#these aren’t all of them but it’s most of them i think

[hauntedfawnn]

rafe cameron omegaverse would eattttt i can never find any fics of that

(Ask and you shall receive!! This is sort of a trial run I guess? I’ve never seen omegaverse in the OBX fandom so I’m just not sure if people aren’t into it or if they don’t really know much about it. If you’re confused on any terms/have any questions about this troupe my inbox/DMs are open!!)

✰ When Rafe catches your scent at one of his parties… he just has to have you. (Alpha!Rafe Cameron x Omega!Reader) ✰

𐙚 Possessiveness/jealousy, general omegaverse behaviors (scenting, knotting, marking), biting, a tiny bit of blood, unprotected sex, spit kink, pussy eating 18+MDNI! 𐙚

Rafe smells you the minute you walk into his bustling Tannyhill party. Even if he doesn’t see you quite yet. Your scent is better than any drug he’s ever snorted into his nose or smoked into his lungs. It’s sugary, sweet, strawberry jam. It smells like someone is cooking the most saccharine, mouth watering strawberry shortcake cake ever made. And he absolutely needs to find the source. He feels like a fucking hound sniffing around this party, lingering on each omega’s scent that hits his nose. But none of them are the one he’s searching for. That is until he walks past you standing by the drink table.

The minute your scent wafts into his nose from a few feet away his entire being is locked in on you. He’s never seen you before but you’re here with one of the country club girls so he assumes you’re from out of town. You’re wearing this cute little pink top and this black mini skirt and you have the prettiest face he’s ever seen. Rafe isn’t one to notice small things about people but your make up is done up all pretty and he wants to shove his face in your perfectly styled hair and inhale your scent like it’s the air he needs to breathe.

Rafe watches you for a moment, observing the way you laugh and how your smile reaches your eyes. He’s in a lovestruck trance, that is until some meat head, alpha dude he went to college with walks up to you. His eyes rake over your form and Rafe can practically see the way he’s inhaling your scent.

It immediately fills Rafe with pure, instinctual, jealousy and rage. And Rafe doesn’t do possessive. He doesn’t get attached. He fucks girls, betas and omegas alike before ghosting them without remorse or a second thought. But he felt the need to own you the second he smelled you, before he even caught sight of you. He wants to bend you over and fuck you like a wild animal, fuck his cum into you, and sink his teeth into your neck, claiming you as his own for the rest of your days.

He can’t believe you’re walking around smelling like a goddamn bakery unmated and without scent blockers. You’re practically bombing the entire house with your scent and he can see other alphas looking your way and stalking around you like a pack of horny vultures. He can’t have that, not in his house, not his girl. He doesn’t even know your name yet but he knows for a fact that you belong to him. Rafe walks over to you. He shoulder checks the guy you’re currently giving your attention before standing in front of him, completely blocking him from your view.

“Hi, I’m Rafe.” He smirks down at you with a sparkle in his blue eyes as he offers you his hand. “This is my place. Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, you new?”

“Hey man, I was fucking talking -“ the sparkle in Rafe’s eyes turns to blue flames as he flips around to face the guy with his lip curled back in a snarl.

“You were just leaving, actually.” Rafe flares his nostrils at the guy, daring him to challenge him. He’s bigger than him by a lot and he’s a hell of a lot more important to this island that some fucking idiot who buses tables for him at the club. Rafe has size and authority on his side. The guy shrinks right before his eyes before muttering an apology and scurrying off.

Rafe runs his hands through his dirty blonde hair before turning back to you. The sight of your pretty face bringing a smile back to his lips. “Sorry about that. As I was saying, are you new around here?”

“Yeah, just visiting my cousin.” You giggle as you give him your name. You’re nervous but flattered he’d chase someone off like that just to talk to you.

You smelled Rafe’s scent the minute you arrived at his house and you’d be lying if you said your eyes haven’t been following him all night. You’ve never smelled anyone like him in your entire life. He smells like a warm night at the beach. With a fire burning and the wind whipping the salty ocean breeze into your nose. There’s a muskiness to it that just adds a little extra something and you want to wrap your arms around him like a koala and shove your face into his neck.

“I figured, pretty girl like you would be hard to miss.” Rafe offers you a flirty smile as he leans down so his face is inches from yours. “Plus I don’t think I’d be able to miss your scent from a mile away. You smell so fuckin’ sweet.”

Your skin heats at his words, your nipples pebble in your shirt and you feel your panties start to get slick. His forwardness is making your head spin. “Yeah? You smell really good too.. I caught your scent as soon as I got here.”

“Can I be brutally honest, baby?” Rafe’s tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip as he lets his eyes slide down your body. Not only did you smell divine, you were wearing that tiny little skirt he wanted to rip off of you. And the minute you started getting wet, he could smell your desire.

“Yeah.” You giggle, feeling shy under his intense gaze. The pet name didn’t hurt either.

Rafe tips his head so he can run his nose along your jaw, inhaling your delectable fragrance. His breath tickles your skin as he brings his lips to your ear. “I fuckin’ want you. Your scent is driving me insane and I want to rip that sexy little skirt right from your body.”

“Do it then.” You sigh dreamily, subconsciously rubbing your cheek against Rafe’s head as he shoves his nose into your neck.

“Fuckin’ look at you.” Rafe licks his lips as he stands over you spread out for him in his bed. He ripped your shirt off and manhandled you into your back the minute his bedroom door was shut. You’re still wearing that sexy little ruffle skirt and you have your legs spread just enough for him to see a flash of your pink panties that are covered in stars. His eyes hone in on the wet spot in the middle and it’s like he becomes a man possessed. He darts between your legs, throwing them over his shoulders so he can shove his face into your pussy. He inhales deeply, his eyes rolling back and a damn near growl escaping his lips.

“God you smell so fuckin’ good. I’ve gotta taste you, baby.” Rafe makes good on his promise from earlier, grabbing not only the hem of your skirt but your panties too and ripping them clear down the middle with his alpha strength. His pupils dilate at the sight of your glistening, wet, pussy. He runs his nose along your dripping slit, inhaling your sweet aroma. He shoves his tongue between your lips, gathering the sweet nectar that’s dripping from inside you. He swirls his tongue around and brings it to your clit, sucking it into his mouth.

“Oh god, Rafe. That’s so fucking good.” You whine as your writhe beneath him. His tongue circles your hole before he shoves it as deep as it can go inside of you, fucking you with it. He brings his thumb to your clit and it has you seeing stars. Your orgasm wracks through you like a tidal wave and Rafe has to pin your hips to the bed so you can’t get away from his sinful tongue.

“S’goddamn sweet.” Rafe moans as he looks up at you with hooded eyes, the bottom half of his face covered in your juices. He holds eye contact with you as he swipes his large ringed finger across his chin so he can gather your slick and then he sucks his finger into his mouth. “Can’t let any go to waste, can we?”

Your pussy clenches around nothing as you watch him, a rush of slick dripping from you, practically begging Rafe to shove his cock inside.

“Please fuck me, alpha?” You whine as you spread your legs, presenting yourself to him. Something fully snaps in Rafe then. He hurriedly rips off his clothes before kneeling between your legs, giving his rock hard cock a few languid strokes.

“Don’t worry, pretty, I’m gonna take care of you. Gonna fuck this pussy so good you’ll never want another dick again. Gonna make you fuckin’ mine.” He runs his tip through your folds and taps it against your throbbing clit a few times before lining up with your entrance and pressing just the tip in. He pushes in a few inches before pulling almost all the way back out and then he thrusts his hips forward, pushing his cock balls deep inside of you.

“Oh, fuck yes.” Your eyes roll into the back of your head and your pussy pulses around his thick length as he starts to fuck into you like a wild animal. Rafe grabs onto your jaw and it makes your eyes fly open.

“Fuckin’ look at me while I take what’s mine, I wanna see your eyes when you fall apart on my dick.” The look in Rafe’s eyes is feral as he lets go off your jaw to shove two fingers in your mouth. He hooks them along your bottom teeth, pulling your mouth open. He gathers some spit in his mouth before letting it fall onto your tongue and his taste lights up your senses.

“Mmm, you taste so good, alpha.” You moan as you swallow what he gave you.

“God you’re so fuckin’ sexy. Good little omega. Gonna scent every inch of your perfect body so every alpha within two miles will know you’re mine.” Rafe shoves his face in your neck and rubs his cheek against your scent gland to prove his point. He runs his teeth along the column of your throat, teasing you.

“Please mark me, alpha.” You crane your neck to the side, giving him more space. “Make me yours forever.”

Rafe has never considered marking anyone, claiming anyone as his own. But right now? He’s never felt more possessive in his life. He needs to claim you. Make you his. Breed you. He growls into your neck, his cock still thrusting deep and hard into your cunt. He flicks his tongue out across your skin, tasting your sweat and something that is just you before baring his teeth and sinking them into your flesh. Your back arches off the bed and you cum so hard you almost want to cry. You feel the bond between you and Rafe settle. That bite on your neck connecting him to you for eternity.

“Mine.” Rafe snarls as he licks the blood that’s dripping from his bite. He leans up, grabbing onto one of your thighs and pushes it up to your chest. The thumb of his free hand finds your clit as he fucks you brutally, without remorse. “Gonna breed this fuckin’ pussy, baby girl.”

“Yes, yes! Please fill me up, alpha! I want your knot!” That does Rafe in. He pounds into you hard and deep as his balls tighten and his cock twitches inside you. Rafe paints your walls with ropes of his cum and the feeling hurdles you into another orgasm right along with him.

“Good fuckin’ omega, such a good girl for me.” Rafe grunts as he feels the head of his cock start to expand and his knot pop inside you. You squeak in surprise at the pinching feeling but it soon turns into pleasure, another mind blowing orgasm that makes you nearly see white, overtaking your entire being.

“Wow.” You giggle and sigh as your body falls limp beneath him. Rafe wraps his arms around your waist so he can roll onto his back and pull you to his chest, his knot still nestled deep inside you.

“Mine.” Rafe growls as one of his hands grabs a handful of your ass and the other cups your cheek, tilting your head up to look at him. He realizes in his frenzy to be inside you he never kissed you so he connects your lips in a filthy, passionate kiss. “Never letting you outta my sight.”

“Good because you’re mine.” Your hand covers his large one that’s cupping your face. You tilt your cheek so you can rub your cheek against the scent gland on his wrist, marking him. It makes Rafe’s cock twitch and harden again inside you and then he’s fucking you again. And again. Until your eyes flutter shut with bliss, surrounded in both your scents, wrapped up in your alpha’s arms.

Tagging mooties: @eerielamb @dementedkittenribbon @cameronsprincess @nemesyaaa @that-sarcastic-writer @eddiesxangel

Dividers by @anitalenia

[theeldritchdarling]

Going to go into more detail on these than last time:

1/2. Most places don’t have currency; bartering is everything. Taking a note from Cas3yart. Trade and taxes is all done via bartering goods or bartering services (skills/crafts). Taxes are essentially the amount of materials or goods that are stored/given out to the local shops and eateries. Collected from the local clans of an area; think the Minoan “castles” that were actually storage centers. The local clans hunt/harvest from the area and a portion, or tax, is given to the temple as payment. It also acts as a library and separate storage for times of famine, droughts, or other natural disasters.

3. Areians use a lunar calendar. Daylight is shorter than that of Earth thanks to their three moons. That’s all I have right now.

4. Still 4 seasons. lol. That rare long though; the equivalent of 5 Earth years/season (~20 earth years for a year)

5. Weather is more erratic and extreme. Most flora and fauna have adapted methodologies to survive these more harsh conditions (more pine-like plants and fewer flowering plants; animals have either thick fur/hides or built-in armor).

6. Three Moons!

7. No rings

8. Not sure if they exist yet (this isn’t my area of expertise).

9. The desserts near the equator use a quartz-sand mixture that causes roads to shimmer silver under moon lights.

10. Jewelry, as with tools/weapons, is primarily made from bones, volcanic glass, or stonework. Silver-type metals are used almost exclusively for courting jewelry. It is believed to have been parts of the “beast” itself, and so holds magical properties. Gold and its ilk are feared and considered dangerous.Most Areians experience some form of uv sensitivity and Areians are either crepuscular (settler) or nocturnal (nomadic). So the Sun, sunlight, and daytime are feared phenomena with anything having a connection to it to be taken with caution as well. Hence, gold being feared and never used. Also most jewelry is in some form practical. As hunters, most don’t want to risk their jewelry getting caught, risking harm or slowing them down. So jewels are rarely used.

11. Courting jewelry can be anything from rings, necklaces, bands or bracelets/anklets, to brooches or piercings. As written previously, pragmatism plays a factor into the appearance of some pieces. Jewelry is earned and can only be worn by courting or married peoples. It also can’t be hand-me-downs. Courting jewelry is a show of craft, which, along with skills, are one of the two attributes valued by Areian cultures. So one has to make the courting jewelry they plan to give to potential mates/partners.

12. I haven’t figured out if they have last names/if last names exist.

13. Virginity and bastardry aren’t important concepts for the vast majority of cultures. The most important aspects of sex and marriage culture is to have the most descendants/breed the best descendants and have the most partners as sign of strength, power, and vitality. Partnership is also about creating/gaining political power, share assets/gain access to resources, and breeding.

14. Five genders and no concept of sexes. Genders are based on fertility; the number of pups in a single litter/over their breeding seasons. Yañe/child, Alano/Elder, Sayalarr/Extremely Fertile (5/6 pups/litter), Salarr (3-4 pups/litter), and Twote/Infertile (0-1 if lucky). Sex is only defined as the act of intercourse itself.

15. Most religions are a mixture of animism, Shintoism, and paganism. Clans will have familial tribes that give tribute/connect energies of the spirits/energies of nature. And, individuals can have personal alters that do the same to similar or different spirits/energies.

16. The only “god”, the beast, have a more eldritch appearance. It is a collective convergent genetic memory of the atrocities that the Qu did to the Star People to create the Predators (Ancestors of the Areians/Killer Folk).

17. Many creatures, even domesticated ones, appear similar to mythical or folklore creatures (sphinxes, unicorns, or chupacabras). Also, Areians would count as the reskinned dogs and cats of the planet.😜

18. Abandoned AI hubs that are coveted and secreted away by the Conventry. Hold the history knowledge, and forgotten tools of the Star People, Humans, and Martians.

19. Areians are farsighted. Most information is kept via the Corvids, acting as the memory banks of culture and society (see Cas3yart’s video on the topic). Most information is passed verbally from generation to generation. Any “written” works are in the form of knots or raised embroidery. Tactile methodologies for information storage.

20. Hunter’s Sign. A form of Areian sign language that’s reliant on hand and ear movements. With added chirps and calls as well. Sight isn’t as important since their eyesight is adapted for night and long distance.

21. Areians/Killer Folk are obligate carnivores. The only plant matter they can digest are fungal, root, or squash-based plants. But these are only short term solutions. Areians also suffer from a variant of Auto-Brewery Syndrome; grain-based carbohydrates and fruit/plant-based sugars are fermented in their systems, making them drunk from consuming foodstuffs made from these materials.

@kjagasanpijrtu you inspired to go and reduce this

Small fantasy worldbuilding elements you might want to think about:

A currency that isn’t gold-standard/having gold be as valuable as tin

A currency that runs entirely on a perishable resource, like cocoa beans

A clock that isn’t 24-hours

More or less than four seasons/seasons other than the ones we know

Fantastical weather patterns like irregular cloud formations, iridescent rain

Multiple moons/no moon

Planetary rings

A northern lights effect, but near the equator

Roads that aren’t brown or grey/black, like San Juan’s blue bricks

Jewelry beyond precious gems and metals

Marriage signifiers other than wedding bands

The husband taking the wife's name / newlyweds inventing a new surname upon marriage

No concept of virginity or bastardry

More than 2 genders/no concept of gender

Monotheism, but not creationism

Gods that don’t look like people

Domesticated pets that aren’t re-skinned dogs and cats

Some normalized supernatural element that has nothing to do with the plot

Magical communication that isn’t Fantasy Zoom

“Books” that aren’t bound or scrolls

A nonverbal means of communicating, like sign language

A race of people who are obligate carnivores/ vegetarians/ vegans/ pescatarians (not religious, biological imperative)

I’ve done about half of these myself in one WIP or another and a little detail here or there goes a long way in reminding the audience that this isn’t Kansas anymore.

[onenicebugperday]

I promise this isn’t me trying to be like, an ass or whatever. How will your blog get deleted if you post something we didn’t take a pic of? I haven’t really sent in anything myself I don’t think but like. Most pictures posted on this site aren’t taken by the poster? Like I’m just confused on what you mean by all that.

I briefly explained it in the post. If I post a photo that belongs to someone else and they see it on my blog and want it taken down, they can ask tumblr to remove it. This counts as one copyright violation notice against my blog. If you get three in 18 months, your blogs are deleted. There is no way to get them back and you cannot use the associated email address to make another blog.

I would say most blogs that are re-posting content from other people don't have enough followers to get noticed, and often the owner of the content would never see it. I have a lot of followers, and it's much more likely that it would get noticed on my blog.

Many photographers and artists are fine with people re-posting their content as long as it's properly credited, but definitely not all of them are, which is their right as an artist. They own their own content and it's not legal for other people to use it however they want.

I work with these laws by either directly asking photographers for permission to post their content with credit (you will often see "posted with permission" noted on my posts) or by using photos that are posted online under certain Creative Commons licenses. This means that the photographer or artist has posted their work online with a note that people are able to use their work with certain restrictions - those restrictions depend on which Creative Commons license they've denoted, but often it just means that whoever is using the content has to credit them by name + link their page(s) and you are not able to use the work to make any sort of profit.

I use iNaturalist a lot to find photos of bugs to post not only because it's a huge database of photos but also because you are able to sort photos by their Creative Commons license so you know which ones you are able to legally re-post.

P.S. - A personal pet peeve of mine is when someone re-posts someone else's work and just writes "credit to the creator" or "credit to the owner" with no other information. That is NOT credit. You just stole their work and re-posted it without crediting the person who put in the work. Artists struggle enough without having their work stolen and spread around unattributed to them.

[sheep-from-rad]

Crossover anon here

Yandere batfam vs SAGAU, you say?👀

I would very much like to hear your thoughts on it.

(Also, thank you for reminding me that SAGAU exists)

✨️✨️✨️

Masterlist also welcome back Anon! Hello! SAGAU and Batfam will get along swimmingly /s. Here’s the thing: How do you think the family would react if the accidentally neglected offspring (if neglected reader) or the normal child of the family started acting suspicious, started to become more withdrawn and spent more time with video games, and started muttering about how their game is becoming self-aware? 

Did you guess it right? Yeah, it’s a trip to Doctor Leslie or better yet a trip to Auntie Harley. They are most likely to dismiss it as a psychological disturbance first because let’s be real, if Gotham is a person and then it’s that person who lives permanently in a padded cell in a mental hospital. You can never really go around the place without the 50/50 chances of you dying in broad daylight. Also loneliness is a breeding ground for anxiety, depression, and even suicidal thoughts. Your game will likely be confiscated too but to be checked if you accidentally get hacked or if the game is bugged. 

I’d like to think that the moment they realized that the game is really self-aware like what you believed, it’s already too late. The game has already transported you somewhere else in Teyvat and now you’re trapped in the SAGAU plotline. 

Here’s a mini plot bunny (it’s just a plot bunny because I want to focus on the Blood bound series [I wrote it without drafting the series’ whole storyline so now I’m scared everytime I open the doc]): 

In most SAGAU plots that I have read (at least the non Impostor AU ones), Teyvat and Abyss are almost always buddy-buddy. Like ‘if the divine creator wants us to be neutral and then we’ll be neutral’ and most of the time Celestia is forgotten. Imagine Batfam being pulled to the SAGAU plot but the one who pulls them in is Celestia. 

My lore is rusty but I know for sure Celestia will try to brainwash Batfam into thinking that Teyvat and Abyss are evil and that they are lying about your divinity to keep you in the game. Celestia will weaponize the apparent yandere tendencies!  Batfam wants you back and Celestia wants the controls back, two birds in one stone. 

Is Batfam powerless in Genshin? I say around 60/40. They can fight but when it comes to vision users they might need to upgrade their contingency documents. Not to mention that not every user uses their vision the same. They will need to study those elemental reactions too and how each element interacts. But of course, Batfam is not stupid and sooner or later they will see it through Celestia’s agenda and they will have to break away and find their own way in Teyvat. 

SAGAU will be a fun ride especially if it’s a neglected reader x Batfam who wants forgiveness and just wants a sense of  family over again. If anything, the game characters aren’t simple-minded and they know how to listen (I’m looking at Ga Ming’s lore here of how him and his father became okay again on that lantern rite), I’d like to think that if the character sensed that Batfam is being genuine and then they might even become a bridge to forgiveness. 

What if Yandere Batfam learns that the game is really self-aware before you get transported to Teyvat? Prepare for a technological lockout. Devices gone? Passwords? Changed! TV time? Limited. If you need to get homework done and then you’ll be using it with anyone’s supervision. No more isolation! If making you go out and bond with your siblings might play a role in breaking you away from the game and then they will do it. If you really need your devices, then you’ll be treated like a toddler with some apps being locked. 

All those precautions will fill them with sense of protection until a citizen comes to the GCPD reporting that an accurately dressed Dottore cosplayer was spotted working with Joker. 

[gildedwildwood]

I read through some of the articles and I actually find this momentously relieving.

My first thought when the election results came out was “… wow… that’s a lot of people who buy into this. Who want me dead. Who want my friends dead. Etc etc etc.”

But it’s nice to have a reminder that most of them are just… human people who have been duped one way or another into thinking that this man is going to save them.

It’s nice to see that for so many of the people who wrote articles, the thing that snapped them out of it was that the MAGA stuff bumped up against their love for family members or friends who would be affected.

I’m gonna let this give me some hope that more people will take a look around themselves and go “oh shit” and back out.

The people we surround ourselves with and the information we consume can really change our perspective on the world. A lot of these people were vulnerable and got pulled into a sphere that told them to look at the world one way.

It gives me hope that some people can find their way out of it. It means other people can too. It means that a lot of people aren’t actually full of hatred- they’re just caught up in the flow of it.

Which sucks. But… small light in the dark. A bit of hope for humanity in a time where I’m desperately clinging to anything I can.

I wish these people a fruitful life of unlearning and educating themselves and others. I hope they pull more people out of the darkness.

It won’t solve everything but… every little bit helps, and I dunno about you but I’d rather have more people who “used to be pro-maga” than people who are “actively pro-maga”. Can’t change the past but can improve for the future and all that jazz.

This is an interesting thing. Looks like testimonies of people who left the MAGA movement- how they got into it and why.

Leaving a cult is really hard, so I really respect the people who are speaking from this place.

[abysful]

Tread carefully

Contains: Plot, Friends to Fuck buddies, Mentions of Masturbation, Smut (not-so-dry humping, blow job, p in v)

Summary: You love summer more than most, yet swimming has never been your strong suit beyond a survival doggy paddle. But one quiet summer night, your friend Chris teaches you a few tricks, in and out of the water.

Word count: 5k

There was nothing that riled you up more than when your three best friends claimed to “hate” summer. You reminded them time and time again how amazing it was to be surrounded by bright green grass and beautiful flowers, and how all it takes when you feel the heat bundle you up a bit too tight, is a carefree dip in a cooling chlorine filled pool. The complaints of how sticky and humid the air gets during summer seem to quiet down to silence when summer finally arrives and everyone’s skin is sun kissed and warm, when music and laughter accompanies a bonfire, and when all of your friends are happier and lighter.

“T’s sweaty and fucking gross” Nick starts, reminded of his hatred for the season when a headline of summers first day being a week away, pops up on his Instagram feed.

You look at Matt and Chris waiting for either of them to swoop in and defend your favourite time of year but you quickly realize you’re on your own.

“Let’s not get disrespectful” you play around, trying to stop yourself from getting in a unserious but low-key serious debate with Nick.

Nick looks at you unamused “I literally don’t fucking believe you when you say summers your favourite season… you aren’t even from LA. There’s mosquitoes and allergies and fucking sunburn.” he exclaims.

The friendly banter goes on through the night, regardless of the activity, only stopping when you’re all asleep on their couches after an evening filled with jokes, games, and stupid stories.

At some odd hour in the night, the dry cotton-mouth that left the walls of your mouth feeling like sandpaper, had rudely yanked you from your disorganized and frankly confusing dreams.

There was no possibility that you were going to ignore the now hydrophobic texture taking place within your jaws, the only option was to get up as silently as possible and find something to remedy your dehydration.

In hopes you wouldn’t disturb your peacefully sleeping friends, you sink into the couch as you lay straight, slowly rolling off of the cushion to the floor, using all of your arm strength to softly lower yourself without making a sound.

As you stand, you look over the dormant bodies of the people you care most about, wondering what they’re seeing in their dreams, some on the couch, others on air-mattresses that were in place of the coffee table.

Though the sweet admiration quickly turns into a headcount, you see Madi, Nick, Matt, Madison, but no Chris.

Your mind can barely process your consciousness, so Chris’ whereabouts slip out from your thoughts almost immediately when you regain awareness of the dryness coursing your throat and tongue.

Pivoting on your heels, you B-line for the kitchen, so eager to drink just one glass of water, the ability to stay quiet threatens to disappear. Once the glass is in your grasp, and the slippery condensation cools your clammy palms, you begin to guzzle the liquid in your cup, letting out loud breaths between each gulp.

Feet standing a foot and a half from the sink, you bend over to rest your elbows on the countertop, your body at a near 90 degree angle.

You don’t even hear the sound of a toilet flushing or a door opening, nor did you hear any footsteps approaching, the feeling of the water reviving every vein and artery was clouding your thinking.

Chris walked into the kitchen from the bathroom, heading for the sink to get a drink. His eyes had just been exposed to the bright florescent lights of the washroom just a moment ago so when he flicked the switch off, his eyes were able to see virtually nothing.

Touching and feeling around him, once he understood where the table and cabinets were located in relation to him, he no longer felt the need to extend his arms for guidance.

That was until he was a few steps from the sink. Chris’ walking is abruptly interrupted when his clothed groin slams against your ass as you’re leaning on your forearms, hovering over the basin.

“Shit” he whisper yelled, completely oblivious to who it was he rammed into.

Instinctively he reached out again to feel who was in front of him, it all happened so fast, his hands finding your hips in search of anything identifiable in the blinding darkness.

“Woah” you yelped, now turning as fast as your body physically allowed you to.

Your familiar voice telling Chris all he needed to know, he pulled his grip back as if he’d just touched a scalding hot stovetop.

“Sorry sorry sorry” he slewed out rapidly, his voice now quiet but above a whisper.

“Ts fine, my fault for not paying attention” you apologized soon after, out of curtesy more than honesty.

A thought paralyzing silence blanketed the both of you, embarrassment being the only feeling in the kitchen that now felt 2 feet wide.

“Thirsty?” Chris whispers, very obviously trying to move on and not have that be the last thing that you two remember before going back to sleep.

Your body flinches slightly when you remember you aren’t completely alone in your thoughts.

“A little” You turn your head to meet Chris’ gaze, being in the solid dark long enough for your eyes to adjust, you can probably see Chris better than he can see you.

His shorts are hanging slightly too low, the fault of him trying to ‘keep his tired’ and haphazardly throwing on his bottoms before rushing out of the bathroom just a few moments ago.

Chris had a charm about him that made you find him more attractive than most of the men in your life but you didn’t spend any time figuring out what that even meant to you, so of course you assumed the pulse in your head, heart, and heat that came about whenever he was around, was nothing.

Yet in the dark, having a chance to take a good look at a barely clothed Chris without him being able to tell where your gaze fell, you used the opportunity as any person would, you checked him the fuck out.

Your eyes started at his V-line but his happy trail caught your attention not long after. You could tell by the way it was growing that he had been shaving around it to keep it shaped nice, not overgrown, but still visible. ‘Sort of like a landing strip’ your inner monologue narrated in your head, making you break into a smile that only you knew about.

With every breath inwards he took, all of him moved with it. The room was still too dark to be able to identify much else so you decided to cut your semi pervy staring session short, the places that your mind was going needed to be knocked unconscious.

“I need to hurry up and lay down before I fully wake up” you smiled at Chris, though he definitely couldn’t see well enough to tell. He let out a hum of agreement as you let your tired legs guide you to the large comfy couch.

Ever so quietly, you ascend back into the small indent your body left on the pillowy cushion. Comfort washed over you as your body felt as if it was melting and becoming one with the cloud of a sofa that was underneath you, you didn’t even get to the number four when counting yourself to sleep.

That night was weeks ago, between then and now, things were predominately business as usual except for two things, one slightly more concerning than the other.

On the brighter side, summer was here, your skin was glowier than ever, the skies had never been clearer, and every feeling seemed more intense.

But the time between the mishap and now— it seemed that every single night that you were unable to sleep, like a movie, you replayed the view of Chris that night, over and over in your head.

One night in particular you were engaging in sexual self care, and as much as you fought it with every neuron and vessel in your brain— the only image that got you to cum was that of Chris’ slender figure looming over you in the dark kitchen in the earlier hours before dawn.

Between their meetings and your job, none of you had the chance to spend a full day enjoying the heat of your beloved season quite yet.

“Y/n idc what you gotta do but we’re going swimming tomorrow” Nick texted you out of nowhere, it was 7pm and you were winding down from yet another busy day of working, going to the gym, and just the general tasks of everyday life.

“I’m there” you typed back with one hand while the other stirred your vodka pasta simmering on the stove.

That night your mind struggled to sleep once more, it seemed that only when you needed to rest the most, your bed morphed into a lumpy boulder keeping you from the level of comfort you needed for tomorrow to come quickly.

Thoughts about spending the day with the triplets, spending the day with Chris, more so, getting to see shirtless Chris in broad daylight this time, were wading through your mind. Over an hour of tossing and turning later, you drifted off to dreamland.

Your plans started later than discussed which was nothing but normal for your group of friends, everyone woke up late, got dressed late, and found their way to Madison’s LA home 3 hours late, by the grace of god you all showed up around the same time.

What was once a 1pm hang out, began at 4pm. First going to get ice cream, Madi and Matt got regular flavours while Nick and Chris purchased odd but reasonable mixes. You and Madison on the other hand, decided to get the most nonsensical and unappetizing combinations of ice creams.

“Get that fuckass cup out of my face” Nick retorted to you after you offered him a bite of your Frankenstein fro yo, to which you all belly laughed.

Then thrifting, it seemed Matt had the sharpest eye for that sort of thing, while the rest of you dicked around, mocking the freaky antiques you found, eventually leaving empty handed.

Finally, you were all in Madison’s pool an hour before sun down. There wasn’t much time for staring, Chris went from clothed to wearing nothing but swim trunks and submerged in water within half of a second.

The missed opportunity to bask in his sex appeal didn’t bother you too much, their was a level of guilt that was paired with each dirty thought you had of Chris which you weren’t opposed to not having to experience on your first proper hang out of the summer.

Last summer when you first met everyone, your choice of swimwear was one pieces and basketball shorts— a result of unjustified self critical thoughts, but the year in between was spent building up your self esteem and getting comfortable with letting yourself feel sexy. Now your choice of swimwear was more scantly clad, a black twisted bandeau top that’s half a size too small and tie-side bottoms.

The first 30 minutes in the pool, everyone played chicken fight, taking turns on shoulders— around 20 minutes til sundown, Nick and Madi volunteered to leave the pool to order food and chill in the hammocks. After their departure, lighthearted conversation flowed seamlessly between the four of you, that was until Matt poked fun at you about your swimming.

“Can you do literally anything other than a doggy paddle?” He teased, your face started to feel hot, remembering talks of the triplets laughing about their mom being an adult and not knowing how to swim.

“Matt shut up, she can swim” Chris chimes in, seemingly not to defend you but instead, actually in denial that you lacked the ability keep yourself afloat.

“No seriously, have you seen her leave the shallow end” he points out, his words phrased in a way to make you feel like he’s joking with you not at you, which made you a lot less embarrassed about the whole thing.

“She can swim a bit Matt” Madison inserts, her words prompt you to slowly glide through the water to the deep end.

The issue was never with getting somewhere in the water, it was staying above surface level. Once you reached the other side of her pool, you turned right back around and started swimming to your self assigned place in the shallow end.

“See? I swam” you snapped back playfully, jetting your gaze to Matt. A smile creeps onto your face before you mumble incoherently under your breath for comedic effect.

“What?” Chris prods with a smirk.

“I just can’t keep my head over the water if I’m not moving” you sheepishly confess.

“Y’mean tread water kid?” He asks, sounding unconvinced.

“Mhm” you nod, ironically standing in the kiddie end feeling like a 12 year old.

“D’you need me to teach you?” his words now laced with hints of genuine concern that you’ve gone this long without acquiring such an important skill.

You shrug “You couldn’t teach a dog to bark but I’ll let you try.” the idea of touching Chris’ slippery skin under the privacy of warped water is enough to twist your stomach.

Your mind was only just beginning to wander to unwarranted directions when Nick called out from his hammock.

“FOODS HERE”.

You expected Chris to do the ‘Chris thing’ by jumping out of the pool and running for the patio, but that wasn’t what happened. His eyes stayed planted on you, yours finding his quickly after noticing he didn’t seem to care much about his surroundings.

“Lemme teach you right now” he asserted, his voice was calm, all the while being more serious than it had been all day. The swift shift in mood threw you off to a panic.

“N-No it’s fine we can eat first”, if you had a gun to shoot yourself in the foot right now, you would. You knew yourself better than anyone, and one thing that was certain, was that you didn’t have much self control.

Everyone gathered around the dining room table, and by the time the food was finished, the sun had disappeared, lowering behind the sky high Hollywood hills.

The evening became night, and Chris was off in the washroom doing god knows what. Having read the oven clock, Madi stated she’d be calling it a night and walked over to the guest room with a blanket in one hand and her phone in the other, Matt suggested playing a movie up in Madison’s room, to which you declined from your spot on the couch, and watched as your three friends skipped up the stairs.

Less than ten minutes later, Chris finally joined you in the living room.

“Where’s everybody?” He asked.

“Madi went to bed and the rest are doing a movie night upstairs” you answered not looking up from your phone, mainly from the shame you felt.

The entire dinner, Chris’ eyes remained tethered to yours, it confused you at first but rather than wondering what he was thinking, you allowed your mind to go to places of its own.

Behind your eyes were made up images of Chris, you carried out scenarios of what it would be like to let him have you in any way he wanted, you imaged all while holding eye contact with him. Now you had spent time alone with thoughts and the feelings of satisfaction morphed into disgust with yourself.

“You gonna let me teach you now?” He inquires, you can see in your peripheral vision that his focus never faltered you once.

“What, like now now?” You question.

“Ion know what other now there is” he says.

You shrug, trying to give off the impression that none of this matters much to you, but internally, nearly every organ of yours is turning and tossing. Following his lead, you both find your way out of the sliding glass doors to the back of the house where your swimming attire is hanging to dry.

Chris pulls the corner to dress in a concealed area, on the other side of a picketed fence gate. You shamelessly but speedily put on your bikini and jumped into the pool with a loud splash, non verbally informing Chris you were finished dressing.

He appeared out from around the bend, swim shorts riding lower than they did when there was an extra 4 bodies in the pool with you earlier. Stepping back so he could have a longer running start, Chris cannonballed right over your head, landing in the deep end. A few seconds later he emerged from underwater.

“See how my arms ain’t movin” he nods down to his arms floating in one spot.

“Yeah” you engage.

“Go underwater an open your eyes” he instructs you in a suggesting tone.

Abiding by his wishes and taking a deep breath in, stretching the inner lining of your cheeks as you collect as much air as your mouth will allow, you had dived to watch the correct way to tread water, but you stayed to gawk at his abdomen flex and move with every kick each leg made.

You remained submerged, enjoying the show, until there was no air left in your lungs. Once you come back up for air, he questions you.

“Y’think you can do it?”.

You shrug to which he starts up again “cmere” he orders, less jokey as before. His assertiveness only fuels the fire of desire within you.

You swim slowly to him, once you get close enough, he grabs your hands and places them straight out to the side like a ‘T’.

“M’not gonna let you go, just pedal” he softly guides you as his hands stay clinging to yours.

Both sets of your arms are spread out leaving very little room between your bodies and faces. Every word of encouragement muttered in gentle whispers, the distance between you, or lack there of, ensured that you never needed to exceed quiet breathy volumes.

“That’s good”

“Like this?”

“Yeah you’re doin so good keep goin”.

To an outsider, the exchange sounded erotic, and though neither of you would admit it in that moment, as insiders, it felt erotic.

He eased his fingers out of yours until you were staying up on your own. You felt like you were levitating.

“No shit, I’m actually doing it” you cheered, but the ten minutes of trial and error left your legs exhausted.

Your legs cramped and froze as your hands reach back for Chris, landing firmly on his shoulders.

“Tired?” He rhetorically asked, eyes searching for yours as you stayed looking at the water.

“Y’know you can do it with your arms too” he tried to motivate you.

“Yeah maybe you can but I think I’m good with just the legs” most of your pessimism coming from insecurity.

“No seriously, it’s lowkey easier too” he said in attempt to brighten your outlook.

“Let me just-” his words snuffed out, as his fingers snaked down to your sides.

“Can I hold you here?” his voice drops an octave. You look up at him, nodding, as you feel his touch glide down to the small of your back underneath the water. The nervousness weighing you down, as you lower your hold on his shoulders, trying to move your arms in a circular motion.

The sexual frustration within you intertwines with your actual frustration of not being able to get the hang of things, a look of agitation growing on your face. Your eyebrows furrowed and the near permanent smile that painted your lips, turned sour, now straight.

“You’re doin fine, just relax a bit” he begins, “I gotchu” his grip around the lower half of your torso tightens.

As your mind begins to realign its focus on the physical task you both came for, you feel something graze your lower stomach faintly, just underneath your belly button. Diverging your hyper-fixation to look down, you feel Chris’ arms slowly let you go, initiating a knee jerk response for your arms to fling up to link behind the nape of his neck to support you.

The change in grounding point, brought you closer to his body than before. The thing touched you again, this time much less subtly, and the lack of space between you and Chris, gave you a near certain answer to what that thing was.

Every night you spent unrested you imagined a moment like this, and every orgasm you brought yourself to with the faint thought of Chris in that kitchen, you imagined a moment like this, you knew exactly what you wanted to happen, it was just about how.

“Sorry” Chris lamely excused, he didn’t attempt to string together what other reasons there could possibly have been for his dick to be in the state that it was. But you didn’t comfort his embarrassment, nor did you back away from where you were, instead you chose to seize the moment.

Your legs started off straight, but close to his, then, you began to bend your knees while parting a gap between your thighs. One of your arms stayed around his neck while the other travelled up the back of his head to interlock with his deep brown strands, now black from being soaked in water.

Only seconds later did your lower half complete its journey to be fully draped around his waist. Your faces, once inches apart, now only centimetres away from one another. His eyes broke free from their shackled gaze with yours, as your body language gave him the go-ahead to finally look at your frame the way you had peered at his once before.

The long string of weeks where you could only think of how he would feel on you and in you, was enough foreplay in itself, so you made no haste to bridge your hips up against his pulsing cock under the still water. The warmth that was rushing to every part of your bodies, made the water feel that much colder.

When he had finished eating you with his eyes, his hand jerked up from your back, to clasp your cheek. As he guided your mouth to his, his tongue waited from no invitation. The kiss was wet and messy from the beginning, only picking up heat as you explode each other’s bodies with no hesitation. His hand slipped down from your back to cup your ass before squeezing it and rubbing it repeatedly, the other hand slithering down from your jaw to find hold on your neck.

With the gap between your bodies non existent, his solid cock tented in his shorts was now pressed up against your aching core. Using the strength of your knees around his waist, you began to wine your hips in a circular motion, utilizing the part of his shaft that was against your cunt as friction.

The both of you moaned at the action, him bucking his hips in response. The coolness of the pool sent waves of shock as the cold ripples acted against your throbbing heat, the kisses became sloppy as you and Chris lost the capacity to think, thinness of your swimwear allowing every point of contact between you to feel as if neither of you had clothes on.

After barely 5 minutes of breathlessly making out and grinding over his hungry dick, you pull away from Chris.

“The pool house” was all you could slew out as you tried to catch your breath, you look deep into his eyes, the blue irises now near impossible to see beyond his black dilated pupils. He gulped in excitement, mind numb, all he could do was nod.

Both of you wasted not a second climbing out of the water, and creaking the door open. The pool house didn’t have much inside, but catching a fairly large couch in the corner, you both stumbled over towards it.

Chris immediately sat down, presuming you would assume the same position of straddling him as you did in the pool, but instead you lowered onto your knees. The sight of you so eager to make him feel good prompted Chris to whip his head back and let out a sigh of built up sexual frustration.

As your fingers hooked underneath the hem of his shorts and tugged, his length sprung out, slapping into his stomach. You knew your time in the pool was torture from his irritated tip, the colour of his teased dick making you want to do nothing more than relieve the pressure.

Once his gaze fell back onto you, your hands spread out on his thighs, sliding up to his cock, once you grab hold of it, you look into his eyes before collecting your saliva and slowly letting it run down his pulsing dick. Once his length was wet enough, you used one of your hangs to circle his tip with your palm while the other assisted your mouth in taking all of him from the side, running your lips along his dick. “Fuuuuckkkk don’t stop” he groaned as his fingers trailed through your hair.

Eventually you remove your hand from his now much redder tip, and slide his cock down your throat until your nose hits his skin. You keep him in your throat for a second or two as you look up at him, his eyes getting teary just as yours were. You continued to ram his dick in and out of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you did so, his moans never stopping once, kept you going.

When you knew he was close, you used both of your hands to stroke him while your tongue lapped around the head of his throbbing cock. It took less than a second for him to cum, you popped his dick out of your mouth and steered his dick to shoot his thick white ropes of cum onto your chest. When he caught his breath he looked into your eyes.

“Didn’t wanna swallow?” He joked.

“You drink Pepsi like its water and eat like a 7 year old with a bank account and free will, I would rather drink bleach than your cum Chris” you shot back.

“Fair” he responded before pausing, then finishing his thought, “I bet your pussy’d soak up my cum with no complaints”.

Rather than a verbal response to the annoying but honest truth, you gave him a physical one. You stood up and pulled the strings of your bikini bottoms in one motion before crawling onto his lap. He looked at you as a cocky smile crept onto his face. You were on your knees hovering over his eager dick, your pussy pumping since the pool.

Waiting for him to enter your needy hole, you look down at his hand finding his length as he guided it to your entrance but rather than placing his dick where you wanted it, he tried teasing you, sliding his tip over your over-aroused clit. You moan, furrowing your eyebrows, eyes still planted on what he was doing.

“Chris… don’t… fuck around” you stammered between your heavy breaths and groans. He sneered and let out a huffy breath of amusement before finally letting his dick find your sopping wet hole, bottoming out immediately, not allowing you to adjust to his impressive size.

“Fuck” you screamed, leaning forward to embrace him, resting your chin over his shoulders and wrapping your arms around him.

“Easyyy easyyy” he hushed. His hands found your ass, softly grabbing hold of it as he lifted you up and down.

“Too much?” he asks, turning his head so his mouth pressed up against your ear as he whispers.

“Mm, keep going” you respond, almost forgetting how to communicate out of pure bliss, your eyes begin to roll to the back of your head and your eyelashes flutter. Chris plants kisses on your shoulder, as your moans get louder you can feel him smile into the kisses.

His slender fingers find your clit, using your slippery wetness to make his digits slide faster in circles. Every one of your limbs begin to numb, your mind soon following. As a blur grows around your vision, your moans turn to screams, the distance from the house your friends were in was large enough for you to let all that you were feeling be heard.

“Chris” you start to which he interrupts.

“I got you, cum for me baby” his thrusts rapid like bullet fire, sending your body into ecstasy. One second the knot is building in your gut, the next, it snaps.

“Fuck fuck fuck” you scream out.

“Mhm I got you” he assures you, as you ride out the feeling of his dick slamming against your g-spot and his fingers caressing your overstimulated clit.

As you come down from your high, you lean back, the sweet sweat that collected between your chests made it all feel so intimate. Chris slips out of you and runs his finger between your folds one last time, raising his hand to show you the white liquid dripping out of you.

He smiled and egotistically smiles “told you”, you grab his fingers and lick the cum off, more for the purpose of shutting him up.

After dressing into your indoor clothes and limping back to the house, you walk upstairs to Madison’s room with Chris by your side. “D’you get the hang of it?” Matt asked, not looking away from the rom-com playing on the TV in front of him. “Yeah, fast as fuck too, had time to teach her other shit too” Chris answered for you.

Authors note: I suck at smut but I feel like this one’s a bit better than the last one, TBHHHH this was basically a self insert cause I can’t swim for shit but I hope y’all liked it, happy Wednesday!!!

I forgot who wanted to be tagged ngl

Taglist: @hjvi @theyluvivi @sturniolosrtewsexy

[wendichester]

I absolutely love your work! Could I request something where the reader is not the most active person, like... She doesn't like running, she's not fit, she's terrible at fighting. She maybe does research, but that's all. But she's good at picking clothes, she always makes sure Sam and Dean look professional/appropriate to what they'll be doing. And she makes absolutely AMAZING apple pie, and she cooks, and all - just helps "passively", not "actively". So one day she decides that "alright, that's enough, I'm only causing trouble" and leaves - and at first the boys don't care, since she "wasn't too useful" - but after like a week or two they notice that they miss the apple pie, they miss someone who could help them with looking better, especially Sam, who realizes how deep in love with her he is? And maybe she comes back?

I'm sorry if it's too specific, or too much details, or anything😅😅

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ all the little things,

summary. when you start to think just how replaceable you are, sam shows you exactly otherwise

pairing. sam winchester x reader ft. dean winchester

wordcount. 681

notes. honestly, this is just a heartwarming idea! thank you for requesting lovely 🩷

The motel room is quiet when you slip out.

Your bag is packed, everything neat and folded because, well—of course it is. You aren’t a mess. You don’t do things hastily or without thinking. But you’ve thought about this—leaving—long and hard, and the conclusion is always the same.

You aren’t useful.

Sure, you help. You make sure Dean’s FBI suit isn’t wrinkled and that Sam has something other than plaid to wear when interviewing victims. You keep the bunker stocked, and you make damn good apple pie.

But you can’t run. You can’t fight. You can barely hold a gun without it shaking in your hands.

And you’re tired of feeling like dead weight.

So you leave.

No note, no big speech—just a quiet exit in the middle of the night, the way you’re sure they’ll forget you.

Because you? You’re replaceable.

Right?

At first, the boys don’t notice.

They wake up, see that your things are gone, and shrug it off. Maybe you got tired of the life. Maybe you found something better.

They don’t talk about it.

They just move on.

Then things start feeling off.

Not all at once—just little things.

Like how Dean’s shirts are suddenly wrinkled as hell, and his ties are never quite right. Or how Sam keeps losing his laptop charger because you’re not there to remind him to bring it.

And the food? Absolute garbage.

Dean burns everything. Sam tries to cook and nearly poisons them both. They eat diner food three times a day, and after two weeks, Dean stares blankly at the menu and mutters, “God, I miss pie.”

Sam’s fork pauses mid-air.

It’s the first time either of them has said it out loud.

Dean catches himself, scowls, and shoves a bite of pancakes into his mouth. But the damage is done.

They do miss you.

The bunker feels wrong without you.

Your room is empty, hollow in a way Sam can’t stand. He stops by more often than he wants to admit, staring at the bed like it might hold answers, like it might tell him why you left without a word.

At first, he assumed it didn’t matter. But now—now it’s everywhere.

It’s in the little things.

Like how there’s no warm light from the kitchen in the morning, no soft hum of music while you bake. No one teasing Dean about his terrible diet or fixing Sam’s collar before an interview.

No one who makes them feel like they have a home.

It takes Sam longer than he’d like to admit to realize what it means.

He doesn’t just miss you.

He loves you.

And he needs you back.

Finding you takes time.

Sam spends hours searching, fingers flying over the keyboard until—finally—he gets a hit.

Dean doesn’t argue when Sam says, “Let’s go.”

Because he misses you too.

You stare at them when they show up at your new apartment.

“...What are you doing here?”

Sam takes a slow breath. “We need to talk.”

You cross your arms, trying to hold your ground. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Dean scoffs. “Bullshit.”

Sam shoots him a look, then turns back to you, softer. “We didn’t realize how much we needed you,” he admits. “Not just for the small stuff—for everything.”

You blink, and Sam steps closer, voice steady.

“You make us better. You make us feel like we’re more than just hunters. More than just the job.”

You swallow hard. “I—I thought I was just in the way.”

Sam shakes his head. “You were never in the way.”

Dean chimes in. “Look, we’re idiots, okay? We should’ve said something when you left.” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “But the truth is—we suck without you.”

Your throat tightens.

Then Sam says, quietly—earnestly,

“I love you.”

Your breath catches.

Dean smirks. “Took him long enough to admit it.”

Sam rolls his eyes but doesn’t look away from you. His hand finds yours, warm and solid.

“So,” he says. “Come home?”

You hesitate—only for a second.

Then you nod.

And just like that, everything is right again.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

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[randomness-is-my-order]

the myth of helplessness and the “hands-tied” rhetoric for authority figures in mdzs

i’m pretty sure every one of us has seen this notion echoed around for atleast one of the clan/sect leaders when it came to their compliance and/or active participation in the wen remnants’ genocide as well as their prior lack of help/refuge for the wen remnants once wei wuxian had rescued them. while this goes beyond just the way the cultivation world’s leaders handled the aftermath of the sunshot campaign (namely, their lackadaisical approach to helping civilians, exploiting those weaker than them, etc.), i’ll start with the genocide because that’s the crux of it all. that’s the nail in the coffin, that’s the biggest proof of why i feel so fucking angry whenever i see this sentiment of excusing/justifying/or even explaining why the sect leaders did what they did.

and like most skewed interpretations of mdzs (and i don’t mean this in a haughty superior way of only MY way of reading the text being THE right way but i feel like this is something we all have noticed after traversing the fandom waters for a while), this too begins with jiang cheng.

now, let me clear: jiang cheng, in full sobriety and clarity of thought, led the siege of the burial mounds to kill a group of innocent people, which included elderly women and men and a child. you would think this should be obvious but i’ll retierate: NOTHING justifies this, nothing excuses this. the same applies to every single sect leader and sect affiliated member who went for the siege that day and participated in the killings, whether directly or indirectly. this isn’t a nuanced situation and i personally feel that a discussion that begins with the premise of muddying the culpability of the people involved in the genocide shouldn’t even be entertained because the reasons do not matter. they just don’t. it doesn’t matter that nie mingjue’s personal philosophy stemming from his upbringing and loss gave him a narrowminded view of the “wen-dogs”. it doesn’t matter that jiang cheng was sunken in grief and rage after losing his sister. it doesn’t matter that the lans were convinced of wei wuxian’s deviousness and found it paramount to put an end to him and his affialites. it doesn’t matter that some were operating on half the information because when you march into the temporary residence of your supposed foes and kill them all in cold-blood despite them being unarmed and untrained—the weight of ensuring that your violence has a meaning, a justification is on YOU! if you’re committing this act, you have to make sure you aren’t being led blindly by manipulating rumors and ideals.

even before the genocide, before the nightless city massacre, before the qiongqi path ambush—the way i’ve seen handwaving of jiang cheng’s mindset regarding the wens is a little baffling. “he had the burden of being a sect leader” “he had to protect his clan, his hands were tied!” jiang cheng wielding power and authority are often repackaged as baggage that his poor self is so tragically saddled with. it genuinely puzzles the shit out of me. have we all forgotten about “with great power comes great responsibility”?? jiang cheng’s responsibility as a cultivation sect leader goes beyond just the immediate thought about his sect and towards the cultivation world as a whole and how injustice was taking place by a fellow prominent clan. we know this is extremely important because the whole reason the sunshot campaign happened and why it came down to a war was because of prior negligence by the clans towards the congregation of power by the wens. to recognise the same methods now being employed by the jins was, infact, part of jiang cheng’s responsibility. just saving your own neck doesn’t work, when the larger picture is considered. besides, giving the wens the backing of the jiang clan would NOT have brought down instant doom upon the jiangs. that was the whole point. that was why jin guangshan felt it necessary to put ideas into his head and lead him to a path of hostility towards wei wuxian (which is still a choice jiang cheng made, mind).

also, while we’re at it, you’re telling me that the jiang clan rebuilt in part due to wei wuxian’s insane gravitational pull towards aspiring cultivators, would NOT have stood behind wei wuxian if jiang cheng had only tried? hell, i would go far as to say that some jiang disciples would have WANTED to join wei wuxian’s side. there was risk. there would be trouble. but that doesn’t mean jiang cheng had no option. the path of least resistance leads the crooked men, does it not? besides, being a leader is not about tucking tail and keeping your head down. it’s about making the difficult choices and yes, for jc, in this scenario, refusing to help the wens and wei wuxian was the easy choice.

also this whole myth about the sect leaders not being able to do anything because their clans would become targets is sort of antithetical to the whole premise of them being sect leaders in the first place. they’re the only ones who can do something with comparatively less risk to their person and those they’re “protecting” because they have the power of organisation. if the holders of authority cannot make decisive lines in the sand and push for change and resist, who can? the disciples or civilians would have an easier time opposing the clans individually or in groups, you think? they would have less to lose? (we already have an example in the form of mianmian; the waves had to be made from the top in this time-sensitive situation).

these fanon tropes originate from somewhere i know. it’s interesting to think of how these authority figures perceive their power as burdens, how the prince doesn’t want to become king but is forced into the role, how inheritances, even the ones that favour you, can feel like shackles around your neck.

but this kind of sympathetic view of the antagonists and the wrong-doers in mdzs leaves a bitter taste in my mouth because time and again, we have been shown how these sect leaders are blissfully happy to reap the fruits of their inherited power and generational wealth and are the ones most protected by the system. jiang cheng was perfectly fine being the sect leader by default and his grievance was moreso that wei wuxian wasn’t around to be his subordinate. the less that is said about jin guangshan the better. even lan xichen’s troubles didn’t come from him holding power but from his prolonged semi-wilful ignorance regarding jin guangyao. nie mingjue, while alive, used his influence to make his voice heard and condemned the wens because that was his unshakeable opinion on the matter.

now, this isn’t to say all the sect leaders were the same brand of callous and incompetent. yes, they had their problems. yes, their positions didn’t automatically make them immune to harm. but they were not the poor little burdened leaders with “pragmatic” point of views, trying to keep their boats afloat.

the ones with their hands tied were these: the lower classes in the pyramid. the ones who relied on the clans for shelter and food. the civilians whose requests for help were denied by the cultivation sects. the wen remnants who couldn’t do anything to save themselves. wen qing and wen ning. wei wuxian, whose every avenue of help was closed. mianmian. and even, imo, lan wangji.

there’s another similar notion towards wei wuxian that because he was a subordinate and because he has lesser social standing, he had more “freedom”. what ass-backwards logic is this, to be honest? when has having lesser social status, political power and monetary resources given a person more freedom? more freedom would mean that wei wuxian could do anything he wanted and go unquestioned. more freedom would mean that he would be able to practice the ghostly path without every second person accusing him of demonic activities. you know who had more freedom? the nie sect! their resentful energy dabbling went unquestioned because they had more freedom, they were protected by the reputation and might of their clan. nie mingjue’s hypocritical stance went unquestioned because he had freedom, precisely because he had more power. wei wuxian having a big personality, being flirtatious and not being a picture-perfect version of properness (he had good manners regardless) is not having more freedom. if he had that personality and no one accused him of being arrogant and if it wasn’t used against him as means to sully his reputation, then yes, that would be true freedom. this last part is probably redundant but hope the point of it was relayed. just because wei wuxian’s able to authentically be himself despite the backlash he receives for it does not make his social standing somehow a more advantageous position to be in compared to the literal leaders of the cultivation world.

in conclusion, the sect leaders did not have their hands tied by some inherent circumstance, their thrones of power were not ill-begotten curses they were trying to escape from but all the tying was done by them and their ropes which they gleefully tied around the necks of the wens to silence them forever. and if that sentence makes you uncomfortable, great. because that’s the reality of what these people did.

[clairerosetarot]

PICK A PIC: Your Future Spouses Favorite Part/Feature of You 18+ 💦

Hey guysss this was the most requested reading in my inbox, so here y’all go! :)) Also I forgot to add the cards I pulled and I forgot what they were after writing lmao pls bear wit me y’all. Anyways remember if it doesn’t apply let it fly 🪽 as this is a general and not personal reading.

Pile 1 🍒 Your future spouse is drawn to your confident and radiant energy! They love the way you carry yourself—there's something magnetic about your presence. The card reveals that they adore your sensuality and the way you move with grace. 💃💫 It’s your inner charm and the way you make them feel alive that is irresistible. They’ll always be enchanted by your vibe. Maybe you aren’t like this ow but trust- you will be when you become their wife🫣😂 🥺

You have what i’m hearing is like a celebrity vibe, and they can’t believe you- their so called celebrity crush😂 is giving them all this attention. When they imagine you, they can’t help but picture the feeling of your body against theirs—your hips swaying with confidence as you move towards them, the delicate touch of your fingertips tracing over their skin. ( they also love to watch you ride🎠🐎🤭) Every move you make, every flick of your hair, only adds to the overwhelming pull they feel. They love how every glance from you makes them feel like they’re the only one in the room, and they can’t stop thinking about the chemistry between you two. There’s no denying it: your presence is magnetic, and they can’t get enough of how effortlessly you captivate them. The way you make them feel so alive with just your presence leaves them hungering for more, always ready to experience the electric connection between you two, again and again. 💋🔥

Pile 2 🍉 In this pile, the card hints that your future spouse is captivated by your playful spirit. They love your smile and the way you laugh, which lights up any room. 😏😊 It's the little moments, like the twinkle in your eyes or the way you tease them with a wink. Your playful energy is something they find truly irresistible, keeping them coming back for more.

Your future spouse is absolutely entranced by the playful, yet deeply seductive energy you bring. There’s something about the way you smile, the way your lips curl into that flirty expression, that sends a rush of desire through them. 🤤 It’s not just your physical beauty that they adore, but the way you tease them with your playful energy, making every moment feel charged with sexual tension. I’m getting that this pile’s dynamic is very grumpy x sunshine were they are more stoic and reserved and you are this lovely ball of of sunshine awww. 🌈🥰 Your smile, your laugh, the way you make everything feel lighthearted and fun, drives them wild because they know there’s a much deeper, more passionate side to you that they can’t wait to experience. It’s almost like you’re a puzzle to them—beautiful, mysterious, and always keeping them wanting more. The way you catch their eye and hold that gaze, that slight smirk on your face, it’s like you’re daring them to take things further. And they just might take the bait everytime 🤭.

Pile 3 🍓 Here, the cards show they’re entranced by your touch. Whether it’s a soft caress or a lingering hand, your future spouse loves how you make them feel with even the smallest physical gestures. 🫶💋 They can’t get enough of your affection and feel completely connected when you touch them. It’s a bond that feels intimate, electric, and oh so sensual.

You trace along their body, exploring, teasing, and sending their senses into overdrive, leaves them yearning for more. They love the warmth of your skin against theirs, the way your bodies connect and create sparks with every touch. The intensity of your touch speaks volumes to them, making them feel things they’ve never felt before, as if you’re unlocking a new layer of desire that they didn’t even know existed. The simple act of your hands on their body drives them wild, and they can’t wait to feel that connection every time you’re close. They fantasize about feeling you trace your hands over them, each touch sending shivers down their spine and igniting a passion that only you can stir. Your touch makes them feel like they belong to you, that the bond between you two is deeper and more intimate than anything they’ve ever known. ❤️‍🔥🥺

They think about how your touch makes them feel so alive, how you can communicate everything without saying a word. Your hands on their body have the power to make them feel things they’ve never felt before, and they can’t wait to be touched by you again. They love the way you know just how to touch them, whether it’s with a light, teasing caress or a more possessive grip that leaves them breathless. Your touch brings them closer to you, and with every moment, they crave the feeling of your hands all over them, and theirs all over you. P.S. I’m also getting that they love your hair, maybe you have a lot, and it’s really curly and big or you just take good care of it with a luxurious routine, whatever it is - its got them hooked. 😂

Pile 4 🍰 In this pile, the cards reveals your future spouse’s deep admiration for your lips. They’re completely entranced by the way your lips move when you speak or smile, and they often find themselves daydreaming about your kisses. 😘💋 Whether it’s a gentle peck or a passionate embrace, or even more 😏 your lips are their favorite feature—an irresistible invitation they can’t resist.

Your future spouse is utterly captivated by your lips. There’s something so magnetic about the way your lips move, the way they curve into that smile or part slightly when you speak. Every time they look at your lips, they feel an overwhelming urge to kiss you, to feel the softness of your lips against theirs. They fantasize about your kisses—how they start slow and tender, exploring, before escalating into something deeper, more urgent. I’m also getting that after a long day at work all they can think about is you using those lips to get them off🫣🍭. The feeling of your lips on theirs is something they can’t get enough of, each kiss sending waves of desire through their entire body. Can somebody say oral fixation?!?! LOL.

[bunni-v1]

May I ask your advice on something? I want to make a cookie that will be loved by shadow milk and I toss and turn the idea in my head thinking about his loneliness, but his arrogance in assuming most cookies aren’t worthy of his time makes it difficult. It leads me to building the cookie to be bigger and more powerful/elaborate than him so he immediately recognizes it, but that’s unsatisfying for me. I’d like them to be ordinary, clever of course, observant, and quick witted to not only keep up with shadow milk, but to even outpace him at times in a verbal sparring match. But most ordinary cookies don’t really fit the bill. They usually either worship or fear him depending on personality and self awareness. Both are good and what he needs/uses, but you can’t really be friends with a tool. Makes it hard to think of an ordinary cookie that might have caught his attention. I liked your analysis of what getting close to him pre corruption was and he’s a more viable candidate, but even he on some level looks down upon ordinary cookies that know less and don’t live as long. Namuwiki and regular wiki categorize his corruption as both an obsession with his own power as well as loneliness in a truth that broke him. I think the truth that did so or that at least planted the seed of corruption was: that cookies/people don’t care about the truth. He states as much so many times to pure vanilla to weaken his resolve, his dedication to truth. How cookies willingly/happily turn from the bitter truth to embrace a sweet lie. How cookies were more interested in listening to him speak than what he was really saying. It’s a one two punch realizing the cookies around you don’t really care about the thing that makes you you. And if they do it may only be for selfish gain, not for knowledge in itself. And the real rub is the reason they don’t care is often times due to some form of ignorance or stupidity. I mentioned this to a friend irl and she said,”oh he got bullied before he got corrupted. 💯” Which made me think of the cookies before his fall, who maybe took for granted that 1. The font of knowledge even exists and 2.That he would willingly and happily answer their questions truthfully forever and 3. Would never lose his patience. Because how much do you want to bet that the illusion from the sugar free road he taunted pure vanilla with, the woman yelling at him saying “tell us where to seek healing! Tell us how to be healthy to live in wealth and happiness! Use your power! Share your power with us! Do it if you truly care!” Were words from a cookie in shadow milks past? How many refused to seek the truth themselves, wishing no demanding he provide it for them. And criticizing him if/when he either refuses or lies, like bratty children. “Nothing but empty promises. All a lie.” Give them! Cookies who were so ignorant and stupid wanting to take away the thing that makes him him. Because that’s all he is isn’t he? His power his soul jam. Neither he nor anyone else it seems has seen him beyond his abilities. To who he is as a cookie.

Which is just another layer to his isolation, but all of which to say. Maybe the ordinary cookie who just happens to be curious, innovative, and above all patient and kind is his only balm against such words. And maybe that cookie crumbles under the weight of their deceit. Maybe that helps crumble his resolve. After all the main thing hes running from, the big lie he tells himself is that nothing bad ever happens to him. Because how could it? He’s a god, he’s all knowing, but not all powerful. Thoughts?

I think Shadow Milk's fall is the most interesting, because it could quite honestly be either he fell first or last. I'm a bigger fan of the him falling last theory, because it's very interesting to see how he would react to his friends becoming beasts and realizing he too will shortly.

With the new costume's story we can get a better look into him, and he's a lot like PV. Patient, kind, gentle, intelligent, and more than willing to share his knowledge with cookies. With such knowledge, he is very separate from other cookies. He knows and understands things that other cookies could never dream of.

That much knowledge will weigh on your being, even if you are a god. Especially if it's all you're supposed to be, a fount of knowledge for cookies. I think he does enjoy sharing his knowledge and the truths of the world. He cares for his cookies. How could he not? they are innocent and freshly baked, full of fear and confusion. His knowledge is meant to soothe them.

But, cookies fear what they do not understand. When they start asking harder questions, and he gives them the truthful answer, they don't like it. They lash out and deny the truth, and he realizes they would rather live in a lie than bear the truth. The fact that, even if it's unintentional, the very cookies he loves and cherishes are rejecting him... well, it would devastate anyone.

Shadow Milk Cookie became a beast because he was rejected by his people. He became the embodiment of lies to become what they wanted, rejecting the truth to show them the error of their ways. This is what they wanted, right?

I think that's why he needs a partner who challenges him. They can't just accept everything he does as okay. He doesn't want or need someone who just sits there and affirms him like his minions. His partner needs a backbone and a strong moral compass, the confidence to look at him and say, "Absolutely not."

They also need to have the awareness that he is the master of lies. They need to be able to see through his lies and illusions by themselves because he can't hold their hand all the time. He has this deep aching need to be seen, though he doesn't acknowledge those feelings. They have to be able to crack his shell by themselves and show that they care, and only then will he open up to them.

It's certainly not an easy feat for a normal cookie, but if Ginger Brave and co. can do it, I'm sure his partner can also do it. It takes a special cookie to get the master of deceit tripping over himself, after all.

[notsoterriblymisanthropic]

Titles like Baudrillard’s Simulacra and Simulation or Debord’s Society of the Spectacle or Marx’s Capital are often called prophetic in their descriptions of the dynamics of the internet age, and justifiably so, but what’s often lost is the fact that these authors were also perfectly describing their own times, not just predicting ours. The indignities of the conditions in which we live may be getting more visible and in some senses more extreme, but they aren’t new, and to make a fetish of their supposed newness or exceptionalism only serves to render them unsolvable (or as solvable only by returning to a romanticized Before Times — a genre of solution presented just as often by liberal culture writers as it is by Donald Trump). I think we all would do well to get off of TikTok, but the purpose of a system is what it does, and so it’s also worth mentioning that phones are not an aberrant tumor that can be neatly excised while leaving the rest of the system intact; they’re just the newest and most visible manifestation of a deep, old sickness. If the Atlantic columnists were to snap their fingers and get rid of all this technology tomorrow, we’d still be a consumer population that values the cutting of costs, the maximization of profit, the alienation of human labour from value, the commodification of all being into pure product, the supremacy of the market. With those principles as our guide, we’d find our way back to iPhones and AI eventually.

Rayne Fisher-Quann, Machine Yearning

[theeldritchdarling]

How this stuff works for my AU:

1. Gods aren’t real and most religions don’t have “gods”; worship around spirits and prayer to energies (animism mixed with paganism and Shintoism)

2. This one I have to think about. There are structural and cultural structures that determine the types of jobs a person does depending on genders. But the Accursed are probably just banned from most, if not all, jobs. Outside of working for private groups such as the Conventry. But even they will segregate jobs. (Most Accursed do clerical or trans scribing jobs than actual medical training or work)

3. Power and control. The loss of humanity means that most of their understanding and history isn’t the history for Areians. The Coventry of Qirque maintains this secrecy by forcing all participants to abandon their outside connections and dedicate themselves fully to the Coventry. The Coventry also offers and guarantees work for the Accursed who seek shelter from them. Creating an ever-producing workforce loyal to them and their cause.

3. This is actually funny. My story happens at a time that mass migration/immigration and trade has been made possible. (End of an ice age) It’s created serious political instability and questioning of how open some communities wish to be to foreign trade. (Issues of taxes and local businesses)

Some of the biggest fantasy worldbuilding fails that I see, in no particular order

Gods without religion. The Gods are real and a known historical fact, but virtually nobody is religious.

Cultural racism/discrimination without structural racism/discrimination. Discrimination that exists only in microagressions or mean comments, without existing in any sort of structural way.

Secret history with no clear reason for it to be secret and no clear method for maintaining that secrecy. Major parts of the world's history are kept entirely secret, even though there's not an obvious reason to do so and even when history has shown this is virtually impossible to enforce (especially in a world with any movement or communication across borders).

Large, homogeneous countries. Even without immigration, virtually no country larger than the Vatican will be fully homogeneous in terms of culture, dialect, beliefs, traditions, etc., much less a large one with limited communication technology as is often seen in fantasy. The Planet of Hats problem.

[marsian-tango]

yandere older cowboy x boss's daughter who is an innocent country girl and barely knows that the person she trusts most is the one she should fear most

Yandere Cowboy

Living in a bubble of sunshines and rainbows is the best! People make it sound as if living unaware of how the real world is was a bad thing, but it’s not.

Your life is perfect, it’s always been that way. You were born in a caring family, living amongst cute animals, being surrounded by the sweetest townsfolk.

In fact, you don’t even remember having a single bad day!

You love your life. You love helping around the farm. You love staying on the farm. Why would you ever want to leave? Your whole life is here!

And even if you had the strange desire to leave, you could never live with the guilt of being away from your family—their hearts ache with the mere thought of you leaving them!

Your saccharine smiles, your adorable personality, your incandescent kindness. They need to look out for you! You’re far too pure to be able to take care of yourself. The rotten people of this world are looking to sink their teeth on your untainted skin.

But don’t fret! As long as you stay on this farm and remain in your parents’ sight, everything will be as perfect as always.

But will these walls they’ve built be enough to keep you away from the monsters’ harm, when one of those monsters is within these very walls himself?

As delicate as a flower and as bubbly as hot apple cider.

That’s how you were often described.

You always do your chores without complaining, you respect your elders, you help whoever is in need, and you are kind to everybody—no matter what. That’s what you were taught, how you were raised.

You aren’t one to cause trouble, you rather avoid conflict at all cost—but it’s not like you ever had a chance to be rebellious either. You always stick to your parents, like when you visit the nearby town, or even when you try to sell some of your own harvest on your little stand at the agricultural fair. You were never allowed to get too close to people, it’s been that way ever since you were in elementary school—where you didn’t have friends like other kids did, you just had acquaintances.

And although you have the most fun when you spend time with your animal friends at your heavenly farm, you can’t help but want a little more.

“Y/N, get here, sweetie!”

You yelp at the thunderous voice of your mom resonating outside the house.

You take off your oven mittens and set them on the counter, heading to the door and stepping out. Your boots slide across the dirt with a bouncy pace, walking past your little garden—where you have the liberty to plant whatever you want, since you aren’t allowed to do it near the crops.

“What is it, momma?” You smile at her, waiting for her directions with your hands behind your back. You don’t really help around the farm unless your parents specifically tell you to. If they don’t give you the precise instructions of what to do, then you just…keep to yourself. You’ve lived on this farm your whole life, and you’re pretty grown now, but you still don’t trust yourself fully with these things.

“Your daddy’s fixin’ the tractor, the Fletchers took Luisa to the vet, and I need to change the water heater,” She explains quickly, carrying a rag in one hand and a tool box on the other. “So that only leaves you to feed the hungry beasts.”

“Alright, momma.” You nod briefly, as you both start to walk, heading to opposite directions. “Oh! I left a pie in the oven, could you take it out for me?”

“Sure, sweetie!” She shouts before entering the house.

You love spending time with the animals of the farm. They’re always there for you, the cows always let you hug them and nuzzle them—even if it gets kinda annoying after a while; the sheep cuddle with you on the barn on the afternoons when you got nothing else to do; and the chickens are like feathered puppies that you can pet whenever you want. They’re your truest friends!

People tend to think that living in a secluded farm is ‘lonely’ and ‘depressing’, but, boy, are they wrong! You don’t only got your cattle and herd to keep you company, the workers that come to help from time to time are quite friendly too.

And, sure. Your parents don’t exactly approve of you spending time with them, but how can you avoid them when they’re the ones who purposefully seek you out?

Like right now.

“Whatcha doin’, sugar?”

Your breath hitches in anticipation as you recognise the familiar presence, making you halt in your actions. Now—with the trough filled with food for the sheep—you set your bucket down and turn to greet the newfound company.

“Elliot!” You beam with joy, practically throwing yourself at him and wrapping your arms around his neck—standing on your tiptoes to get to his level.

Elliot. Your Elliot. Oh, how empty would your life be without him.

Elliot Halls. Your dear neighbor. The one man that your dad trusts the most. He’s your parents’ business partner, always helping around the farm, whether it's with the management stuff, or the manual one. 

You didn’t really interact with him much until up to two years ago. You were always so busy with school and house chores, and when you finished school, you finally had time to…socialize a bit.

And now you two are basically best friends! He’s the only person that your parents fully trust you around, and—although you love spending time with the animals—you think he might be your favorite person ever!

He’s just so fun, and sweet—and he doesn’t mind hearing you ramble about your interests, or the little things that you find charming, like sunsets or lilies; he lends you a hand when you work, no matter what it is, or if you can do it on your own; he gives you tips for your garden; he brings you stuff you like from when he stops by in town.

“Momma told me to feed the animals, the woolly cuties were the last ones on the list.” You untangle your arms from his neck and take a step back, but he keeps you close to him with a hand on your back. “You usually rest on Thursdays, why are you here?” You tilt your head in confusion.

Elliot grins softly, gently caressing your back over the fabric of your pink overalls. He relishes the sight of you. Your slightly disheveled hair, your favorite overalls—with different embroideries scattered all over it, your smile wrinkles, and that scent—the scent that haunts him in his dreams. The scent that he hopes to find wherever he goes. The scent that clings to your skin.

Cinnamon, carnations, and innocence.

“I heard the tractor needs some fixin’, thought I could stop by and lend a hand.” He explains calmly.

Yeah, cause he totally didn’t come to the farm just to see you, and he totally hasn't been following you around ever since you cooked that apple pie this morning. He would never do such a thing.

Did anybody tell him that the tractor broke down? No. Did he hear your mother mention it while he was watching you? Maybe.

“Oh, but daddy can handle it just fine! Wontcha stay with me instead?” You plead hopefully. “We can go to the lake, or take a stroll. Please!” You knew he had responsibilities. Being the most trusted helper of the farm meant that there were certain things that my parents only trusted him to do, but you just have so much fun when you’re with him!

He gives you a tense smile, trying not to frown in frustration at his own choice. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I should really help your daddy out,” He needed to keep the professional act a bit, stay in your parents’ good graces. If he doesn’t, your parents might not allow you to be around him as much as you do. “But we can do whatever you want after, you just have to be patient.”

You sigh, nodding your head in defeat. Elliot bites his lip, trying to control the cuteness aggression that he gets from looking at you. He wraps his arms around your waist, and you let him, resting your head against his broad chest. You’ve never said no to a warm cuddle from Elliot after all.

While you remain absentmindedly, Elliot feels like he’s about to snap.

You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?

He’s losing his mind, he doesn’t know if he can take much more of…this. He’s the only one that can have precious, little you trapped in his arms like this. So close he can smell your shampoo. So close he can feel your heartbeat. So close he could just…not let you go.

He needs you. He needs to have you. He needs to prevent anyone from getting to you first. He needs to protect your innocence…and keep it for himself.

But he has to be patient, to play his cards right.

And one day…he’ll get to you. Really get to you. Your parents won’t even get to notice before he snatches you from them. Because unlike the poor bastards that want to jump over the walls that your parents have built and get a piece of your delicate flesh, he doesn’t need to intrude.

He’s already inside.

“Try startin’ it now, boss!”

Your dad frowns, Elliot’s said that twice in the past hour. He doesn’t doubt Elliot’s capacities, but after so many failed tries, he’s starting to lose hope on the old tractor.

He shrugs his shoulders with resignation before starting the engine, expecting the same dead silence that he heard all the previous times.

To the men’s surprise, it lets out a whirring sound before finally starting, making both men cheer in pride.

“Bout’ damn time!” Elliot sighs in relief, cleaning his oily hands with a rag.

Your dad smiles softly, patting Elliot’s back as he passes by. He walks towards the tool scattered table, grabbing two beers from the red cooler, and sitting down on a square bale.

He tosses Elliot one of the cans. “You’re a good kid, Halls.” He opens the can and takes a swig. “There aren’t many boys like you nowadays. Boys who help, who respect, who don’t overstep…” He says solemnly with a blank stare, seemingly lost in thought.

Elliot stiffens, but plays it off by taking a cautious sip from the cold beer. He offers his boss a dismissive grin, feigning modesty. “Oh, please, sir. There are other boys who help ‘round the farm too, there's Davis; Thompson; those Fletcher boys—who are a bit troublesome, not gon’ lie, but—”

“You wanna know what they all got in common?” Elliot feels the air in the barn shift, it feels colder, heavy. Now he really gets what ‘walking on thin ice’ means. He bites the inside of his cheek, suddenly hyper aware of the trouble he could be in if he makes a wrong move.

He keeps his gaze steady on his boss and listens.

“They’re vultures.”

Elliot gulps.

“Everytime I turn ‘round they’re there, circling my daughter. Tryin’ to coax her, to lure her, to trick her—and it’s not her fault that she doesn’t notice. How could it be? She doesn’t know what those boys wanna take from her, what they would do to a girl like her...”

Elliot’s jaw clenches at the notion of some boy trying to get their hands on you, taking advantage of your kind heart, consuming you whole—instead of protecting you, taking you away from him. His grip on the can tightens as he takes a confident sip this time.

The older man takes another swig before speaking. “But…I trust you.”

Your dad looks at Elliot, his gaze unwavering, not a trace of doubt in his eyes. “So, while me and the Mrs aren’t ‘round, I want you to take care of my lil’ girl. I want you to keep those vultures in check. I want you to never let her outta your sight, ever.” 

Your dad and Elliot share many things in common, they’re both hardworking country men; they know how hard it is to maintain a farm; they don’t like relying on other people; and they cannot bear the thought of anything bad coming your way. Just the thought of someone hurting you makes them see red. They would do anything to keep you safe, because they know that this world is just too corrupt for your precious self to roam unprotected.

You’ve lived in a shielded bubble of love and untainted sweetness your whole life, and now there are dirty beasts ready to strike, looking to ravish your succulent purity until there’s nothing left.

They can’t allow that. They’ll fight tooth and nail against those parasites, leaving no trace of the dirty vermin, till your bubble gleams and glistens with only your innocent shine.

Elliot holds his gaze, just as intensely. “I understand, sir,” He says with determination. “I’ll never let anything happen to Y/N, I swear on my life.”

The man gives an approving nod, seemingly more at ease now, with a calmer demeanor. “I gotta say, your folks raised you well. Cause you’re no boy, Halls,” Elliot raises an eyebrow in curiosity, urging him to continue.

“You’re a man.”

You could never get tired of afternoons like this.

Walking alongside Elliot as the sun sets in the distance, letting the gentle breeze cool you both, watching the clouds drift away slowly in the sky, chatting about anything and everything. Truly enjoying each other’s presence.

To you, it’s the best way to finish yet another good day.

To Elliot, it’s just like all the other moments he spends with you. Heavenly.

“What?!” The shock that overtakes you almost makes you stop in your tracks. Your eyebrows raise in astonishment, your mouth is agape. You are the spitting image of the word ‘flabbergasted’.

“I’m just sayin’,” He shrugs. “Black licorice isn’t as bad as people say it is.” He repeats with an amused smile, taking in your surprised expression as he keeps walking.

“You have the taste of an old man!” You grimace in disgust, as if the taste itself had settled on your tongue from the mere mention of it.

Elliot laughs, ruffling your hair playfully, which only earns an annoyed grumble from you.

“And you got too much of a sweet tooth, sugar, but you don’t hear me complainin’.” He refutes.

His self control is wearing thin, but he needs to get a hold of himself. He can’t screw this up, he’s gotten so far already!

But you’re so cute. Ugh! Do you seriously don’t know what you’re doing to him?!

You two keep walking through the meadow without a care in the world. You enjoy walking around this part of the farm, it’s quieter, intimate. It’s just you and Elliot. No chores to do, no work to keep you busy, just…peace.

Ahead of you, you can see your house, it looks like a mere speck of color from where you’re standing, but it’s still recognizable. The last time you were in the house today was when you were making your pie, before your mom called you. You appreciate the present distance keeping you away from the residence, you’re not really eager to get back just yet, you want to spend some more time with Elliot.

If only you knew that he felt the same way, just a thousand times more.

“Say, sweetheart…” Elliot begins, breaking the comfortable silence that enveloped you both. “You trust me, right?” He makes sure to say it in a nonchalant manner, masking his real emotions the same way he always does when they get too intense.

You perk up at the unexpected inquiry, slowing your pace until you stop altogether, standing in front of him. You tilt your head at him incredulously.

“Of course I do, Elliot, you’re my best friend!” You take his hand in yours, squeezing it reassuringly. You look up at him with a soft gaze. “How could you even doubt that?” You’re confused. Where did this come from? Why would he ask such a question out of the blue? Does he really doubt how important this friendship is to you?

Elliot has to bite down his lower lip to prevent himself from smirking at your naive charm. He squeezes your hand back, drawing small circles with the pad of his thumb.

His eyes are locked on you, and he’s mesmerized.

The orange glow of the sunset reflects on your skin. Your eyes shine with tender care—care for him. The gentle hold of his hand on yours sends a shiver down his spine.

“Then…promise me,” His voice is sultry, vulnerable, almost begging. “Promise me that you’ll never leave me. No matter who comes into your life. Promise that you’ll stay with me no matter what.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. You just stare at each other, each of you saying a different thing through your eyes. Your gaze remains soft, while his turns dark.

This may seem like no big deal to you, but to Elliot…this is an oath.

He’s already made his own.

He will never let you go. He’ll make sure those boys never get to you. He’ll protect your bubble and never let anything ruin your perfect life. He’ll make you happy, even when he takes you away from your parents. He’ll stay by your side till your old and gray—scratch that. He’ll stay with you till you guys stop breathing, then he’ll chase you up to heaven, and then he’ll be with you for the rest of eternity.

This promise isn’t just words, it isn’t something that you can just break and then carry on with your life.

He can have you either way, he doesn’t need you to promise him this to snatch you away from your life and keep you with him forever.

But he wants you to love him, and to do that he needs you willingly bound to him.

You let the silence hang in the air before speaking, smiling warmly.

“I promise, Elliot.”

Hello, everybody!!! It took me a while, but at last it's here. It was kinda difficult to come up with something for this request, and it's not very long (I'm sorry about that), and it's also kinda cringe. Because, although I received some help with the whole cowboy stuff (thank you, @hysterucall and @0uch1e), it felt kinda wrong to write the dialogues without being a cowboy myself 😣. Either way, I hope that whoever requested this likes it. Let me know if you see any mistakes, and don't be afraid to make another request.

Kisses <3

[frownyalfred]

I remember you made a post a long while back about how both Gordon and Perry know but don't know, about Bruce and Clark being The Bat and Superman

Do you think there's anyone else like that in Gotham or Smallville? Just a random person who has met them out if the suit and something happens that makes it just click in their head like "oh"

But they also know the masks are important so keep quiet. But they're always the first to defend Brucie online, or read every article written by one C. Kent

I’m sure there’s a bunch of people who have a few puzzle pieces each, but rarely ALL of the pieces they need to put it all together. People who might notice something odd with Bruce Wayne or Clark Kent, who might have assumptions or ideas of what those pieces mean, but who aren’t necessarily motivated to put it all together. Most people don’t want to ask questions they don’t want to know the answer to. Sometimes wondering in the safety of your own mind is even too much. Sometimes it’s better to move on and file that odd moment away for later consideration.

Those who DO know — I always have this theory that they either accept it with a worrying amount of loyalty and/or obsession, or the knowledge actually drives them a little bit crazy. Especially in Gotham. Both are extremes.

[gatorbites-imagines]

I’m SO in love with your Dick x Wally x male Thanagarian reader HCs! I’ve read through them multiple times, and they’re stuck in my head 🥰🥰💖💖💖

I wasn’t the one who requested it, but would I be able to ask for more from them, with a mix of SFW and NSFW HCs? 🙏

Dick Grayson x Wally West x Thanagarian male reader

Headcanons

I’ve been stressing about my job situation since I quit my internship, as I still need an income, and all job postings around here I can do start in April. So, like any healthy person, im ignoring these feelings by writing.

You guys dating wouldn’t change too many things, as you guys were already close and spent a lot of time together. You guys become a lot more affectionate, which is new for you but not for Dick and Wally as they had already been dating for a long time.

They plan most of the dates in the beginning, as you are still trying to figure out what would work for your human lovers. Thanagar has different traditions and habits, so humans being so lax and creative is new even after this long.

Dick and Wally are both giddy when you decide to plan a date all on your own. You end up stressing yourself way too much, wanting it to be perfect, that you get help from some of the other titans.

I think your boyfriends would be happy with anything, even just going to your hideout and sitting around eating pizza and watching a movie. But seeing all the effort you put into it makes them happy.

On your guys one year anniversary, you give them rings made out of nth metal, possibly even made from small pieces of your wings, so you are always with them in one way or another.

This makes Wally and Dick both pout as they now think their gifts arent good enough. Of course, you don’t think so, anything they’ll give you is good, but they want to do something as meaningful as you did.

Expect something personal and sweet in the coming days. It doesn’t have to be expensive or anything, but its something that means something to all of you. You just feel flustered about it, but accept the pampering.

They of course don’t go beyond your boundaries, something you return as well, since you love your boyfriends as much as you can and they love you in return.

You don’t have any family on earth, there’s Carter and Shayera, but they aren’t really your family and you guys have different values. Luckily for you, your boyfriends have active families. It takes longer for the bats to welcome you, but at this point you’ve been on earth long enough to be trusted.

When it comes to the bedroom, Wally and Dick are much more comfortable than you are in the beginning. They already know each other inside and out, literally, and the first times you feel almost like an outsider.

They obviously don’t allow you to feel left out, and the first times you guys sleep together is a lot of just learning each other, figuring out what feels good and what you are all comfortable with.

I like to think Wally asks about you wearing your wings at least once when you guys are doing it, and you counter it by saying he should keep the flash suit on then. You hadn’t expected him to do it, but he does. Dick ends up doing it too, wearing the Nightwing suit. And who wouldn’t love that.

It lets you live out a couple of fantasies you’ve always had but never allowed yourself to indulge in, since you didn’t want to disrespect your friends and their relationship.

It’s pretty lethal to not have just one boyfriend with a lot of energy, but two. And one of those boyfriends has little to no rest between rounds. I could imagine Dick jokes about how its good that you came along, so you can switch out who’s fucking Wally so the other can rest.

They both love hickeys and you leaving them on them, since the whole being marked by you gets their blood pumping. They both love leaving them just as much though, so you end up starting to wear a high-collar outfit when you go out as your crime fighting persona.

It can be hard to find time where all three of you can spend personal time together. Theres always something going on in your personal cities, so there is a lot of one on one time. But I can imagine you guys make a habit out of calling whoever isn’t there, and letting them listen through their earpiece, if possible.

It gets kinda awkward for Dick a couple of times where the other bats, mostly Babs, checks in on his comms, only to hear Wallys needy gasping and whimpering and your deeper grunts and groans, as you describe in crude detail what you are doing to your shared boyfriend.

Babs might even be a bit impressed that Dick can keep up with his usual flips and kicks, taking out criminals like usual, and not letting what hes hearing distract him.

When he finally finishes up and gets back to wherever you guys are, Dick would dive right in, even if you and Wally had already washed up and were cuddling.

Luckily Wally is always raring to go, and it’s easy to get you worked up, just watching and listening to them. At the end of the night/early morning everyone is satisfied and happy, even if Wally has to be the one doing all the cleaning and morning cooking.

[anjelicawrites]

Scrapes at the borders of your life

“The giraffe has its heart far away from its thoughts. It has fallen in love yesterday and doesn’t know it yet.”

― Stefano Benni, Ballate

Paring: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x trauma surgeon!reader

Synopsis: Simon has fallen for the trauma surgeon attached to the 141 and believes he has no chances with them, resigning himself in the role of friend and guarding devil, until the truth comes out.

Warnings: angst, stalking (Simon doesn't mean to), medical talk, surgery talk, reference to depression meds, reference to weapons, reference to Simon’s abuse as a child, reference to violence, talk of scars, insecurity, someone gets slapped (reader but not from Simon), someone gets headbutted (not reader, not Simon), Johnny tries to be a wingman, Simon simps a lot, Simon’s fear of not managing a full intercourse, Simon's hit and miss libido, premature ejaculation, kissing, oral (f receiving), fail sex, good sex, P in V sex (protected and unprotected), fingering, overstimulation, cuddling.

A/N: reader is AFAB, they/them pronouns used when needed. They're referred as "ma'am" a couple of times.

Word count: 10.293

You check your phone, you’re not late but you need to be out of the locker room in ten minutes, if you want to arrive on time for your date, the one you don’t really want to go to.

You’re still rummaging through your bag as you exit the lockers, when you hear Soap’s Scottish accent and Ghost’s quiet hum of answer: those two are like black and white, yet are joined at the hip like twins.

NSFW and 18+ only please!

The locker room of the male military personnel has recently been moved next to the one used by the civilians working on base, something that most of the men had made crude jokes about; thankfully the task force you’re attached to, the 141, abstained from any remarks. You didn’t know that Simon had rained his irritation on the men who had the gall to repeat the jokes to his face, in the form of exhausting training and fatigue duties, during the next few days, it was something he kept for himself, the same way he did all his thoughts about you.

“So, Johnny, what do you think?

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, doc! Aren’t they not, Lt.?”

The behemoth of a man glances at you, without saying a word.

“If the guy doesn’t beg for a second date, he’s an idiot, doc!”

“That’s not what I need to happen.” You pout. “Mother is hellbent in finding me a partner, I have told her this is the last time I’m going out with someone. I need this date to go bad, so she will stop pestering me when I tell her that I’d rather die alone with forty cats, than with someone I’m not truly interested in.”

“Do you have everything with you?”

You stare at Simon’s masked face, his brown eyes unreadable.

“Simon, really…”

“Do you have it?”

He’s not standing in front of you, blocking your path, but he’s trying to pin you with his stare.

“You’re insufferable!” You rummage in your bag. “See? Pepper spray, teaser and the knife!”

“That’s enough stuff to make any bloke run for his life.” Soap says, eyeing the array of weapons.

“I hope so! This chap is the son of someone mum knows. I have to make sure he runs for the hills the next time he hears my name!”

You walk towards the door, blind to Soap’s grinning, and to the way Simon’s hands have curled into fists.

“See you next week, boys!”

“What?”

You turn around and look at the Scot.

“I’m on annual leave. Try not to go save the word when I am not here to patch you four up, OK?”

The door closes behind you, cutting Soap’s laughter.

“What do you say, Lt.?” He asks, showing him the pictures of what appears to be a Tuscan villa. “You, the doc, and a spring wedding?”

“Fuck you, Johnny.”

Simon keeps telling himself he isn’t truly stalking you. He doesn’t have a tracking device installed in your car, or your phone, because that would be creepy, but he’s well aware of the statistics, how high the numbers are for assaults or, worse, rape and murder, or how those figures sky rocket when it comes to dating.

Simon knows you’re bright, brighter than most, but that doesn’t protect you if one asshole decides he doesn’t like your smart mouth, and bleeding Nora you have opinions and you’re not afraid to voice them! He still remembers the first time he’s met you.

You had emerged from the OR after a five hours long emergency surgery on Gaz. You were still wearing your scrubs and one of the colorful caps you use when you’re operating (it was the pink one with the dogs, Simon would gift you one with skulls and bones after the first routine checkup you did on him).

None of them had ever seen you, you had started at the base while the 141 was deployed; when the pararescue had entrusted Gaz to Dr. Rutherford, you were just one of the medics running to the OR, you were but a scrub, a body among many others, listening to the quick handover and shouting orders as the gurney was speeding down the pale green walls of the military hospital.

“What?”

You had looked at the three of them with weary eyes and furrowed brows, surprised that the soldiers had encircled you and were staring expectantly.

The man you’ll learn to know as Captain Price had asked you about Gaz’s prognosis, the other men crowding around you.

“Hasn’t Dr. Rutherford talked to you?”

“No, ma’am.”

He had sounded tired, he looked like he had been through hell and back. Those three men hadn’t probably hit the showers yet, too worried for their friend.

“Oh bleeding hell!” You had burst out, the peak of adrenaline that had carried you through out the surgery having abated, leaving you sluggish. “OK, gather around children, mother goose is gonna tell you everything.”

You had marched to the closest row of chairs and climbed on top of one: those men were so tall and buff you felt like you couldn’t breathe, nor be heard with them standing around you.

“We’re positive he’s going to be fine.” You had smiled at the collective sigh of relief. “He’s in the recovery room, the nurses there are checking on his vitals, before he gets transferred to the ICU. He’s going to be intubated and sedated for a couple of days, to help his body deal with the pain. His wounds were pretty gnarly, and his appendix was ready to burst. Did he tell any of you if he felt abdominal pain, or nauseous?”

There was a collective shake of heads and surprised stares, even the eyes of the one with the skull mask had widened.

“All things considered, it would have been worse if the appendix had actually burst while you were out. That would have been another bag of cats to handle.”

You had elected not to say anything about the way the small organ had almost exploded as soon as you had gently poked it, or that the sergeant would have had high risks of dying of peritonitis out in the field.

“I’ll tell the nurses to give you all a shout when the sergeant is transferred. You can sit with him outside his room, if you want.”

You had expected them to visit their friend, not to find them sitting on the uncomfortably plastic chairs, still wearing their whole gear, when you had popped by the ICU.

“Doc?”

It was the one you’ll learn to know as Soap that had stared at you, one eye swollen and in dire need of ice: another battle for another day, you had mused.

“I’m not in the habit of abandoning my patients after surgery.”

You had marched to the two chairs right in front of the window into Gaz’s room, and kicked Ghost’s foot out of the way, he was manspreading so much he was occupying two seats (honest to God! Why men need to always do that?). At the time you weren’t aware of his reputation, and even if you were, you wouldn’t have cared, too tired and angry.

“You junk wouldn’t scare death away, soldier.” You had sat next to him. “And we’re not going to open another cycle on my watch tonight.”

You had pulled out your headphones and started blasting music to keep yourself awake, ignoring the surprised stares of the men.

Next to you Ghost was staring at you, wondering if you had a death wish, or if you believed that looking at the little numbers on Gaz’s monitor, as if they owed you money, was the right way to fight death. You were listening to your music with a volume so high he could hear it himself: pop songs from the early 2000s: would that be enough to scare death away, he had wondered.

None of you knew how much time had passed, the minutes bleeding into hours, weariness setting in your bones, the music not helping fight the siren’s song of sleep: you were so tired, the azure number of Gaz’s oxygen saturation, and the constant curves on the monitor were truly hypnotizing you, your eyes were growing heavy and unfocused.

You head had snapped to the right side as soon as you had seen Dr. Rutherford walking down the corridor.

“I’ll be back in a moment.”

You had popped your pink headphones on the uncomfortable chair, the men around you not clocking on the clacking sound of plastic on plastic, but the angry way you were marching towards your colleague, your hands closed in twin fists.

The conversation was carried out in hushed tones, Dr. Rutherford was standing still, his mouth a thin, white line of anger, and you were constantly in his space, a snarl on your face as you growled your words at him.

It was well known that Dr. Rutherford wasn’t liked and that he had the reputation of someone who would pull his rank to cover up his bullying, and his mistakes. He was feared, having managed to ruin other physicians’ careers over the years.

In retrospect Simon had realized this was the moment when he had started to notice you: when he was wondering about your lack of self preservation. To tell the truth, it was what you did seconds after that stole his heart, unbeknownst to him, when Dr. Rutherford had slapped you in the face.

Time could have stopped, for all you knew. You couldn’t hear the surprised shouts of the nurses, nor the scuffing of the men’s boots hitting the ground, only the roar of blood in your ears and the knot of rage exploding in your belly. Seconds, only seconds had passed when your body had decided to act on its own, your forehead crashing on the older man’s nose, Captain John Price’s burly body between yours and Rutherford’s a moment too late.

“Oh crap! I think I have broken my nose. Oh shit!”

You were too busy tenderly touching your face to mind the chaos around you.

“I’ll have you in front of the court martial!” Rutherford had screamed at you.

“I’m a civilian, you buffoon! Your loser grades mean nothing to me!”

Through the pain you had felt a bulky arm curl around your middle to stop you from attacking the other surgeon.

“That’s enough, doc.” The low thunder of Ghost’s voice had rumbled against your back. “Stand down.”

Your vision was blurry, the soldiers tasked with security were tackling Dr. Rutherford, with the help of Soap: the older man was still trying to get to you, he was hurling insults, his voice booming in the crowded corridor.

“I’m not done with you! Did you hear me well? You’ll be fired! You’ll never work in this country ever again!”

“The one who’s never going to work in this country for the rest of his life is you, Rutherford.”

Amidst the chaos, Price was calm, furious but calm, his voice was cutting through Rutherford’s threats and the security men’s shouts.

“I am a major, captain! I can have you transferred in an hour!”

“You can try, major. Hitting a civilian, in front of witnesses?”

“Leaving the OR mid surgery to do God knows what, since I had to talk to these gentlemen about their friend.” You had snarled, the arm around your middle had tensed again. “You manage to fire me? I’ll go back working with Doctors without Borders, but I’ll make sure you’ll lose your license, Rutherford.”

When Ghost’s arm had released you, you had let yourself slide against the wall, after Rutherford had been carried away, your legs having finally given up supporting you. You had needed a minute before letting the nurses do a check up.

“Are you OK over there, doc?”

It had been Soap asking.

“I have been through worse. Jesus Christ what way to present myself!” The men had looked at you puzzled. “I’m the new trauma surgeon attached to the 141. Hi! Usually I am not this violent, or chaotic, I’m sorry you had to see all of that.”

You didn’t fault the men for not knowing: they had been out in the field for months, your predecessor had decided to step down after some serious family issues right after they have left base.

“You should all go home, I’m on call, I’m going to stay with the sergeant. And I’m going to see one lieutenant Riley on Monday? For the routine check up?”

The man with the over the top mask had sighed: lieutenant Riley found!

“If anything comes up, I will contact you all, it’s a promise.”

Simon hates when he has to tail you so close to the city center, there are too many people around and his baklava would stir up too much curiosity, the surgical mask on his face, his baseball cap under the black hood of his hoodie don’t offer enough cover for his face, he feels exposed, even though he’s hiding in the shadows of an alley where he can keep an eye on you.

Your date has picked a table at the window; Simon hates that the prick thinks he can put you on display like that. If he were a different man, he’d bring you to somewhere cozier, smaller, and he wouldn’t show you around like a prize he’s won.

He knows you’re hating every minute you have to spend with the anonymous man who’s boring you with whatever topic he’s prattling about, Simon sees it in the way you are looking outside, or in how many times you grab your phone; from this distance he can’t see your eyes, yet he knows they hold that distant look he’s seen too many times when you have to deal with paperwork. He wonders how long before one of your friends will call you to save you from this dreadful date, or if you’ll suffer through it to make your mother happy; if his circumstances had been different, he wouldn’t bore you to death, you wouldn’t have to use help to finish this date earlier. But Simon knows you’re way out of his league, too much of everything he has never had the chance to be, to ever hope to be. He can only be your patient and, something akin to a friend.

He had knocked at the door of your office on the dot, hating that he had to go through this bullshit check up, but preferring to be done with it as fast as possible.

He had expected the usual flurry of nurses coming and going, making the experience ten times more unpleasant; you were alone, instead. Your cheek was still swollen from the slap and you were sporting a bump on your forehead, right where you had headbutted that prick Rutherford; he half expected you to wear a colorful T-shirt, like the one you wore after Gaz’s surgery: obnoxious pink, the Barbie inspired font composing the phrase ‘Bitch, please’, which should have told him already everything he needed to know about you.

He was almost disappointed by the white button down shirt and black trousers.

He knew he was trying to distract himself from the knot of anxiety churning his stomach: how he hated to be here!

“Lieutenant.” You had looked up at him with the more open expression you could muster. “I will need you to remove your baklava. I have to examine your face.”

“Negative, ma’am.”

He couldn’t let you look at himself and, based on his records, you understood why.

You had tried to transmit him calmness by relaxing your body as much as possible: face open to his scrutiny and slightly pulled to the side to show your neck, your hands palms up.

“Lieutenant. I know this is unpleasant and that I am a stranger to you, but I can’t sign off the paperwork, if you don’t allow me to do my job. I can’t let you out in the field.”

You knew he was observing you, those brown eyes scanning you like he would an enemy, and you let him, you were in no hurry and this man deserved to make up his mind.

The way you had addressed him, the respect you had shown him, had convinced him to unmask himself: you weren’t doing this with ill intent, the matter of fact way you had used, as if you were telling him a known fact ‘Water is wet’, ‘ The sky is blue’, ‘If I can’t do my job, you wouldn’t be able to do yours’ had convinced him: you were one of the few people who weren’t curious about his face. He has encountered too many people who wouldn’t take a no for an answer, who didn’t care about why he wished the mask was his face, instead of seeing his father’s face staring back at him in every mirror, they just wanted to solve the mystery. You were doing your job, with all the sharps edges that it entailed, just like he did his, and that was something he had to respect.

You had been as fast and clinical as possible, the scars didn’t horrify you; based on his paperwork, you could list off all of his injuries as you saw them on his face and, later, his body. What you couldn’t find in his file, it had been easy to infer based on all the x-rays and MRIs, some old injuries impossible for a child to have without some external causes.

“You can put your baklava back on, lieutenant.”

Simon would never be able to put into words how grateful he was that you had kept your examination of his naked face as fast as possible, and that you didn’t force him through the hell that was small talk for the whole ordeal. If you had noticed the way he was staring at you, you didn’t say a single thing, something he was also grateful for, it had helped him bearing with the whole process, than anything else ever did.

On Friday a small packet and a steaming mug of tea were waiting for you on your desk. Carefully folded in the bright paper, an OR cap, black with neon skulls and bones design. On a whim you had told the nurse working with you to hold the fort for a minute, you had forgotten you had to run a little errand.

Said errand was standing in the field, covered in head to toe in black, busy overseeing what you believed was some sort of drill with the younger recruits.

“Thank you for the cap, you didn’t have to, lieutenant.” You couldn’t hide the smile in your voice, you didn’t want to. “How did you manage to discover how I love to take my tea?”

Simon was standing next to you, massive arms crossed on his solid chest, his face slightly turned towards you.

“If I were to tell you, doc, then I would have to kill you.”

Someone else would have been petrified by his words and the deadpan expression in his eyes, you had simply chuckled and had taken a sip from the mug, your personal mug, the one you had brought to use in the kitchen for the medical staff.

“We can’t have that, can we? Now I have to discover how you prefer your tea.”

“Do you like challenges, doc?”

He had turned to look at you and you had fancied you could see amusement in the rich brown of his eyes.

“I live for those, lieutenant.” You had taken a couple of steps towards the medical buildings. “Have a nice day!”

You were already halfway through, when Soap had approached Simon.

“Spring wedding, Lt.?”

“I need a sparring partner, and you just volunteered.”

You were always catching his attention without doing so. You were always at the corner of his eyes, busy working, or chatting with the civilian personnel at the base. He’d be running drills with the new recruits and he’d know you were walking somewhere nearby, he’d be at the canteen and you’d be either leaving the premises, or entering them. You’d pop by the military rec room because “You boys get the better tasting tea!” and he’d be snickering to himself in the shadows.

Unconsciously, he had started using the route passing by your office, to go to his (that he had to enter the medical building and then exiting it was something he actively didn’t want to think about), his eyes taking quick peaks at you through the window, whenever you kept the blinds open; you’d be slaving by your desk, elbow deep in paperwork, brows furrowed in concentration, or typing away at your PC. He’s seen you, during night shift, either working or reading with your legs propped up the desk, munching on something sweet, trying to keep yourself awake, or asleep on your couch, curled under a thick blanket; he had felt something warm unfurl in his chest, you looked so small and defenseless he felt the strange urge to stop and keep guarding your door until you’d wake up.

It had been you who had watched over him after a gnarly injury. He had woken up in a hospital bed, oxygen mask on his face, drips in his arm and too many surgical drains poking him. He was still high on the anesthetic and pain killers, his eyes barely focusing on your face that he had thought he was hallucinating you.

“How are you feeling, lieutenant?”

He had needed a moment to speak, his mouth felt like cement.

“Thirsty.” He had managed to say, ashamed that you were seeing him so weak.

“We’re giving you fluids but you’re not clear for food or water, yet. Squeeze my hand if you understand.”

Your small fingers had wounded around his coarse palm, their dainty touch had grounded him: you were real.

“I managed to remove the bullets from your gut. You have a lovely spleen and gall-bladder.”

Even high as a kite, in that precise moment, Simon’s brain had catch up with his heart and had realized he was in love with you, irrevocably, and that he had zero chances with you.

It wasn’t because you were a genius and he was an idiot, Simon knew well that he had the brains to match his ruthlessness, the issue laid in the fact that you two had less to nothing in common. He had seen you read thick tomes he has never heard of and talk with Gaz about movies he didn’t know ever existed; when he had checked any of the titles out he had realized how wildly your tastes forked: what he liked, you would hate, what you loved, made him fall asleep in ten minutes, like that subtitled movie he had tried to watch during leave, he had conked out five minutes in, and awoke when the end credits were rolling.

In his head he could see how a movie date would end up: he asleep and you wondering why he had asked you to come with him to the movie theater. What did he have to say to you that would interest you in his ugly mug? He was a highly trained killer whose hands were dripping blood, he came with a baggage that would put you in danger, what good could he add to your life? Yet, he was attracted to you like a moth to a flame. Even if he wanted, he wouldn’t be able to stop looking for you at the base, or shadow you when you went home.

It wasn’t a matter of stalking you, Simon fully knew where he stood, and that the only thing he could do for you, was keeping you safe; he would hide in the shadows and follow you home, leaving only when he had seen you safe in the quiet of your apartment. He had gifted you weapons, his heart beating a tad too fast when you didn’t run for the hills when he had given you the knife for your birthday, then the pepper spray and then the teaser. He had scared away a persistent date, a guy who simply didn’t want to understand that you weren’t interested: being your guardian devil was all he could offer you.

Soap didn’t help. He kept trying to push him towards you, trying to make sure his lieutenant was alone with you. One night shift he had gone as far as buying takeout, gave it to Simon when you were passing by with a cheeky “You must be famished doc!” and left Simon standing like a log with too many bags in his hands (he was going to use Johnny for target practice, if he ever survived this ordeal). You had stared at him with a smile, so lovely on your face, that he had wanted to bolt, food and all: you scared him in a way no promise of violence ever could. “You shouldn’t have, Simon!” and he had found himself sitting awkwardly on the too small couch in your office, all the plastic dishes neatly organized on the short table in front of him; you had removed your shoes and were sitting on the armrest, a container and a fork in your hand. Of course you were wearing ridiculous eraser yellow socks with tiny bunnies sketched on the cotton.

“Are you hungry, Simon?”

The way you pronounced his name! The way your voice modulated each and every syllable sent a shiver down his spine.

“Yes.” He had lied, his stomach was a knot.

He had been through hell, he knew you could tell by the scars littering his body. He has had too many close brushes with death than what he cared to count, yet he was petrified by your vicinity, by the fact that he had never been ‘Ghost’ to you, you had progressed from ‘Lieutenant’ to ‘Simon’ effortlessly, that you seemed to be able to read him in ways no one ever could. Were you be able to tell that the silence clothing you two was too deafening to him, the man who was the Reaper for his enemies?

What was he supposed to talk about with you? Why couldn’t he find some inane topic that would make you smile? Even the youngest recruit would be able to simply chat with you, why couldn’t he?

“What’s a cycle?” He had blurted out

“What?” You had started at him, quizzically, mouth around a forkful of food.

Yes, his mind provided, way to pass off as an idiot. He couldn’t possible stay silent, he had to press on even though he could only taste bile, not the food he was trying to chew.

“With Gaz. You said you didn’t want to open another cycle.”

“Oh, that!” You had put the fork in the empty container and stared at him. “It’s one of our superstitions.”

You had gently put the container on the table and grabbed your Coke.

“We actually have many, us who work in hospital, that is. It’s all nonsensical, no actual basis but the mind’s strife to put order in the chaos of life.” You had giggled, staring at him. “Don’t make that face!”

Simon was positive he wasn’t making any face whatsoever, it was well known he was a stone and what could you see? He had lifted his mask over his nose to eat, you couldn’t observe a single thing!

“You have very expressive eyes. And I’m going to tell you, after the shift is over, I’m as superstitious as they come!”

You did tell him, when the sun was grazing the horizon and he was having a smoke, dreading that he had to go home, if his sparse apartment could have been called that.

You were standing next to him, your own cigarette between your fingers, a colorful T-shirt half hidden under your hoodie and leather jacket. He had come to realize you only wore your more professional clothes during the day; when you had to work nights, you preferred more casual stuff, that made you look younger than your years. He hated that he could notice that, and that this information made his black heart swell a little.

“There are a handful of superstitions any hospital worker will tell you are true. The first one, the golden rule, is that you never say that a shift is quiet, not while you’re working, or literal hell will break loose. Second one is the cycle: death comes in clusters of three in a ward. It makes no sense and it’s truly pareidolia at its best, but it’s true: ask anyone working at the hospital on base and they’ll tell you that three people will die in a row, perhaps in a span of a few days, but it will happen, all in the same ward.”

You had puffed a cloud of smoke, staring at the sky.

“The others?” He had heard himself ask.

“Oh, the new moon.” You had smiled at him. “Pregnant people tend to give birth more during that time span. It’s utter and complete crap, on a scientific level, but it’s all true. Also, when you’re walking a deserted ward at night and you hear your name being called? No you don’t. You keep walking and ignore the ghosts.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It is, but we believe in it religiously or the most of us do.”

You two had finished your cigarettes in silence, then you had bid him a good day of sleep; he had wondered if he should follow you home just to see you in your apartment, drinking your tea before trying to get some shut eye.

He had done this countless times, after particularly grueling missions, after you had gave all of them a clean bill of health, scolded Gaz (“Fallen off a chopper again? Is this the Darwin Awards sergeant?”) and Soap (“I swear to God MacTavish, you have fun at getting hit in the head!”) for their bumps and scrapes and asked him if he was sure he didn’t need anything to help him sleep.

He was well aware you had clearance to read his medical files, the list of prescriptions he was under, even the stuff the psychiatrist on base had given him to help him navigate his life; he didn’t want any of that, he only needed to see you safe home, to find the strength to go back to his own, so barren compared to yours.

He hadn’t gone to his hole immediately. He had followed you and hid to watch you brew your morning tea and eat a couple of biscuits. The sky had become overcast, yet to him you were still bathed in sunlight, your cozy apartment filled him with a longing he wasn’t capable to bear: would you let him sleep on your small couch? He wouldn’t do anything else but curl there under one of your quaint blankets (he had a preference for the crochet one, but he would have taken anything, really, a rescued dog would accept any scrap of love it was given), lulled to sleep by your presence.

What a loser, right?

It’s raining by the time your date ends.

Simon can’t hear what the douchebag is telling you, but he can’t help the satisfied smile on his face when he sees the guy leave with his tail between his legs: whatever that is, it didn’t work with you and never will.

He tails you from afar, your obnoxious umbrella dotted with pink hearts is the beacon that helps him spot you amidst all the people running from the rain; he doesn’t care that he’s drenched, he’s been through worse.

He stops and ducks in the alleyway he uses to keep an eye on your apartment, waiting for the right moment to hop on to the small balcony where all your plants live.

He doesn’t usually lets himself get so close to you, tonight he can’t help himself: he’s going to listen to you get ready for bed and then go, he’s become hungrier and hungrier for your presence, looking from afar it’s not cutting it anymore. And he’s not going to see you for a whole week, he needs in his bones to absorb whatever little scrapes of your life he possibly can, until you’re back to the base.

He listens as you walk around the apartment barefoot, your clothes hitting the bathroom floor, the whisper of the clothes you wear at home, when you unfold it from its place on the dresser (once he had almost ogled you when you were changing clothes; he had managed to turn around before he could have seen more than he should have, yet the image of your bare back had hunted him for days), some inane documentary on the telly keeping you company as you remove your makeup. It’s all so familiar, so homely, a routine he knows by heart and that is never going to be his, and that relaxes him: if he were yours he would brush his teeth side by side with you, maybe poke at you with his elbow just to make you laugh, he’d carry you to bed bridal style and keep watch until you fall asleep all curled up in his arms. If he were yours, but he’s never going to belong to you.

“Simon?” Your voice comes from the French doors.

His training doesn’t make him jump in surprise, on the inside his heart is hammering like crazy against his ribs.

He stands still, he doesn’t move a single muscle as he hears you exit the warmth of your apartment to join him where the storm is raging.

You stand next to where he is, the two of you sheltered by the worse of the water by the balcony over yours. With the corner of your eyes you see how drenched he is and you have to fight the instinct to scold him from courting pneumonia.

“I have to admit it has taken me a little to notice what you were doing. I thought I was going mad but then I stumbled upon that guy who didn’t understand I wasn’t interested in him: he was petrified and had begged me not to tell ‘my big friend with the skull mask’ that I had met him by chance while queuing at Costa.”

You stare at his hood, still stubbornly covering his face.

You don’t try to uncover his head, you understand that he needs his space and this silence, broken by the rumbling of a thunder.

You’re not mad at him, puzzled yes, but not angry.

“Is it always going to be like this, Simon? You hiding where the borders of my life begin? What if I meet the right person, what then?”

Your words break the spell that keeps him rooted where he is, he scoffs and turns his head to stare at you; you see something dangle from his face, one of the straps of the surgical mask has broken and now he’s naked in front of you, the darkness of the night his only cover.

You’re so close to him he can make out the soft angles of your face, the warm light in your eyes: you should be screaming at him, call the cops on him, yet you’re staring not precisely at the mangled thing he calls his face. He’s the one who has been hiding in the shadows, yet you’re still giving him his space.

“Would you keep on doing this?” You ask.

You’re so close, closer than he’s ever let most of the people be, so close that he can smell your perfume and your face cream.

“What would you do if I told you to stop?”

“I would.”

Those words cut him like knives: it would kill him to stop hunting for the scraps you had, unintentionally, given him, but he would, for your happiness.

“What if I tell you to come inside?”

“You can’t ask me that.”

His voice trembles and he’s a child again, defenseless in the snares of his father.

“Why?”

You’re fully in his space now, you can feel his warmth and he yours. The cotton of your tracksuit drenched with the raindrops falling from his leather jacket.

“Answer me, Simon.”

Your eyes are still avoiding his face, you’re still granting him this sliver of respect when you shouldn’t.

“Talk to me Simon, please.”

You’re on your tip toes now and he can smell the mint of your toothpaste.

He can’t speak, he can’t breathe.

His hands shoot out to grab your arms, his lips find yours in a kiss that’s almost a bite.

When your taste hits him, it’s like a floodgate is being ripped open by the violence of a flood.

Under his your lips part and your tongue seeks his, snuffing out his groans of pleasure, your arms escape his hold and grab his hair under his drenched hood and cap, your body pulls him forward, guiding him inside the sanctuary of your home.

You almost fall and his hands grab your hips to steady you, his tongue shyly plays with yours, as if he’s still insecure of what you’d do, he submits to you when you pull at his hair so that you have free access to his lax mouth: cigarettes and tea, that’s what you taste, his moans rumble against your chest, until you let go, desperate for air.

The darkness of your apartment is broken by the small light by the sofa, not bright enough to show you completely his face.

“Look at me.”

His gravelly voice makes you shiver, yet your eyes stubbornly land somewhere on his chest.

“Look at me.” He repeats, your name like a prayer on his lips.

You lift your gaze and he moves the two of you where you can see him: all of his scars barren to you, his eyes blazing with his own need.

You can feel his hands tremble on your arms, his teeth chatter and it’s not the cold from his drenched clothes.

“We don’t have to do anything, Simon, you know that.”

And by God you’re not lying. You’d be happy to lay on the couch and talk for the rest of the night, you don’t want him to give you something if he’s not ready.

One of his gloved hands finds your soft cheek and cups your face, his expression has softened, he’s so unguarded and scared now.

“I know.”

He’s not sure his body is up for the task, not with the medication he needs to take daily killing his libido most of the times, but that doesn’t really matter in his book, he doesn’t care if he can’t take pleasure from you, as long as he’s making you feel good.

He feels something warm in his guts stirring awake, but he’s not sure he’s going to manage to go on with it fully. Would you hate him for that?

“Simon?”

Your hand is so soft against the scarred skin of his cheek; he knows you use loads of hand cream to fight against the normal dryness that comes with having surgical gloves on every day, the soft scent hits his nostrils and his desire becomes more solid, it slithers from his belly to his cock, stirring it alive.

“Let me take care of you.”

He’ll live his life for you simply following those words: he’d shelter you from any storm, he’d kill for you, if only you asked. He’d go to hell for you, if that meant that you’d be safe and sound.

You see something shift in his eyes; there’s still insecurity there, but it’s fighting against another emotion, desire maybe?

Under another circumstances you’d tell him that you want to look after him as well, that this thing isn’t only about you, but you think that he needs this, to show you his devotion, if you hope to give him a safe space. Despite the blood on his hands, this man is a nurturer, who doesn’t know how to express himself.

“Yes.”

You’re not surprised that he knows the layout of your apartment, that he doesn’t need to turn on the lights to guide you where your bed is.

You kiss him again when you feel his fingers tremble as they hook the hem of your hoodie to lift it up your body, you murmur soft praises as he divests you and you’re standing naked in front of him.

“May I take your clothes off?”

You wouldn’t mind being the only one naked here, if that helped him feel safer; you two can discuss and explore his hard limits later, now you need to tread carefully.

“Keep the lights off?”

“Anything you need, Simon.”

Outside the storm rages, inside you keep asking him if he’s all right as you slowly peel his clothes off, until he’s barren his scarred body to your touch.

You know how he looks on the inside, what those scars left behind under layers of muscle and bones, you can probably recite all of his wounds alphabetically as you kiss them; he’s so beautiful to you, hard planes of muscles you want to caress and explore, dirty blond hairs on his chest you hope you’ll rub your face against, that thick happy trail guiding your eyes to his half hard cock; you want to caress all of him, make him feel good.

He stops you before you can follow the newest scar on his pectoral with the tip of your finger: you have stitched this one close, managed to pull together the mangled sides of the wound nicely.

“Go lay on the bed.” He tells you, his voice more secure.

He helps you with the ridiculous amount of pillows scattered on the bedding. Lovingly he chooses the ones he thinks will be the best to lift your hips up and to rest your head: he wants you comfortable, and happy with the way he’s treating you.

His eyes drink your lax body open for him. There’s a little light coming from the sky outside, enough for him to make out the soft curves of your body and the patch of hairs at your center. He likes a good bush, when he was younger and his libido not so skewed, he would get it going just because his partner wasn’t completely barren and now he feels his cock stir a little more.

“Like what you see?” You ask, arching your back to entice him.

“Yes.” His head goes up and down dumbly.

“Kiss me?”

He lays on you, his body solid on yours, his weight stealing your breath from you, his rough skin heaven against yours.

You let him take control of the kiss, his tongue less shy as it plays with yours, his moans fuller against your mouth: you have no idea how much he loves your taste.

He maps your body with his lips, in his head he takes notice of the way you keen and arch when he nibbles on your throat or sucks on your nipples. His tongue follows the fat drops of perspiration on your skin, his mouth leaves bruising kisses on your tummy when your hands wind up in his hair to push him to go faster: he’s going to savor you, commit you to his memory.

“Simon please!” You beg, but he’s not deterred. “Need… ah!”

He nibbles your trembling tights, his stubble will leave a rushes on the soft skin and a twisted part of him is proud that you will carry his mark around. His hips kick when your nails scratch his nape: please, yes, brand him as yours, even if you don’t want to keep him, leave the proof of you needing him, even if it is for one time.

You’re already wet when his fingers open your lower lips to his eyes, you’re not drenched yet and he hopes his ministration will get you there so that he can drown in your scent.

The first kiss on your clit is fleeting, shy almost, your body responds by kicking your hips up, needy for more contact and he can’t believe this is happening: he must be dead and landed in heaven, somehow.

“Need you, Simon.” You whimper under his scrutiny.

“I’m here, love.”

His voice is lower, gruff against your folds and you keen, the vibrations torture against your nerves.

Reverent he hoists your legs up his shoulders to open you up properly, his big hands splay on your tummy, your fingers finding his to anchor yourself.

He’s shy at first, exploring your folds with his tongue, playing with your clit slowly, mapping out your response and thank God he’s holding you down because you hips kick up immediately, as soon as his lips wound around your nub to suck softly, your legs clamping around his head and if he’s not dead he wishes you’d snap his neck while he’s eating you out: there’s no better death in his book.

You’re trashing under him, your body arching, feet trying to find purchase on the slick skin of his back, to move away, to gain advantage, you don’t know, your brain is fried, your body a knot of overstimulated nerves, and it’s not because you haven’t had sex in so long. It’s Simon’s mouth on your cunt, it’s his tongue playing with you until you come all over his face, again. It’s his moans of pleasure when your honey hits his taste buds, his wicked fingers exploring your depths, bullying that hidden part of yourself that makes you see stars. It’s his hushed words of praise, his grunts when his cock slaps against his belly with every instinctual kick of his hips against nothing.

You’ve lost your words a couple of orgasms ago, your lungs are too busy trying to pull air in and out to be of any use, your eyes can barely focus on his, dark with hunger, when he looks at you from between your legs.

He needs you ready, wet and loose for him, if his body can keep it up for him to have a full intercourse with you and, if he can’t, he wants you satisfied with what he can give you.

He groans against you when your fingers manage to find purchase on his short hair. He lets you pull his body up to yours, until he’s laying fully on you, your lips seeking his in a hungry kiss that has you keen when you taste yourself on him.

You hiccup his name, cunt rubbing against his erection hastily when his engorged tip slides against your clit.

“Wait!” He chokes out, lifting himself from your body.

Even full of endorphins are you are, alarm bells start ringing in your head at the preoccupation in his tone: did you do something wrong?

In his head Simon is trying to list off the entire armory back at the base, desperate to reel his orgasm in: it has been too bloody long and he feels like he’s sixteen again, popping his cherry with the cashier girl at the news stand at the end of his street.

He’s not sure his body can manage a second round, he doesn’t want to lose this one opportunity to sink inside of you.

“Simon?”

You try to keep the agitation from your voice. If, for whatever reason, he needs to stop, you need to make sure he’s not feeling like he’s leaving you unsatisfied.

Over you, Simon fists the sheets and closes his eyes, head bent so that you can’t see his labored expression. He bullies himself into breathing slowly and steadily, focusing his attention of what his senses tell him: the soft cotton of your bed sheets, your rugged breathing and the sounds of the city spilling in your shared sanctuary.

He needs to control the reactions of his body, center himself on every muscle, every nerve, the same way he does when he’s ready to snipe out an enemy.

“Love.” He groans.

“Do you need to stop?”

His head snaps up, the concern and the affection he sees on your face break him: he shouldn’t make you feel so anxious for him.

“No.” He groans, his body still trying to fight his iron will.

“Simon.” You touch his cheek. “I’m happy if you’re OK, you know that, right?”

Oh Christ he’s going to come untouched if you keep being so gentle with him: he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve you!

“Tell me you have condoms.”

His need for you is a knot of pain sitting in his lower belly, his body is reluctantly following his orders, but his cock aches for you, every breathe he takes is a stab in his gut.

“The lower drawer.”

He stops you from moving. Gritting his teeth he reaches for the knob of the bedside table and fishes in the odds and ends, a light of hope burning wild when he touches the plastic wrapper and grabs it hastily.

He gently moves your hands away when you try to help him roll the condom on his aching erection: he will come if you touch him.

You help him maneuver your legs around his hips, your hamstrings protesting at the angle he has to position you, your cunt flutters when he, slowly, rubs himself against your wetness: he’s prepared you well to take him, you’re drenching him, the wet sounds like music.

He blacks out as soon as he bottoms out, when your cunt clenches around him, stealing his pleasure from him.

The cold wakes you up. Outside the storm is still raging and the bedside lamp is out of commission, it forces you to feel around until you find Simon’s T-shirt, still discarded where you have thrown it. On trembling legs you stand up and wear it, before you paddle to the living room; you’re pleasantly sore, the kind of sweet pain you cherish because it means you’ve been loved well.

“Simon?”

The sound of a glass being deposited on the table makes you turn towards the kitchen: he’s there, his massive form blacker than the night itself.

“You’re out of power.” He rumbles.

He’s dressed back in his jeans and hoodie, the hood back up over his head.

“It’s the power grid of the entire block. Weather like this plunges us back to the Middle Ages.” You try to defuse the tension in the air with your lame joke. “Come back to bed? It’s awfully cold without you.”

You stand in front of him, his body ramrod straight in front of yours.

“You want me there?”

You hate his tone, so clipped and collected. He breaks your heart.

“Why wouldn’t I want you there?”

The way his head turns makes sure you can’t look at his expression, and you can’t have that.

The anxious way he had stared at you after his peak had made all your alarm bells ring in your head. You had hugged him, making sure his face was hidden in the curve of your neck, you had caressed his tensed back until he had relaxed in your embrace, your voice warm with praise for the way he had made you come, repeatedly, on his face.

“I didn’t…” You don’t make him finish.

Boldly you enter his space again, one hand sneaking under his hoodie to find his warm skin; you need to risk it all, if you want to keep whatever link you have with him.

“You didn’t hear me complain, let me finish. You have no idea how hot it was to see you lose control like that, for little old me. You managed what no partner hell! Even my own vibrator ever could, Simon. I lost count of how many times you made me come for you, my maximum is two times in a row, and I needed a moment in between those. It’s not what happened with you.”

His hand snatches yours in a lax hold, you know full well he could break all your bones if only he wanted.

“Don’t lie to me.”

You don’t let the low growl deter you. Slowly, you move your trapped hand, and his, up to your face; you know he’s letting you maneuver him, man his size you wouldn’t be able to otherwise. You’re not sure how much he can see, yet you telegraph your movements anyway, your teeth biting the tip of his gloved middle finger to pull the garment away: if he wants, he can stop you any time.

You let it fall on the floor and guide his scarred hand between your legs.

“Can you feel how wet I still am for you, Simon?” He hiccups on a breathe. “Answer me.”

You can feel his full body shudder at your command, and God isn’t it the hottest thing ever?

“I do.”

His fingers start to explore your folds and you have to steel yourself or you’ll lose your thread.

“Am I lying to you? Is my cunt lying to you?”

“No.”

He’s breathless and, if you’d feel for his heart, you’d hear it thumping wildly against his chest. He needs to remove his fingers from the warm cradle of your cunt, yet his brain is stubbornly refusing to send the information to his hand.

“I don’t care whether or not you rearrange my guts with your cock, Simon. Sex is great, orgasms are amazing, but all of it pales compared to all the time we spent together just talking. Tell me you understand.”

His fingers clench inside of you and you moan.

“I understand.”

“Then, explain to me like I’m stupid, why I wouldn’t want to wake up wrapped around you. Why I wouldn’t want to explore every inch of your skin until you’re too out of it to even beg. You make me come on your cock? That’s a plus. You make me laugh and chat with me during night shift? You, somehow, know how I drink my tea? That’s what I value. You make sure I am home safe? That’s the kind of dedication I have never found in anybody else.”

His free hand grabs your hip to steady you, his fingers, still deep inside of you, haven’t stopped moving, plunging into you inch by inch.

“I wouldn’t mind sitting on your face until you tap out, but I’d be as happy to lay on the sofa and watch this awful storm for the rest of the night.”

There’s another storm wrecking war inside of him, two sides pulling him in two different directions: one that’s screaming that he needs to leave, now, before he embarrasses himself even further, the other is fueling liquid fire in his guts, all his blood tumbling, again, to his cock.

“I don’t need to tap out, I can bench press your weight.”

You don’t have the time to whine at the loss of his fingers, not when he hauls you up and against the nearest wall, knocking your breath out of your lungs.

Simon is fueled by desperation, one hand under your arse to keep you where you should be, the other fishing for his zipper, knuckles knocking against yours in your dual haste: he hasn’t felt like this in ages and, this time, he’s actually in control of his own desire.

“Please!” You beg. “Now Simon!”

“Need to make sure…”

You snap your teeth near his ear, you don’t care if you’re ready or not, the drag of his cock against your folds is driving you mad.

“I swear to God if you don’t put it in immediately I will murder you in your sleep!”

He moans when he breaches you again. Despite his need, he pushes slowly in and out, helping your body accept his intrusion, his mouth overs yours, drinking your shaky breaths.

A juicy curse slips his lips once he’s bottomed out, your cunt trapping him in your depths, warm and silky around his cock.

Your forehead knocks against his, your breaths coming out in harsh puffs as you try to relax your quivering muscles around him and God you wish you could see his face.

“So… warm, ah!” He moans.

You call his name, drunk on the feeling of fullness, of being owned, on his hands grappling the cotton of the T shirt to reach your skin, shredding it to taste you on his tongue again. He’s burning up, he feels too hot and your trembling hands on the hem of his hoodie are a blessing, trying to free him, his scarred torso now crashing against yours, his lips locking with yours as he moves, desperate in and out of you, groaning when you sheath him again in your warmth.

“I can’t! I can’t!” You scream when his rough fingers find your clit again.

He needs you to come all around him the same way he needs air, he’s teetering his own end, those warm flames licking at the edge of his consciousness but he doesn’t want to be selfish, to use you again for his own pleasure.

“Need you.” He keens, broken when the high pitched scream of his name becomes a long wail and your body tries to squirm away from his hold, his fingers grabbing your hip so tightly he knows he’s going to leave bruises on the soft skin.

“Simon! Simon!”

You push with the heels of your feet against his tailbone, desperate to evade his hold, your brutalized clit firing and firing, the pleasure burning through you, his body pulling you closer, his cock pistoning wildly in your warmth, the squelching of your shared pleasure spurring him on, your nails scratching his skin careening him into his own pleasure.

You come, your cunt wounding so tightly around him that he spills with a shout that you don’t hear: you’ve already blacked out.

It’s Wednesday and you haven’t left your apartment. You’ve barely made out of bed to try and sort out the mess the storm has left on the balcony, on Monday, when he had left only to come back with a duffel filled with black, identical clothes (you’ve lost this bet with the nurses at the hospital, indeed he owns the same outfit, go figure!).

He had taken a long look at you, marched to where you were trying to save one of the potted plants smashed on the floor, had manhandled you inside your bedroom (and you were giggling the whole time like a teenager), removed your home clothes looking at them as if they personally offended him and bullied you into one of his black T shirts; only then he had looked at you and growled “That’s better”. And now you’re laying on the bed, cuddled with your head on his shoulder, while you’re browsing on your phone, in the hope to find an online store that isn’t Amazon, to find some surgical masks with sturdier straps than the one he’s currently using.

He’s black mass on the colorful bedding, dressed head to toe in his black clothes, skull baklava to protect his face. Only his hands are free of his gloves and he makes you feel like a Victorian gentleman staring at a naked ankle, your eyes wandering from your phone to his long fingers curled around an e-book reader.

It’s domestic, and all you ever wanted from life, despite being so different from what anyone you know would deem normal.

You two have talked about his whole demeanor of the past years, he’s worshiped your body until you had to beg him to stop, that it was too much; in the dark you have made good on your promise to map out his skin until he was choking on his on breathe, too far gone to even moan.

He hasn’t let you see his body during night time and that’s OK, you don’t expect him to overcome years of life in the span of a couple of days; the fact that he’s lounging with you, that he’s accepting the amount of physical contact that comes with you hugging him and using him as your personal body pillow, it’s a miracle to you. Last night, when you were trying to watch a movie, he had let you follow the paths of his sleeve tattoo, ending up falling asleep, his big body lax in your hold.

“We should go on a date.” You say, turning your head to look at his masked face.

“We have been on dates.”

“Eating take out food Soap has bullied you into buying is not a date.”

You can see his lips break out in a smile under the baklava.

“How is he still alive?”

“He’s a fast bastard.”

“You should thank him.”

“His head would grow ten times the size, you wouldn’t like that, love.”

“We should still go.”

There’s a part of him that still can’t believe this is happening, that you haven’t cussed him out in the rain, that you want to be seen around next to him, skull mask and all. That you’re so accepting of his hit and miss libido: he’s made up in Heaven, somehow, this can’t be his life.

Using your own distraction against you, he rolls you under his body: you look so right wearing his T-shirt and nothing else, it’s a travesty to dress you up in something that doesn’t smell like him.

“And where would you bring me?”

You beam up to him, your hands caressing his sides slowly over the material of his hoodie.

“Wherever you’d like.”

Even if it’s eating out on the balcony, you’d be happy, as long as he’s living his life with you, not hunting for scraps: you want to give him all.