

He didn’t hesitate to snatch the phone out of your hands, “—Are you out of your fuckin mind!?”

His voice boomed, filling the car, not even your father was talking anymore. The only sound that could be heard was the engine and the tires rolling on the pavement.

“Ya don’t say shit to your own kid for a decade but now you think you can run her life because you got some money in your pocket? Money you haven’t even spent a single pound on her—“ there was a quick muffled noise from the other side of the phone but Ghost was faster, “I’m disrespectful!? I wish I gave a shit about what you think of me or what I’m doin with your fuckin daughter. She’s with me for good reason.”

“—The next time you call you’d better have one foot in the grave or I’m gonna find you and make sure you do my fuckin self.” The blonde pressed the red button on the screen, a few more taps to block the man who, the blonde man had decided, wouldn’t be in your life.

After putting your phone in your lap, his hand immediately went to the back of your neck and letting out a deep breath, rubbing the baby hairs with his thumb. Soothing you. You saw Simon mouth move but you didn’t hear what came out of it. It was like your ears were shot just for a second, your heart beating loudly, you had wrapped yourself in a daze whenever you’d talk to your father and this had to be the first time someone not only yanked you out of it, but fully and undoubtedly protected you.

“Kid.” he barked, more profound.

Your big brown eyes snapped over to him, your brain finally catching up to what was happening in the moment.

“You’re okay, ‘s okay. I’ve got you, gonna take care ‘f you. Promise. You want that? Want me to take care of you, hm baby?” His voice was so soft, inviting, pulling you into whatever he’d had set for you in his mind.

How could you say no, when all you ever wanted was to be Simons?

“Yes sir.”

Famous last words.

Like you’d ignited a flame, his brown eyes flickered with mischief.

Ghost, the usual menace, rough man was being cloying with you.

Leaving gentle kisses all over as he made his was down to the heat in the middle of your legs. Big hands roaming the rest of your body as he slid your black, wet, underwear off, throwing your legs over his shoulders and giving a nice smooch to your cunt.

“So fuckin pretty baby, ‘s all for me?” His tongue slide up and down your vulva.

“Y-Yeah,” you said breathlessly, eyes fluttering shut as Ghost lapped up every juice that was coming out of you.

The older man scuffed, slipping a finger inside your tight walls and slowly thrusting them. “ ‘yeah’? That’s all you gotta say? Don’t be stubborn with me doll, wanna be nice to you today.”

You felt a pinch to your thigh, a warning, “keep those pretty eyes on me swee’art, need you focused on me.”

Your head tilted itself to the side, nodding your head and biting your lip to contain your moan but it’s barely doing anything as you watch Simon slip another fat finger into you, pumping his fingers faster and finally going up to your clit, taking a little nibble of it and then talking it in his mouth.

“Fu- mmm- fuuuck- wait- Si- I- can I cum? Please? Can I?” You whimpered, peeking down at the brown eyes that were stuck on you. Ghost was smirking, almost enough to get a laugh out of him.

“Course baby, bein so good. Can cum as much as you want today.” His fingers curled just right at the perfect spot inside you and your walls flutter around his fingers. But he’s not stopping, course he’s not, the man has to get a good taste of you, get you cumming with his fingers, without his fingers, without sucking your clit— he sucking out every drop that leaves your cunt.

Ghost was taking his sweet time, as if you didn’t need him inside you desperately. You were aching for more after cumming a fourth time, bucking your hips only for Ghost to press down on them to keep you still.

He pulled his mouth away from you, face covered in your slick, “Jesus baby, cut it out, will you? Thought you wanted Daddy to take care of you?”

“D-do, I do. It’s just- just-“

“Don’t tell me you’re not used to it.” His ends of his lips turned up into a smirk, teasing, fingers rubbing your clit just enough to keep you wanting more yet slow enough to keep your attention only on him.

No. No you weren’t. He’d known that.

Simon usually manhandled you every which way and any position he wanted you in. Edging you as much as he wanted then giving it to you deep and leaving you breathless at every moment. And it’s not like you hated it, you loved every second of it. But this- this situation made your brain melt.

The older man just looooved that.

“Give me another, let me feel it.” His hands went to grope your tits, squeezing and pulling at them as he rubbed his face further into your pussy, completely devouring you whole. The blonde slid his long tongue back inside your hole, thrusting it just right. The man groaned as you pulsed around him, somehow getting sweeter as you fell apart.

He kept touching all over you, the curve your breasts, the peak of your nipples, the dips in your hips and thighs— ever so softly. As if he was revisiting a map he’d known like the back of his hand, making sure he knew every nook and cranny of you, the cause of every twitch, shake, and moan, the reason slick kept flowing down onto his tongue.

Why?

Well a good Daddy just had to know his baby well, shouldn’t he?

You should’ve known, there was no way Simon would ever be nice and go easy on you the whole time he was fucking you. But you were being silly, fantasizing about him slipping inside you and being gentle.

Your mistake for thinking a man so large in size, so brutal with words, with the biggest and fattest dick you’ve ever seen in your life would ever treat your poor pussy kindly :(. You always looked so perfect when he had you crying, so easy to bully, Ghost just couldn’t help himself.

“Si- Simon!” You yelped out, as he finally bottomed out inside your pink walls that were gonna chop his manhood off. He’d had you stuck in an inescapable full nelson, legs spread wide open and beefy arms hooked under knees, forcing your head down to look at the disappearing act of the century happening with his cock and your cunt.

“Look at the fuckin mess you’re makin kiddo, gonna get my thighs wet at this rate.” Ghost was plopping you up and down, up and down on his length, the loud sloshing sound of your sopping wet pussy filling the room.

“No- Si- aangh- it’s too much!” And it’s not like you could even push any of him away, as he thrusted up into you, making sure you took every single inch imaginable.

“Such a fuckin liar baby. What a fuckin liar you are, ‘nd you don’t think I’ve fuckin noticed that you won’t call me how you’re supposed to? Huh? Didn’t teach you to lie like that, did I?”

You’d internally cursed, slapping at his hand for some relief but your mouth only letting out moans. Yes, you were avoiding calling him ‘daddy,’ even though you’d call him that casually, it felt so off today after your falling out with your father. It made your head spin, because it wasn’t just a nickname anymore.

You were craving the missing hole you’ve been ignoring this whole time, to be filled with the man fucking you like a slut in his big arms.

“Told you I’d take care of ya, didn’t I princess? Promised you I’d be reaalll good to ya but— shit, your squeezing the life outta me— can’t be nice if you don’t treat your own daddy proper, can I?” You moaned at his words, shaking your head because this man was gonna make you go insane, tonight. Pushing you past the point of no return, and no, he wouldn’t let go of your hand while he’d did it.

He’d hold your hand and jump with you.

“Come on, call me how you’re ‘posed to kid.” He grunted in you ear, sucking on your earlobe, “Call the only man you’ll ever need, the man who’s fuckin your pretty pussy right, know you want to. Come on.”

He was egging on that delusion that sat, triple boxed up and in the farthest corner of your mind of your mind. Teasing, taunting you, probing at the thought that you swore you locked away that one time it slipped out of you mid conversation months ago.

But Simon remembered. In fact, he’d just needed the ‘okay’ from your plump lips because he longed to hear you call him that oh so sweet yet oh so sinful name once more. He wanted to be your number one. The man you relied on, someone that would never leave you like your father did. Better than your father, better than any one of those little boys you’d fool around with in the past. Damn it, and it was making you wetter.

“Paaa! You feel so good pa!” You mewled, throwing your head back on his shoulder in pleasure.

You felt that maniacal grin form on Ghosts lips on your shoulder, leaving a kiss on your neck— he was proud of you. It tickled something in his brain, scratched the exact spot where his own daddy issues lay. He wasn’t new to hearing a sex partner call him daddy during sex, maybe he exuded that energy— it was in his blood, Ghost didn’t know. But you just kept pushing the line, accidentally calling him that magic word when he’d praise you. And it stuck. You’d call him daddy like it was second nature. Looking up at him with those pretty brown eyes, obediently listening to whatever he had to say. That’s what all the fucking clingy shit was about, the needy, desperation of it all.

Wanting a father figure from a hell raiser— it was arranged. You were a good girl. Ghosts good little girl.

“Therrre you go princess, atta girl! Doin so good for me, cum on your daddy’s dick. Show me how good you are baby, milk me dry.”

You shook your head, belligerent sobs escaping you. You couldn’t believe you’d just call him that, of all things. And you tried to retract it, whining your way through your orgasm that left you trembling, Simon himself filling your tight cunt with every bit cum that sat in his balls.

“I- I- hicc- I didn’t mean to call you- hicc- I’m sorry.” You blabbered out, how sweet. How cute, you were trying to collect yourself. He pulled out of you with a roll of his eyes, flipping you onto your stomach, rubbing the tip against your hole that was leaking with the both of your cum. What a miraculous sight.

“No, baby you did. Don’t worry that pretty little head,” he cooed, slipping his dick back inside you, groaning at the feel of you. “pa’s got you.”

“Come on doll, wanna hear you,” He rocked his hips into you, the room filling with the smack, smack, smack, smacking of his balls hitting your wet pussy, ripples forming on your ass with every thrust.

Your brain was turning to mush, drool forming and dripping down the sheets of the bed. The only thing you were able to think of was daddy, daddy, daddy, pa, pa, pa. How good your pa was drilling into you like a maniac.

Simon’s hand wrapped around your curly hair, dragging you up to your knees as he continued to ram into you, “This allll my sweet little girl needed? Your pa to take care of you like a good daddy should. Fuck, that bastard couldn’t treat you right could he? Show you how a man’s supposed to treat you, huh?”

“Noooo sir- nghhh.” you keened, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Tha’s right princess, don’t worry though— I love you. Your pa loves you soooo. fuckin. much baby. No one’s gonna love you more than me.”

Those words alone is what set off your next orgasm, he was talking crazy, actually. And you loved every second of it, back arching even more so as you pulsated around his throbbing cock. He was still thrusting into you chasing his own orgasm, a string of curses leaving his mouth as you felt the tip of him spasm. He made you so full of him, you’d felt so warm all over.

“Shit, such a good girl for me, gonna take such good care of you from now. What do ya say?” He took you in his arms, laying you on top of him. You could feel his heart beating, chest heaving. Both of your skin sticky with sweat.

“Thank you pa.” You wrapped your arms him.

“Oh princess,” Ghost smiled, pressing his lips against yours, cupping your face with one hand and caressing it with his thumb, “you’re so welcome.”

a/n: it’s three people who are gonna read all this, me being one of them. If you liked it leave me a message or comment. If you hated it, idk. I’m just a big dadbf!simon enthusiast.

most recent masterlist.

[quarterlifekitty]

That Price coming home to his missus with a baby thing was delicious, absolutely divine. Do you think for the other boys and Nik it'd be something similar or would they have wildly different reactions? Btw I absolutely love your writing, I check your blog daily for your new stuff, the way you write is delicious, thank you <3

I’ll give you a little something for Ghost since you made me blush and teehee

Also uhhhh I might’ve fucked up the timing a little on infant development milestones but you’re gonna have to forgive me on that

cw: suspicions of infidelity

Ghost is bouncing his leg the whole time he spends in evac. The heli ride, the plane back to base, the car back to his flat— as soon as he was released from the mind frame of the mission it was like all of that anxiety over you he’d built up over the past year and half came crashing on his head.

You’d’ve left him. You must have. He wasn’t really anything he’d call worth sticking around for. That was the plain and honest truth. He’s thinking of the quickest way he can find you and get on his knees for you once he’s scraped all of the blood and dirt off. It was easy to nod and go along with a sudden job Price called about, back when he was under the impression that it would be a few months tops.

He sees a light on in the window of your shared flat. Fuck, hopefully that you and not some new tenant— that somehow his automatic payments had fucked up while he was away and he got evicted. For a split second he debates whether sprinting up the stairs would be faster than waiting for this god-forsaken lift.

He pauses at the door when he hears your laughter. Thank fucking god. His relief is palpable, he’s thanking you and god and whoever else will listen, he’ll never ask for anything again—

“When did you get so cute, huh?”

No.

You wouldn’t.

Not in the flat you two shared, where you fucked and loved each other and cried together, the world couldn’t possibly be so cruel that you’d—

He gets as far as bursting through the door after he manages to find the right key before he’s stopped in his tracks. You look to the door like a deer in headlights, your eyes wide and with a little spoon of sweet potato puree in your hand. Your hair is a mess and—

There’s a baby looking at him. Looking where mommy is looking. The fat little thing is in a high chair, a mess on its face. The name “Lydia” is embroidered in big, swirly letters on her bib. It was a name he’d talked about, his one decent childhood memory, his aunt—

He drops his duffel and rips off the mask. The baby has these whisps of hair that are undeniably yours, eyes that he’s only seen in the mirror.

“Simon— is it really you?” You almost whisper in disbelief. Like you’d dreamed him coming through the door before. Makes his heart fucking ache. The words come out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Yeah, mama. S’me.”

[intothemultifandom]

– 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 || 𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐥𝐚𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐞

SUMMARY: The Pack always knew imprints were a sacred thing. But when you're hurt, the imprint bond blurs the line between life and death. It makes for some interesting conversations with ghosts from the past. || multi chapter-fic PAIRINGS: Paul Lahote x fem!Reader TAGS/WARNINGS: Clearwater!Reader; human!Reader; domestic fluff; hurt

2.6k words

Your siblings could tear into flesh, could break his bones if they so wished (and Leah had wished, had almost done it too before Sam intervened)–and yet, Paul considered you the most dangerous Clearwater out of all of Harry and Sue's children.

And it wasn't because you could flit between girl and wolf or because your teeth could rip into jugulars, but because you were you.

[Name] Clearwater: daughter to Harry and Sue, born a year after Leah and two years before Seth.

Before that night, your parents never intended for you to be keyed into the tribe's secret. It was only ever meant to be Seth, who they all anticipated would phase eventually.

But then Leah exploded into a four-legged beast with fanged teeth and matted fur, had shredded the Couch you'd been sitting on–and gods, if you hadn't moved when you did her claws would've gone deeper in your shoulder than it had–before Seth shifted, too.

The night had been a mess, to sum it up simply.

The pack link was overwhelmed by a maelstrom of grief-anger-hurt-blame that Sam ordered those who could get caught up in it all to phase out.

To give your siblings some semblance of calm, however futile, and to make sure you and Sue had help dealing with the aftermath.

The last thing the Pack needed was for someone to visit in the morning to find half the house's occupants missing, one partially mauled and the place looking as though it had been burglarised.

So Paul had phased out along with Jake. Jake, who came with his Dad's strength and his Mom's warmth that it brought Sue out of her shocked stupor and Paul, who didn't know what else to do other than turn your way.

Across the room, you were using the meat of your thighs to push the shredded couch towards the door. Single-handedly steering the couch outside whilst being mindful of your left arm which was bandaged over your chest, smelling of chemicals and iron.

He had expected tears. Had expected to scent the air for undertones of shock, fear or distrust as you grappled with the reality of seeing your sister and brother turning into something dangerous.

Of having two strange boys who could do the same clambering into your humble four-bedroom abode to see if you or your Mom needed help, but there was none of that.

Instead, you continued moving, holding yourself up by sheer force of will that Paul’s wolf stirred beneth his skin. Curious. Intrigued.

You hadn’t acknowledged him nor Jake when they had come in, but Paul moved toward you anyway. Body on autopilot as he followed an invisible path his wolf already seemed to be on.

"Here, I can help you with that," he said, bending down to lift one end of the couch.

On the other end of the long couch, you’d glanced at him for only a moment. A single moment to thank him politely, face solemn and eyes deep and soulful, that Paul struggled not to collapse to his knees then and there.

Because in that split moment, when your eyes met his for the very first time since he shifted, Paul’s universe ended and then began again with you at the centre of it all.

[Name] Clearwater: his imprint—his very human imprint—more dangerous than wolves and bloodsuckers combined after only a single glance.

After your siblings, your arm, your Dad—Paul thought you would stay far away from the Pack, maybe even La Push altogether.

Maybe you would find a job in Forks or somewhere else and hightail it out of there. Or maybe you would apply for a scholarship to some college on the other side of the country.

Instead you had done the least expected thing.

Despite what Paul thought, what he feared, you stayed; and then, you started coming around.

First to Sam and Emily’s where you spoke to his Alpha for an hour the first time you came, and then to Emily during all the visits after.

Sam was good at shielding his thoughts most days, but the gratitude and brotherly love he felt for you echoed in the bond for days after the first visit.

Every now and then you’d head over to drop off some spare clothes for Seth, laughing at one of Jared’s dry jokes before engaging in some light conversation.

About the Pack, about your siblings and how they were adjusting.

Their lives, Paul's life, before and after.

When Jake sheepishly admitted to falling behind in school, you’d settled on the dining room table, ushering him and Embry to do the same, too, as you carved out some time to come over and help them.

You even hung around on days Leah ran patrol, staying through dinner to act as a buffer between her, Sam and Emily when the tension grew too thick for the rest of them to breathe through the evening.

Paul had done a good job existing on the sidelines during it all, respecting Leah’s don’t you fucking force her into loving you by telling her, you sick bastard and Seth’s kinder plea to let you get used to the pack and him first without the weight of an imprint just yet.

But then one day you met his gaze, saw the poorly concealed reverence, devotion and warmth and instantly put the pieces together.

And because Paul knew better than to assume what you would do after all the times he had thought wrong, he did nothing.

He didn't think, didn't panic, didn't fear. Even when you asked if he imprinted, voice soft and eyes searching, and he told you the truth, Paul did nothing but be as he always was when it came to you.

Open, honest, and trusting that you wouldn’t hurt him if you felt even a fraction of what he felt.

And his ancestors must have seen fit to reward him for it because after he was done explaining, you stayed.

You stayed; and then, you gave him a chance.

The red-haired leech was still on the loose, and the pack's energy waned the longer she danced around them. Not that they weren’t trying.

She was simply too fast, too slippery, constantly evading them as they hunted her to no end. And since they hadn’t caught her, Sam figured it was best to amp up patrol to four per shift.

Even if meant older wolves like himself, Paul, Leah and Jared had to double the hours of their still-in-school members to compensate.

Paul understood, of course, but considering Leah couldn’t handle dealing with Sam it was Paul who was stuck being berated and vilified by her any time she so much caught an echo of you in his thoughts.

And Paul thought about you. Constantly.

The only reprieve he had was in moments like this, when their shift was over and Leah ran home along with Jared and Jake all the while you drove over to deliver Seth’s clothes for the following morning.

But Paul was exhausted tonight, so much so that he could barely keep his eyes open as you cuddled on Sam and Emily’s couch.

“Stay,” he murmurs lowly, being mindful of Emily sleeping in the other room. Sluggishly, he tightens his arms around your slender waist, a half-hearted attempt to get you to sink into him further, not that you would.

You may have been on good terms with Sam and Emily, but Leah was still your sister.

And even if you wanted to fall asleep encased in your boyfriend’s heavily corded arms, you wouldn’t.

“You know I can’t, baby,” you laugh, quietly, stroking a thumb over the apple of his cheek.

Your boyfriend chuffs at your words, blearily opening his eyes, before shifting forward so that that you can cradle his jaw.

A tide of emotion rises beneath your breast because even with everything happening, you’re so grateful for these stolen moments that you lean in, all petal lips and strawberry-flavoured gloss and Paul almost groans when your lips meet in a soft, unhurried kiss.

If it were up to him, there would be no red-haired leech and golden-eyed freaks. Just you and him and the taste of strawberries forever.

"I also think you should just crash here tonight," you tell him when you come up for air, slowly beginning to untangle yourself from his embrace.

For a moment, the muscles in Paul’s arm grow tense, and you know your boyfriend enough to know he’s about to protest. Or worse, get up to follow you.

Because if you can’t stay, then he’s going to force himself to escort you home anyway, even when he’s dead on his feet.

Gently, your hand drifts to the centre of his chest to keep him down.

“Em should have someone close by, and I’m going home to Leah anyway,” you remind him, lips curling at his small pout.

"And you can't even open your eyes properly, so I'll be back in the morning. Okay?"

Ordinarily, your shapeshifter boyfriend would move your hand away, before insisting he at least keep you company on your car ride home.

But as always, you’re right.

Paul’s tired. The kind of tired that should be impossible for someone like him, but it’s true.

So when you lean forward to press another kiss to his jaw, murmur quietly one more time for him to stay, that you’ll be okay, Paul relents.

The scent of you in the air, on his lips, is dizzying enough as it is. How can he possibly protest when all of it makes Paul want to–

"–M'okay," he slurs, eyes fluttering once, then twice, before shutting completely.

When he comes to, Paul remembers the scent of strawberries, your honeyed laughter and the lingering warmth of your touch.

It's enough to make him smile, before he blinks. In shock, then in confusion, turning around to take in his new surroundings.

Weird, he thinks.

Usually, when he dreams, he dreams of you.

On the beach, laughing as you kick up saltwater, before Paul runs after you and down the shore. Under the stars, a heated mess of tangled-up limbs, Paul in you and the feeling of you everywhere.

Sometimes, he even dreams of the two of you, together and years older, a little boy with his face and your smile held in your arms while a younger girl made in your image clutches to his pants.

But this time, though, there's none of that.

This time, he's in the middle of the forest, legs planted as if he were a tree himself.

All around him, there is a cloud of mist. Thick and encompassing, strange if not for the unnatural emptiness of the forest.

There are no cicadas clicking. No birds chirping. The forest, forever filled with even the quietest of whispers and groans, is dead silent.

That is, until Paul hears it.

Somewhere in the distance, a single voice hums something old, something ancient, the voice swelling into a song that shakes Paul to his core because he’s not alone.

He’s not alone.

The realisation is enough to spur him forward, Paul managing to take a step forward and then another, walking slowly through winding trees and thick mist before he ends up in a wide clearing where a bonfire has been lit.

Before the bonfire, still singing, sits a lone woman dressed in a traditional buckskin dress with a gentle face and two long braids.

She makes no move to indicate that she’s heard him. But the fire illuminates her face with an otherworldly glow, accentuates the way her throat flexes as she sings, the words sounding clearer now that he’s right in front of her.

It’s an old song, he remembers, one that has endured time and colonisation and everything in between.

He contemplates interrupting her, at first, uneasy by the strangeness of this situation. But then he inches closer, his wolf urging him to sit on the empty log across from her.

And so the woman sings, and Paul waits and he listens, because something in him, something instinctual, pulls at him.

Tells him that somehow this is real, that this is important.

And because the last time he felt this way was in the moments before he looked at you, Paul waits for the song to finish.

“The youngest of my sons made this song,” says the woman says after she stops singing, still watching the fire burn.

“The song opens up a door between your world and here, which my son used to communicate with us.

My older sons would listen to him with me here when he sang. They would even sing with him before he joined us, and they all left this place together."

The flames burn a little brighter, and the woman falters. Tilts her head, as if listening for something only she can hear.

And when she hears it, whatever it is, Paul catches her expression flicker in the firelight (grim, resigned) before she resumes, this time a little more hurried than before.

"But I didn't follow. I couldn't," the woman says, finally lifting her head to meet Paul's gaze from across the fire.

"Not without Taha-Aki."

And oh, Paul thinks, struck dumb.

Because painted in shadows made by the flames, the third wife–a woman he's only ever known through stories and legends–stares at him solemnly, the echo of infinity seared into her gaze.

“My husband’s spirit still roams your world," she says, ignoring Paul's clear shock.

“He guides all spirit warriors here when their time comes, and their imprints, too. This is where they rest for a while before they move on. But never does my husband come with them, though. Too ashamed, I think."

"Ashamed?” Paul asks, speaking for the first time before he stops himself.

The woman before him and Taha Aki were more than wife and husband.

They were imprinted, tethered together by the same forces that brought Paul to you. The same forces that wouldn't have put her in his dream unless there was something wrong with the imprint.

And there could only be something wrong with the imprint if something was wrong with...

"Why am I here?" he asks slowly, dread wrapping itself around his heart–painful and suffocating–as the third wife's face turns sad. Pitying.

…No.

"Why am I here?" he repeats, this time louder and more panicked as he surges to his feet.

Through the fire, the third wife stares at his face, her expression a little more troubled, a little more human, before the truth splits the air and his chest open.

"–Because my husband will soon guide your imprint here, and if you want to save her,"

NoNoNONONO

"–than you must to stop him before he succeeds."

A loud crash sounds in the distance, so loud that Paul slams his hands against his ears and grits his teeth, trying to convince himself that this isn't real.

That it's not the sound of your car folding in on itself that he hears in the distance, glass shattering into thousands of pieces.

It can't be, he thinks, agonised; and yet, it is.

Because the truth is that you're out there, somewhere in the wreckage of it all.

Paul knows it.

Feels it.

"How do I do it?!" he cries, turning to the ancient woman with wild, frenzied eyes when his ears won’t stop ringing.

(You’re screaming).

"How do I stop him?!"

(You’re crying).

The third wife at least has the decency to look regretful, before turning to look over her shoulder and into the long and dark forest.

“Have you not been listening?” she answers, cryptically.

And before Paul can snarl, beg, whatever he needs to do to get more than that (because what kind of bullshit answer is that), a howl echoes in the distance.

On autopilot, his body begins to shake, tremor, the air beginning to shift all around them before–

"Trust me Paul Lahote, you’ll know what to do," the third wife says, still looking into the unknown.

“–But you need to wake up. Now."

When I tell you the brainrot would not leave me alone for this one. But anyway, please feel free to comment, tag & repost. 🐺

©️ @intothemultifandom 2025

[novelistwriter]

The Ghost Kid of Gotham

DP x DC Prompt

When Danny told his parents about him being Phantom, he was strapped down to a table and cut open by them. By the time he was saved it was too late, he became a Full Ghost, with it changing because he died a second time, tears constantly flow from his eyes, chains are around his wrists and ankles, leather straps are around his torso, and his logo is no longer seen, just a ripped off part of his hazmat that shows the scar left behind by being cut open.

He doesn't remember much after being saved, just that he had destroyed a lot of things in his grief, Vlad was the one to tell him, and the Fruitloop was in a bad condition when the Halfa came to him. He's the Ghost King, but the council still runs the Infinite Realms, he's just a figure head with a lot of Power and Influence used, all because he doesn't have his human half anymore, he can't make the Infinite Realms better without it, Clockwork told him that with a sadness in his voice.

One thing that Danny can do to make things better is his new power to remove curses by being close to the affected person/object/location, so Clockwork sent Danny to Gotham just as Batman was starting his career as a Vigilante.

Gotham had been cursed a lot in the past, that's why the city is the way it is, Lady Gotham couldn't undo them all herself, so she asked Clockwork, her old friend, for help, he sent Danny, still known as Phantom.

Phantom and Batman first met when Batman had gotten word of a mysterious entity nearby doing something shady, this was Phantom in the middle of removing a curse.

Batman did his usual 'interrogation' tactics, but he was stunned to see a young boy with tears falling from his face, chains on his wrists and ankles, leather straps on his torso and a part of his outfit with a tear in it, showing a autopsy scar.

Phantom had told him what he was doing, and what he is, the Ghost of a Child. This led to Batman seeing if he could help the Ghost move on, all he was told was "I can't move on, she needs help", when asked who 'she' was, all Phantom said was "Gotham" before disappearing.

What Batman didn't know was that he wasn't the only one who was near Phantom, other citizens of Gotham heard what Phantom said to Batman, they believed that Phantom was the Ghost of a Gothamite child who lingers to help the city, they spread the word about what they heard that night.

Over time, Phantom has interacted with many of the big names in Gotham as they appeared, Joker reminds him of Freakshow, but Phantom doesn't attack him, just seeing if playing Jokers games would get the Joker to rethink his ways, thinking Joker is cursed. Before Harleen became Harley, Phantom sought out the Psychiatrist to remember his sister, having told the woman that she sounds like his sister when she helps people. Before Pamela became Ivy, Phantom sought her out to remember his best friend who loved plants. When Croc began to show himself, Phantom seeks him out to talk to him, one of their talks is overhead by citizens, after that talk overheard by the citizens, they try and treat Waylon better. When Scarecrow emerged, Phantom isn't affected by the Fear Gas, but lingers near Crane to remember Fright Knight. Bane almost reminds Phantom of his father, Phantom had cowered during Banes first attack on Gotham with the him nearby, but what Phantom said will stick with the Gothamites and Bad Guys forever.

"Please Dad! Don't hurt me again! Don't put me back on that table!"

After Phantom had said that, the Ghost had run away, leaving Bane, his crew, and many citizens shocked by what Phantom revealed about himself, a child, who was most likely harmed and killed by his own father.

There are others Phantom interacts with. Riddler reminds Phantom of Clockwork, and Phantom both likes and despises Riddler because of that. Grundy is Phantoms regular, as Phantom is drawn to the Zombie because they are the same, undead beings that still linger. Phantom even tries to help the Talons that he runs into, saying that the "Baby Ghosts need to be cleaned of the rotten Ectoplasm in them to be healthy". Leslie reminds Phantom of Frostbite.

When each Robin takes flight, Gotham goes through a positive change in appearance, during Dicks time, it rained less, during Jason's time, there was less Smog in the sky, showing more of the sky during days and nights, when Tim was Robin, Gotham had cleaner air and clearer skies, by the time Damian became Robin, Gotham is as healthy as it could be without the curses affecting it.

Phantom seeks out reporters, running into Vicki Vale during one of her live reports on a attack, he goes up to her, knowing that Gotham's citizens will be watching this broadcast. What Phantom doesn't know, is that both Gotham and its people have grown attached to the Ghost Boy.

"Gotham is healthy, she doesn't need me to help her anymore, it's time for me to go"

[aleese1111]

hii! Could you pleaaase make a baekjin x fem!reader x seongje, i haven’t seen anything like this and ik you’ll write it goooddd 🥹🫶🏻

three wolves, one flame | geum seong je x union!reader x na baek jin

summary: they run the city’s shadows with cold hands and colder eyes—two boys circling the same girl like orbiting wolves, too stubborn to say they care, too loyal to walk away. in smoke, silence, and bruised affection, they protect what they won't name.

warnings: [slow burn] violence, blood, language, implied emotional trauma, smoking,

author's note: i lowkey fell in love with this one. contemplating if i should turn this into a series or just mini chapters because i have no idea on how to continue this.. so please lmk, anyway! requests ,,

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , one .. two .. ??

the air inside baek jin’s office always smelled like old paper, cigarette smoke, and something faintly metallic—like blood that never quite left the floor. the room was small but efficient. a modest desk sat tucked against the far wall, cluttered with files and an aging laptop baek jin used for both homework and union logistics. behind him, shelves groaned under the weight of ledgers, envelopes, and binders—some labeled, some not. a coat rack stood near the door, his school uniform jacket hanging neatly as always, untouched and ghost-like.

on the couch, which was barely wide enough for two, she sat cross-legged, a thick folder open on her lap. her fingers were stained with ink and nicotine, flipping pages with practiced speed. her brows were drawn tight in concentration, but her mouth was already forming insults.

“you’re breathing too loud. move.”

beside her, seong je let out a long, lazy exhale, smoke trailing from his lips. “it’s my lungs. want me to stop breathing next?” his thumb scrolled absently on his phone.

“you say that like it’s a bad idea.”

“you like having me around. admit it.”

she snorted. “i’d rather put out this cigarette in my eye.”

baek jin didn’t look up from his desk. this was routine. predictable. he only paused for a second when seong je flicked a crumpled receipt at her face, smirking when it bounced off her forehead.

“touch me again, i will rip your ears off and mail them to your mother,” she said, without even flinching.

“joke’s on you, she’s already deaf.”

that earned him a hard jab to the ribs with the sharp edge of a folder. he groaned theatrically, tipping his head back against the couch and blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

“i swear to god, you're like a feral cat with a calculator,” he muttered.

“and you’re a hemorrhoid with a motorcycle license.”

baek jin turned a page. the yelling had escalated, but it was background noise. normal. expected.

the argument died the same way it always did—abruptly and without resolution.

she slammed the folder shut and stood. the air shifted. joon and gyung, who had been waiting outside the office door like loyal shadows, straightened as she stepped out.

“collection day,” she said simply, already moving.

seong je rolled his shoulders and stood with her, but she didn’t wait. joon and gyung fell in line behind her like trained dogs, their footsteps echoing as the group left the safe walls of the bowling alley and stepped into the dusk.

@ . !

they found them behind a school, deep in the alley that smelled like piss and motor oil. it was a place for things that didn’t want to be seen—perfect for business.

a few boys loitered under the flickering light. low-ranking union lackeys, careless with the rules. she stopped a few feet away, her presence slicing through the tension like a box cutter.

“you’ve got my money?” she asked, voice cool, indifferent.

one of the boys stepped forward. too confident. too dumb. “you don’t get to bark orders at us, bitch.”

seong je was sitting nearby, on a low concrete barrier, smoking. he didn’t move. not yet. he was watching, the way a wolf watches another predator test its luck.

she didn’t blink. “you’re two days late.”

the guy stepped closer, nudging her shoulder. once. twice.

“maybe you wait a little longer,” he said with a smirk. “maybe say please.”

behind her, joon and gyung tensed. she didn’t say anything, just gave a lazy glance to her left.

gyung understood the signal.

the jab to the gut was fast and brutal—air left the guy’s lungs like a popped balloon. he stumbled back, wheezing, while the others flinched. two of them ran.

“go,” she said calmly.

joon darted after them.

only two remained: the one bent over in pain, and another who hadn’t moved yet, watching with wide eyes, deciding if he wanted to be stupid or not.

she crouched beside the first guy, lit another cigarette with a flick of her lighter, and exhaled slowly.

“you work for me,” she said. “you pay, or you bleed. got it?”

the second guy tensed—fight won the war in his brain.

he lunged.

he never reached her.

seong je was a blur of violence—one second on the edge of the scene, the next driving a fist into the boy’s face hard enough to drop him instantly. no words. no warning. just pure, sharp brutality.

he didn’t stop.

fists rained down, calculated and furious. blood splattered against the wall. the sound of bone meeting flesh echoed through the alley.

she stood slowly, arms crossed, cigarette glowing.

“enough,” she said.

seong je didn’t look at her right away. his fists paused mid-motion. then he stood, blood staining his knuckles, breathing hard.

she met his eyes for a moment. something silent passed between them. then she turned and walked away.

“get the cash,” she called over her shoulder.

gyung moved without question.

seong je wiped his hand on his shirt and lit a new cigarette. he glanced once at the boy groaning on the ground and then followed her into the dark.

business, as always, was done.

@ . !

the streets were quieter now. the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows that swallowed the cracks in the pavement. she walked ahead, cigarette still burning between her fingers, the orange tip flaring with every drag. her steps were calm, composed, like she hadn’t just threatened teenagers and watched one get half-pulped into a brick wall.

behind her, seong je followed. blood still clung to the ridges of his knuckles, crusting dry in the creases, but he didn’t care. he never did. he flicked his own cigarette aside and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

they walked in silence for a while, their footsteps echoing softly in rhythm. the kind of quiet that buzzed—static thick with unspoken things.

“you know,” seong je finally said, “you could’ve told gyung to handle it before that dumbass even touched you.”

she didn’t look at him. “he barely touched me.”

“he pushed you.”

“and i didn’t fall. so?”

he scoffed, catching up until they walked shoulder to shoulder. “you’re insane.”

“says the guy who beat someone half to death over a shoulder nudge.”

he grinned. “you like it when i get violent.”

she rolled her eyes. “i like it when you shut the fuck up.”

“but you let me handle it.”

“i let you burn calories.”

seong je laughed under his breath, a short, dry sound. “you’re welcome, by the way.”

“for what?”

“for being your unhinged guard dog.”

“you’re not my anything.”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he glanced sideways at her—at the bruise just barely starting to form on her collarbone where the guy had pushed her, at the cigarette held steady between her fingers, at the calm, calculated cold in her eyes.

he liked her too much. it was a problem he hadn’t figured out how to fix.

“...you patched me up last week,” he muttered. “don’t pretend like you don’t care.”

“i patched you up so you wouldn’t bleed on baek jin’s couch.”

“sure,” he said. “totally believable.”

she slowed a bit, enough that he noticed but didn’t comment. she glanced over, squinting at him through the dimming light.

“you’re bleeding,” she said flatly.

“you always say that like it’s a surprise.”

she stopped walking. so did he.

“you’re an idiot,” she said, stepping in close. her hand reached for his face, thumb brushing a cut on his cheekbone. it was rough, not tender—like everything she did. “you didn’t have to go that far.”

“he was gonna hit you.”

“i had it handled.”

“yeah,” he muttered, not smiling anymore. “but i don’t like watching people touch you.”

her expression didn’t change. not much. maybe a flicker in her eyes. maybe.

she shoved his face gently to the side with the palm of her hand. “possessive freak.”

he grinned again. “you love it.”

“i tolerate it.”

“that’s practically a love confession coming from you.”

she started walking again. “say one more word and i’ll smoke my cigarette out on your forehead.”

he laughed, trailing behind her.

and behind the sarcasm and bruised knuckles, there was something solid between them—twisted, loud, dysfunctional.

@ . !

by the time they reached the back entrance of the bowling alley, the sky had faded to charcoal grey. the neon sign buzzed above them, flickering like it was trying to decide whether to die or hang on another day. she pushed the door open with her shoulder and stepped inside, the familiar scent of oil, dust, and stale air greeting her like a second home.

seong je followed her, hands still in his pockets, quieter now. at the door to baek jin’s office, he hesitated. she paused, looking back at him.

“i’m heading to the internet café,” he said, voice casual, but his eyes lingered on her a little longer than necessary. “need to blow off some steam.”

she shrugged, already reaching for the doorknob. “go waste your brain cells.”

he smirked. “you love me dumb.”

“don’t flatter yourself.”

she pushed the door open and stepped inside. he didn’t follow.

“patch your hand,” she added over her shoulder. “or don’t. maybe it’ll rot off.”

“aw, worried about me,” he teased.

she gave him the finger without turning around.

he chuckled and walked off, footsteps fading down the hall.

inside, baek jin didn’t look up as she entered. he was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, pencil in hand, methodically underlining something in one of the ledgers. the room felt quieter without seong je in it—thicker, somehow.

she dropped her bag beside the couch and sank into it with a tired exhale. the tension hadn’t left her body yet, but it always faded in here. in this space where time moved slower, where baek jin never asked more than she wanted to give.

“you’re back early,” he said after a moment, eyes still on the paper.

“boys ran faster than usual.”

he nodded once. “anyone give you trouble?”

she pulled another cigarette from her pocket. “one tried. he didn’t try again.”

this time, baek jin did look up. his eyes flicked to her shoulder, narrowing slightly. “you’re bruised.”

“occupational hazard,” she muttered, lighting up.

he stared at her a second longer, then stood. she watched him cross the room in that quiet, deliberate way he moved—like he didn’t waste energy on anything that didn’t matter. he disappeared behind her for a moment. when he came back, he tossed his jacket over her.

she stiffened slightly, cigarette hovering near her lips.

“still cold,” he said simply, sitting back down.

“i’m not cold.”

“you always say that.”

she didn’t take it off.

they sat like that for a while. just the two of them. him scribbling quietly. her smoking in silence, baek jin’s jacket draped over her shoulders like it belonged there.

no yelling. no banter.

just stillness.

the only sound for a long while was the scratch of baek jin’s pencil against paper and the occasional soft crackle of her cigarette.

“you let seong je come with you again,” baek jin said eventually, not looking up.

she snorted. “he follows me around like a leech. what am i supposed to do? spray him with bug repellent?”

“he’s loud,” baek jin replied calmly.

“so are you, when you feel like it.”

“not with fists.”

she gave a half-smirk, flicking ash into the tray on the coffee table. “you jealous?”

“no,” he said plainly. “he’s reckless. you’re not.”

“he only steps in when i let him.” she tilted her head against the back of the couch, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. “you know that.”

baek jin hummed, noncommittal, and went back to his work.

for a while, there was nothing but silence again. not awkward. not empty. just their kind of quiet.

“you still live off convenience store food?” she asked after a minute, squinting at him.

“i eat what’s easy.”

“that’s not eating. that’s survival.”

“i survive just fine.”

“could’ve fooled me,” she muttered, stretching out along the couch. “you’re gonna die from sodium poisoning before you even graduate.”

“and you’ll die from chain-smoking before i do.”

“touché,” she murmured, a tired smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

her voice grew softer, like sleep was already tugging at her edges. “...how do you do it?”

baek jin paused, pencil hovering over the paper. “do what?”

“stay calm all the time. even when shit hits the fan. even when everyone’s losing their heads.” her voice had dropped low. “how do you not break?”

he was quiet for a beat.

then, “because if i break, everything else does.”

she didn’t answer. her breathing was slowing now, cigarette burned out in the ashtray. she was curled on her side, one arm under her head, the other tugging baek jin’s jacket closer around her like she hadn’t meant to.

he glanced up, setting his pencil down soundlessly.

she was already asleep.

he stood, walked over with soft steps, and crouched beside the couch. carefully, he pulled the jacket tighter over her frame and adjusted the pillow under her head. for a second, his hand hovered near her temple, like he wanted to brush the hair away from her face—but didn’t.

baek jin’s face didn’t show much. it never did.

but something flickered in his eyes. something quiet. protective.

then he stood, returned to his desk, and went back to work.

behind him, she slept soundly under his jacket, breathing even and steady.

and outside, the world kept turning. dangerous. unforgiving.

but in here, for a little while longer, it was still.

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , one .. two .. ??

[syofrelief]

buzz

unofficial pt 2 to this but you don't need to read the first one. fluff! kisses, too.

Your grin was wolfish when your new little helper trudged into your office.

Soap's head still had a stocking cap's worth of gauze wrapped around it, the purple bruising around his eye faded only slightly. He grunted a hello and stomped to the armchair next to your desk.

"Well hi there, mister," you teased, flicking through your notebook innocently. "Heard you got a bit banged up out there. I like the hair, by the way."

Soap groaned, lower lip pushing out. "Aw, bile yer heid, ah cannae believe they made me shave it off," he whined, grieving his perfect mohawk. You snickered at the reverence in his eye as he patted the bandages gingerly. You wondered what lay beneath it, how his head would look without its trademark style.

"Desk duty?"

"Aye," he sighed. "It's th'worst. No offense."

"None taken. Not for everybody." You could feel the tremors his bouncing knee sent into the floor as he sank into the cushions. A part of you did feel bad for teasing, but it was overtaken by the immense relief blooming in your chest.

Desk duty meant inside. Away from out there. When one of the privates had stuttered out that Sarge's been shot, miss, I can't- you hadn't even let the poor boy finish before sprinting to the bay. It had been a bloody mess. Literally.

Cold terror seeped under your skin, remembering the limp feel of his hand. You shivered.

"Y'alright, lass?"

His voice made you jump. "Hm? Yes. Yeah, I'm...I'm good."

"You look like yeh've seen a ghost." His twinkling eyes made you smile warmly. He had such a pretty face, even bruised up. A little unfair, honestly.

He settled again, chin on his hand as you continued combing through the thick file in front of you. Warm grew on your cheeks as you felt his unwavering stare. You liked having him with you, but recently it had become a distraction. His gaze was a little too open. Too vulnerable in a way that made your lungs struggle for air.

"Johnny," you said suddenly. "Where's Price put you? For desk stuff."

He shrugged, playing with the seam on his pants. "Dinnae, somewhere down the hall."

You cocked your head. "You got a shift today?"

"...Aye."

"You gonna...show up?"

He pouted at you, blue irises shining like the deepest sapphires. Damn those eyes. His fingers stilled on his jeans, all energy focused towards beaming the biggest pleading puppy look he could manage. Your tongue dried and you resisted the urge to pinch his cheek.

"You can't skip," you laughed waveringly, voice light and frail. Great cover-up.

"But...I wanted teh sit wit' you," he pleaded.

Where was this coming from? God, rip out your heart why doesn't he?

"Soap," you said gently. "Go on. We'll talk at lunch."

Grumbling, he dragged his feet all the way to your door, sending you a sour look as he headed off to his own little office. Poor baby, you thought, gaze drifting to the now-empty armchair. Soap wasn't built for desk work; he needed the flashing lights and high octane and loud booms. It'd be a tough couple of weeks.

Sighing, you hoped he wouldn't be too angry with you, reaching for the newest project. It proved to be even denser than the last one, and your head dropped to your desk. Ugh.

Despite banishing him (gently) to his work, you heard him scamper by your doorway more often than was necessary. On day three you'd started timing the intervals. Five minutes. Ten. Six and a half. Ten and fifteen seconds.

The telltale creak of the floor beneath his heavy boots echoed again. Rolling your eyes, you swiveled around to catch him in the act.

Your jaw hit the floor when you saw him. His bandages were gone, and...

"John," you breathed. His government name shocked the smile right off him, and he flinched.

"Aye, whassat for?" He stuck his tongue out, hands shoved in his pockets.

"Your...hair," you said again, hand over your mouth.

It was gone. Gone, gone. Brown fuzz barely covered his scalp, pink scar tissue in knotted lines behind his ears. Your shock was maybe a bit too evident, because hurt flashed across his eyes. Immediately you regretted it, going to stand.

"Hang on, I didn't-"

He sniffed and turned to the door.

"No, Soap, wait!"

You leapt up to kick the door shut before he could leave. Plastering yourself against the door, you fought to keep his gaze. Johnny's ears were a deep purple, and you gently touched his arm.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly. "It's not...it's not bad. It just surprised me. That's all. Come on, please don't...I'm sorry."

He rocked on his heels a moment, gaze still shy. Hair meant a lot to him. Everyone had something in this place. You had so few things to make you, you. Any little feature was clutched onto for dear life. Scented soap, a shade of lipstick, piercings. Soap had hair. He liked taking care of it, combing his hands through it or styling it on lax days.

"Looks chopped, ah ken," he muttered, scruffing a hand over his bare neck. You smiled softly, reaching up to run your hand over the peach fuzz. It tickled.

"It suits you," you said, and you meant it. As much as you missed his waves, his eyes shone a bit brighter now. "Come on, sit. I've got nothing to do."

"Um," he began, and you paused. "Ah...had a question fer ye, actually." He pulled a crumpled note from his pocket, trying to smooth it into legibility. "I...what's this mean?"

You peered at the chicken scratch. Tran/map.

"Oh, they just want a translation of the map. Was this on a picture of something?"

He stalled, trying to remember. "Uhm."

"Here, bring it to me."

Moments later, you had a map sprawled on the floor, annotations and notes in a foreign pen scrawled over it. You were poring over a few dictionaries, trying to find matches.

"So, the best way to do this is to start with any context clues. The..."

Your words fell on deaf ears. Johnny was gazing at you, cheeks pink and lips in a loose smile. Hair drifted from behind your ear, and his hands twitched. He wanted to fix it. He wanted...touch. He'd missed sitting in with you, hearing you hum and the delicate smell of your office. Pretty bird. Smart bird, too, using all the big words he-

"Johnny?"

He blinked, caught. His hand was halfway to your hip, reaching for your keys.

"You...you okay?"

You were blinking at him, a little confused. He nodded, grabbing the key ring gently. He tugged, liking the jingle. You watched him fidget for a bit, then shakily continued.

His sharp ears caught the waver in your voice. The pink on your neck. A slow grin spread across his cheeks. He edged closer, thigh nudging yours. The keys were a nice fidget, but his fingertips burned to squeeze the soft of your hip. Your mumbling didn't pause as he cautiously leaned his forehead on your shoulder, nose brushing the soft cotton of your sweater.

You'd stopped trying to explain the process, now just doing his work for him. Murmuring the new words to yourself, pen scratching soothingly on the papers. Soap's eyelids were heavy with the heady knowledge that you knew. You knew what he was doing, let him cuddle closer, buzzed hair tickling your jaw.

The pen stopped. He felt your chin twitch, your eyes meeting his.

"Soap," you said gently. "Are you asking for something?"

He didn't move, hands frozen on your hip. Baby blues blinked innocently up at you from his curled position on your floor. A choked sound in the back of his throat.

You smiled, setting your book down with a thud. "C'mere, idiot."

He crawled forwards, burly arms wrapping around your middle. Elation bubbled over in his chest, flowing into his veins like nectar. The soothing coo you let out as you ran your hands up his back send his mind into the stratosphere with euphoria.

He clutched at you like a lifeline as you held him, cheek on his head. The stubble was growing on you. It felt nice, like a soft blanket. You scratched gently behind his ears, resulting in a rumbling purr from his prone form. Soap's head rested on the plush of your chest, eyes half-lidded and bleary.

"Missed ye," he mumbled, grip tightening. You frowned, petting his neck.

"You see me every day, silly goose."

"Yeah, but..." he nosed into your neck, pulling himself closer. "Hav'nae done this inna while. Missed it."

You hummed in understanding, nails raking gentle patterns on his skin. A knot of scar tissue made you pause. He noticed, eyes flicking to yours. Concerned. That echo of terror whispered in your head, remembering.

"You scared me," you whispered, throat tight. You smoothed over the scar, too close to those pretty eyes and the fragile mind behind them. Soap sat up, slowly, something stirring in his eyes. It was too much. You hung your head, eyes welling.

"M'sorry," you choked out, tears bubbling over your hands. He drew you close, murmuring dissent at your quiet sobs.

"Aye, none a' tha', birdie," he sighed, "was just a scratch. 'M alright, doll, look," his hand took your and pressed it to his heart, thumping steadily beneath his warm chest. "See? 'M jus' fine."

You crept into his lap, latching yourself securely under his chin. Soap made no effort to stop you, wrapping his arms tight behind your back. He rocked gently, lulling you until the sniffling ceased.

"Aw, wee one," he soothed into the crown of your head. "Didnae know ye cared so much." His tone had the audacity to be teasing, and you whipped angrily to him.

"Didn't- Johnny MacTavish, how-"

He chuckled, kissing your cheek. "Teasin, teasin'. I ken."

You huffed, brow still pinched. His lips pressed a kiss there too.

"C'mon, it was funny. Laugh. Laugh, bonnie, lemme see tha' smile-"

You tried to keep your face twisted, but the insistence of his lips across your face cracked your composure, face splitting. Giggling as he crowed triumphantly, smacking a kiss onto your nose.

You grabbed his face and pressed your lips to his. A small noise in his throat, his fingers tightening on your hips. You licked gently into his mouth. He tasted warm and sweet, sending a shiver down your back. His hands slid up to your jaw, cupping you delicately. Something blossomed in your chest. This was how it was supposed to be. A feeling, one that had been shoved down in the dark, finally coming up to the surface. You nipped at him, trying to fuse your bodies together. Johnny groaned, cheeks flushed.

When you parted for air, his lips were pink and swollen. He took in your flustered face and heaving chest. Your dilated eyes met his.

"Hi, lamb," he smiled, pinching your blushing cheeks. "Look cute all messed up."

You scoffed, burrowing into his neck. His firm, warm skin smelled of fresh pine. You sucked in greedy lungfuls, nosing beneath his ear. His shoulder sloped perfectly for your head. A puzzle-piece match. Meant to be, your heart preened as your hand fisted gently in his shirt.

"Lass," he said, pecking your hair. You hummed, too content to face him. "Ah've a question."

You cooed contentedly, not really listening as his warm grip kneaded your thigh.

"Can I stay here?"

Your brow furrowed. "Huh?"

"Can...can I stay in yer office?"

Your eyes cracked open, brow raised. "Can you work in my office? Johnny..." you breathed a laugh, shaking your head. "I'd get nothing done. Neither would you, for that matter." He blustered indignantly, puppy dog eyes back in full force.

"But..."

"No, Soap," you laughed, kissing his forehead. "Nice try."

His protesting was silenced when you pulled him closer, lacing your fingers together. You were bluffing, but his pout was cute. You'd ask the CO tomorrow to move his stuff in here.

Soap grumbled, breath puffing over your ear.

"Wha' if I get shot again, then ye have to let me-"

"No."

yippee!