#this is mean. i usually *never* get this shit two days in a row

[daughterofhecata]

Got my writing session yesterday cut short by a visual migraine that got to the point where I couldn't see the keyboard anymore, and now the damn thing is *back* and idk yet if I'll be able to write later -.-

[iiwaijime]

STFU — K. KOZUME

cws; swearing, writing lowkey gives stephen king at one point because i read like four novels in a row while writing this, misunderstandings, gn!reader i think

wc; 1667

"kenma."

he groaned.

"kenma."

"mm." his eyes fluttered open, and he was met with the — extremely fetching — sight of you hovering over him. you looked beautiful, as usual, even though you'd just woken up, and he cracked a small, sleepy smile. okay, he'd seen you. time to go back to sleep. but as soon as he closed his eyes, you poked his cheek to wake him up again.

"y/n, what the hell..."

"you have to wake up, you have practice!"

"fuck practice," he whined, burying his face in his pillow. the awesomest. sleepover of his entire life could not be ending like this. he heard you giggling behind him and groaned again. "i just wanna sleep!" he stopped talking, preparing to doze off again.

"is it too late to join a different club?"

"no," you told him forcefully. "and you're my best friend, so i'd love to let you sleep, but i can't exactly tell kuroo or the coach that, can i?"

and you're my best friend and i'm in love with you, but i can't exactly tell you that either, so we don't always get what we want, do we? he thought drowsily. or he thought he did, anyways, because the next thing he heard was your gasp — maybe a bit too loud, but it was there all the same, and shit, he must've said it out loud.

"what was that?" you asked him, and for a second he panicked.

kenma had never really been a fan of volleyball. it's nothing he hated, but he was sure he'd be perfectly fine without it too. and it was tiring. but he had learnt one thing from it — or maybe he'd known it all along, and it just helped him improve — and that one thing just happened to be bluffing. so he rolled over to stare at you blankly. "huh? I didn't say anything."

"okay," you said, but you weren't really sure he was telling the truth. sometime after you walked him to practice, he started avoiding you, and then you had to accept that yeah, he'd lied.

how could he accidentally confess his love to someone while half asleep? kenma had no idea; furthermore, he was haunted by the fear of other people finding out what he'd kept carefully hidden for over half a decade. he remembered being twelve and kuroo grinning at him so all-knowingly at him. i know what you are, he'd said. not aloud, but kenma had heard it clear as day, just as he noticed how kuroo's canines were glinting unnaturally in the sunlight, and seconds before getting hit squarely in the face with a volleyball because he'd looked away to stare at you. it had totally been worth it, though, he decided, when you came over to his house with a bag of candy and some cold soda.

he was struck with the sudden realisation that he's holding the exact same soda — completely identical, down to the flavour and the size of the bottle — in one hand as his fingers slowly grew numb from the cold when he saw you again, talking to kuroo as the two of you approached him. he was acutely aware of the condensation dripping down his fingers when kuroo yelled out to him, and he waved at the two of nervously with his free hand, trying to gauge your reaction. you waved back, and he was filled with a swirl of emotions, including but definitely not limited to relief.

you didn't find it suspicious when kuroo "had to go" somewhere barely two minutes into your conversations, but kenma did. said suspicions were further confirmed when kuroo — after making sure your back was turned — grinned at him wolfishly and mouthed "good luck" to him as he left.

almost immediately after kuroo disappeared, the atmosphere shifted before either of you even said anything. there was reproach in your gaze as you stared at him silently

(why are you ignoring me?)

there was an unspoken apology in his.

(i'm sorry so sorry i fucked up i didn't mean to this is all my fault)

drip

the two of you stood in silence.

drip

another drop of condensation hit the ground.

you glanced at your watch for the third time.

"do i... do you want me to walk you home?" he asked.

say no, you told yourself. give him the same treatment he gave you.

"yes," you said aloud. "i'd like that."

you had never been able to say no to him, after all.

the walk back to your house was warm and sticky, a textbook summer day if there ever was one. kenma had been looking forward to his stupid drink, but your reddened cheeks and the way your hair clung to your sweaty forehead made him pity you enough to wrench the cap off and hold the bottle out to you. you drank gratefully, and it appeared that you'd cooled down a bit afterwards. alongside your body temperature, the simmering tension between the two of you also went down considerably.

"kenma, will you come in for a bit?" you asked at your door, fingers still wrapped around the neck of the half-empty soda bottle. you weren't sure why you asked, exactly, but you did want to talk things out — losing kenma like this wasn't something you wanted in any way, and you'd lose kuroo by proxy too, resulting in you having a total of zero best friends.

"sure," he replied. to anyone else, his voice would've sounded the same as usual — monotonous, a little bored — but you knew better. he was nervous. for a moment, that made you happy in a weird, twisted sort of way.

he sat cross-legged on your bedroom floor, eyes glued to the switch in his hands as he played. however, today his attention was on you, instead, mind subconsciously following you around your room. hearing you shuffle into the bathroom, he relaxed, but only a little. for some reason, he was sure that your silence was much more terrifying than whatever you were planning to say to him.

when you came out, you looked refreshed, calmer. you padded to your bed, now in your pjs and the terrible fluffy slippers that kenma always despised — until today. how could he ever have hated them, he wondered, when they were so indisputably you?

you forced him into the bathroom next (no sweaty people allowed in my room!) along with some of his clothes he'd left at yours before. it wasn't anything new. all three of you — you, kenma, kuroo — had each other's stuff scattered all around your rooms. the three of you had had a very equal relationship — or so you'd thought. until that fateful day almost a fortnight ago, when kenma had mumbled out an accidental love confession while trying to skip out on practice. surely it wasn't an actual confession, you thought. there was no way he could possibly like someone like you, right?

yeah. exactly. it was an accident, and he felt bad for leading you on so he avoided you. but how could he have known? there was no way that kuroo told him, was there? a new wave of panic washed over you, and you couldn't help but jump in surprise as kenma accidentally opened the bathroom door with an unnecessary amount of extra force and re-entered your room.

"kenma," you sighed with relief. "i got scared for a sec."

"who else would it be?" he asked, a small, slow smile creeping across his face.

"no— i don't know..." you trailed off. before you could say anything else, kenma decided to speak.

"i'm sorry," he said.

"whahuh?" the two words had caught you completely off guard. you hadn't been expecting him to say a specific thing, but you hadn't expected him to apologise either. he bristled uncomfortably under your surprised deer-in-headlights stare.

"i've been avoiding you," he tried next. it was true; you both knew it by now. how were you even supposed to respond? everything you thought of seemed wrong for the situation. instead, you decided to ask a question in return.

"why'd you say you were in love with me?"

kenma cringed at your question, as if it caused him to feel some sort of physical discomfort. "because? i am?"

it came out as more of a question than a statement, and only served to confuse you more. "what?"

and then the words finally registered into your brain, and your face creased into a little frown — an adorable one, too, kenma thought, but he had to remind himself to not get carried away right now. "no, that's impossible. who put you up to this, kuroo?"

a pained grimace crossed his face. "what? no. besides, kuro would never do that."

"then?" you demanded. no response. the two of you stayed silent, you sitting on your bed, and him at the other end of the room.

"um, i was twelve." kenma was the first to break the tensed silence, hating the sound of his own voice.

"when i first liked you, i guess," he added as an afterthought.

"no." you sat up straighter, eyes flicking to the calendar, where a date was circled in bright red marker. beside it, there was an extremely artistic rendition of what you could only guess to be a pudding, done by none other than kuroo. the marked date was kenma's eighteenth birthday. "that's—"

"a long time, i know," replied kenma resignedly. "kuro's told me enough, you don't have to make it worse."

"but i—"

"i know you don't reciprocate, and i'm not asking you to. all i want is for you to forget this ever—"

"kenma, shut the fuck up and let me speak!" you shrieked, tired of his delusional rambling. he flinched at the sound of your voice, but obeyed you all the same.

"i love you too, okay? so stop being stupid!"

kenma blinked in surprise. "huh?"

"didn't see that coming, did you?" you slid off your bed, grinning at him triumphantly.

i dont remember writing this or the process or anything at all. help :3 almost done with the screenshots for unreq lvrs org btw!!!!

[darkworkcourier]

Could you write Ghost x fem!reader where she finds him attractive but is too shy to actually tell him but also can't hide the way she's feeling, so Ghost notices her interest and eventually they end up in bed (*cough* you know what I mean)? Also Ghost being gentle and protective towards her, plz

Ps. I love your writing!

Word Count: 8314

i’m incapable of short prompt fills, apparently! o, but i am filled with grief!

anywho, reader’s codename is ‘ladybird’ (hc that soap gave it to her because she’s lucky) but is otherwise nameless.

contains masturbation, oral sex, lots of feelings, wee bit of slow burn, ghost being like weirdly emotional and soft, and soap’s gratuitous and unfortunate use of emojis. 💀/🐞4ever

---

The first time it really hits you, you're in a helicopter about two miles above the ground—honestly a terrible place to face your feelings. It's a velvet-dark night, strategically chosen for the new moon, the countryside below nearly invisible. You're almost in a doze, caught up in the Chinook's blades' low, thunderous pulse and the sporadic rocking as it hits little glades of turbulence. Your eyes lose focus on some of the running lights, until they turn hazy, and its only when the man across from you moves his boot do you snap back to attention.

Ghost. Right. You learned his name a few weeks ago during your orientation, but he was deployed on a recon mission only a day later. Price summoned him back for this mission, but aside from a few gruff comments at the all-hands meeting, you haven't heard him say much.

For a moment, you think he might have dozed off, too. He’s leaning back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed. And that’s fair, you think; Soap told you he didn’t think Ghost ever slept.

You silently study him, the way his head rocks a little with the turbulence, how much taller he is than everyone else in his row, the peculiar illusion that the eye sockets of his mask are empty—

And suddenly they aren’t.

He’s looking back at you, dark eyes regarding you passively, even though the mask makes every look significantly more intimidating. For moment that goes on way too long, you don’t look away, your gazes locked. Your heart takes the tracheal elevator to your throat, beating loud enough to drown out the Chinook’s roar.

You look away first, and you swear you hear him snort.

The rest of the journey to the drop-off zone, you deliberately don’t look at him; but when you close your eyes, there he is.

All you can think is ohhhh, shit.

---

Military crushes aren’t abnormal. Put enough people at the peak of physical excellence in a room, throw around some form-fitting uniforms, and mix in a few adrenaline rushes—it’s a goddamn potent mixture. You’ve had your share of mess hall dreamy-eyed gazing sessions, and a few ‘I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go’ moments in gyms and fitness centers. That’s fine; that’s normal.

What you start feeling for Ghost isn’t that.

Nevermind that he’s rarely out of tactical dress, and if he is, he usually defaults to a hoodie or something that doesn’t exactly entice the imagination. And he’s never out of some variation of his mask, so you can’t think woah, pal, do you cut glass with that jawline because as far as you can tell, he doesn’t have one. No mooning over cheekbones, admiring the curve of lips. He has nice eyes, but ever since the night in the Chinook, you haven’t been able to meet them for more than a second before your heart does that terrible little samba again.

Per your mental checklist, aside from being tall and muscular, he doesn’t check all your normal boxes. By all those counts, Gaz or Soap are way better fits. Hell, Soap likes to hang around in his silkies like they’re pajamas, showing off plenty to keep your fantasy fodder trough filled. And you’ve caught Gaz doing push-ups in the lounge, his tight shirt doing wonders for his shoulders.

But it’s Ghost who makes you feel like a hormonal teenager. It’s Ghost that gets you antsy and fidgety when he enters a room. And it’s Ghost that you think about during your rare alone time in the shower, when your hands start drifting south and the tile walls are your only support.

You’ve got it bad for him, and you have no idea what to do about it.

---

You’re doing recon in Berlin when Soap notices.

The mission details are simple: a drug lord known as Keiler using a night club as a go-between for his suppliers and dealers—all further complicated by the fact that he has plenty of friends in the arms trade, and by Laswell’s reports, he’s very generous to those friends. The club is a front, a money laundering wonderland. Through your observation, drugs and alcohol are doled out in equal volume, all to the backdrop of skull-splitting bass and sharp scalpels of strobe lights.

The biggest obstacle is that Keiler likes to use a private room overlooking the club as his perch, and your intelligence says that at any given time, he has a small army defending him. Getting to him requires an incredible degree of finesse. Naturally, Ghost is the one to do it.

You, Soap, and Gaz are scattered around the main floor of the club. Gaz is out on the dance floor, Soap’s taken up a spot near the bar, and you’re in the lounge. It’s the first time you’ve done something like this (and in an outfit with so little fabric), and you’re really not used to being ogled and pawed by a bunch of drunk, drugged, or horny Berliners.

Soap must see your discomfort from his position, as you hear a dry, amused, “Feelin’ a little tense, Ladybird?”

You swallow hard and chase it with a sip of your drink, which definitely needs to be watered down. “I’m fine,” you say.

“You look like you just drank petrol.”

“You’re the one who ordered it for me.”

Gaz cuts in with a weary, “Do we have eyes on Ghost, yet? I’m starting to get tired of people grabbing my—”

“I’m here,” Ghost’s voice scrapes over the comms, causing you to sit up straight and look around. You catch sight of Soap who has his hand curled in front of his mouth, clearly snickering like a heathen.

“Think you scared the shit out of Ladybird, LT,” he says.

He’s lucky he’s on the other side of the room, otherwise you’d pretend to be extremely clumsy and find an excuse to spill your drink on his (very, very tight) shirt. You mouth ‘shut up’ at him, and he reaches up with his pointer finger to draw an invisible halo over his head.

Ghost ignores him. “I’m near the east stairwell, headed to second deck. Got one guard at the far end. Gaz, you seein’ anything I should know about?”

A pause, then, “Negative, Ghost. I’ve got what you’ve got.”

“Copy. Going to second deck now.”

Out of habit, your eyes go to the east stairwell, peering through the haze pierced with multicolored lights to see a single dark shape ascending. He disappears behind a catwalk, then reappears to the right, mingling with the crowd near the second floor bar. Once he’s there, he seems to fade into the throng of people, most in dark clothing, some in masks. Just like that, he’s invisible.

It’s hard to focus on looking calm and happy to be there, but you keep sipping your drink, watching the dancers and feeling the bassline of yet another techno song thrumming in your chest. You’re glad you’re not out on the dance floor, or being called to give come-hither glances to bouncers and guards.

Then, “Coming back down to first deck,” Ghost says, clearly agitated. “Too many guards and too many people. We need another way up.”

Soap grins. “Violence isn’t the answer, LT?”

“Negative. Start looking for another route.”

On cue, you stand up and cross the room to the bar, sliding in beside Soap. He’s fishing for another couple Euro from his wallet, pushing it across to the bartender with two fingers. The bartender gives him a brief nod and refills his glass, while Soap turns his attention to you.

“Any bright ideas?”

You frown and adjust the straps on your top again. It’s a stupid piece of clothing, always feeling like it’s going to fall off. “Only the emergency stairs by the front doors, but I can’t imagine Keiler leaves those undefended.”

Soap looks thoughtful and scratches at his stubble. “Yeah, but probably no civilians, either. And if the door’s alarmed, Ghost can take care of that.”

As if summoned, you feel Ghost appear before you see him, a huge presence over your shoulder that makes you jump. “Jesus!” you hiss.

And Soap, the traitor, laughs to the point of wheezing as Ghost takes up the bar stool on his other side. “I think you’re giving our Ladybird here a complex,” Soap says through his laughter.

Ghost rolls his eyes. From this angle, you can see Ghost in more than just the dim light you’ve been working with most of the night. He’s not dressed too far outside his usual fashion wheelhouse—heavy boots, black trousers, and a loose black hoodie. His hood’s pulled up over a black beanie and a skull-painted gaiter, and he’s foregone his usual thick coating of greasepaint for black-ringed eyes (is that eyeliner?) and a streak of smoke-colored paint that just manages to obscure the color of his brows. The downside (for you, at least) is that the combo manages to draw his eyes into sharper contrast, making them that much more intense.

Suddenly, your heart’s doing the thing again.

Ghost doesn’t seem to notice any change in you, but you think Soap’s actually looking for it. He watches you, brows lifted, mouth curled like a flirtation of a smirk. Briefly, he glances between you and Ghost, and then the smirk appears in full force, enlightenment dawning.

Before he can insinuate a thing, you’re shoving your half-empty glass across the bar top with a too-high, “Bitte.” The bartender only gives you a brief, unamused look before taking your glass and remaking whatever godforsaken cocktail Soap ordered.

It’s not a good distraction, and the damage is already done. Soap knows, damnit. His smile is too easygoing, but he turns to Ghost and starts talking about the emergency stairwell, which is a relief. Ghost looks over his shoulder toward the stairwell in question, and as he does, Soap looks at you and makes the gesture of zipping his own mouth shut, throwing away the proverbial key with a wink.

As he does, Gaz pipes back up with, “Ghost, you copy?”

“Yeah, Gaz?”

“You, uh, know anything about a big guy with a tattoo of a boar on the back of his head?”

Ghost looks toward the dance floor, brows furrowing. “Yeah, that’d be Bauer, Keiler’s right hand man.”

“Great. Glad you know him, because he’s here.”

Shit. He wasn’t supposed to be. If Bauer’s here, then either Keiler’s doing something more than his usual partying upstairs, or Keiler knows someone’s here looking for him. Either way, the mission just got significantly harder, and your night got that much longer.

With a grunt, Ghost pushes off the bar and starts making his way to the emergency stairwell. “I’ll take care of it,” he says. “Keep your eyes open. Out here.”

Once he’s gone, there’s a pause—a very heavy pause. Then, Soap looks at you with an expression that is just a hair too pleased. “Ghost, huh?”

Your face heats up, right as the bartender hands you your drink. You reach for your wallet, only for the bartender to put a hand up and shake his head. “Nein, für das schöne Mädchen,” he says.

For the pretty girl.

“Bet Ghost thinks so, too,” Soap says, and you resolve to definitely spill your free drink on his too-tight pants.

---

Weeks after Keiler’s nice and cozy in a maximum-security prison and the 141 is back at base, you have another miniature existential crisis.

It’s all an accident—just a tempest of bad timing and bad luck. Ever since you came back from Germany, you’ve had a tough time getting a full night’s sleep. It’s easy to blame the natural stress of your work, the long hours, the high-adrenaline action you see more than you ever did before this job. And, well, part of it has to come from Ghost. He’s occupied your thoughts more than ever since the night club.

Your solution is to hit the gym late at night, pushing yourself until you can’t keep your eyes open and no amount of insomnia can overcome it. The first few nights of this effort work fine—you end up in bed around one or two in the morning, and sleep until your alarm goes off. No one bothers you; no one hogs the machines. It’s kind of nice.

However, you don’t account for all the night owls that share the base with you.

You head to the gym late on a Friday night, towel around your neck, water bottle at the ready, podcasts preloaded. If you ever hit the gym during the day, you usually do so in a t-shirt and sweatpants. At night, you’ve started opting for PT shorts and a tank top, happy for the lack of eyes around the room.

Except for tonight.

You open the door into the gym, only to hear the mechanical drone of a treadmill and someone sprinting damn fast on it. For a second, you freeze, hiding behind the corner. Then, slowly, you peer around it, clutching your phone and water bottle close to your chest.

Jesus Christ. It’s Ghost.

Ghost, in a t-shirt. In sweatpants. Running on a treadmill set to the highest incline. Panting.

Ghost, with bare arms, showing a detailed tattoo on his left arm, and prominent veins running over his chiseled muscles. He looks like a fucking Greek statue, and that’s just what you can see.

“Ohhh, my God,” you whisper to yourself, immediately working on an exit strategy that doesn’t involve catching his attention.

Which obviously doesn’t come to pass. It’s something you probably should have learned on the helo ride—Ghost knows when he’s being watched. He turns his head, dark eyes fixing on you immediately. Briefly, he looks back at the treadmill, then down at his watch, and back to the treadmill’s controls. He slows it down, dropping the incline, until he finally steps off and starts walking toward you.

Abort, abort.

You think about fleeing, running back to your room or rolling under a table or hiding behind a counter like he’s a goddamn velociraptor in the kitchen. You do none of those things, because despite your training, you freeze up. No one could blame you, you think. It’s hard to do much else when a six-foot-something skull-faced wall of muscle walks up to you. And you must look stellar, holed up in a corner by the door, your water bottle and phone held up like a shield.

Ghost takes in the sight of you, eyes flicking up, down, up. Heat rises to your face, and down to—to nowhere, because it’s better not to think about it. You suddenly feel too vulnerable in your choice of outfit, naked under his gaze.

“Ladybird,” he says. Your nickname becomes a hot scratch of sound, losing its whimsy in favor of a tone you can’t define. “You need somethin’?”

There’s a patch of sweat by his collar. You stare at it, then at the floor.

“No, I just—  I was, um, just about to leave, and... Yeah, I’m gonna go.”

He’s silent until you finally look up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time in what what feels like an eon. He looks amused, but there’s a quirk in his brow like he can’t quite get a good read on you. “You look like you were about to use the gym.”

You look down at your bottle, phone, and towel like you’re just now noticing them. When you bring your attention back to him, you feel like you need to just kick the door open and escape, dignity be damned. “I... was,” you say slowly. Then, you rally yourself, trying to look upbeat and resolved. “Y’know what? You can keep using it. I’ll come back later.”

He shrugs, but you see it. Some secondary expression slinking around in his eyes like it’s working through the perpetually-moving cogs in his head. He gives you another one of those assessing glances, and for a second, you think he’s going to step into your space. His body language looks primed to do so, and you hold your breath in anticipation for it, unsure of what he’s going to do.

Then he takes a step back, and another.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind it, though.”

Before you can process his words, he’s back on the treadmill, tweaking the settings and raising the incline again. The belt starts moving, and he’s back to looking like power personified, a vision in motion.

You have got it so bad.

It’s a hasty retreat to your room, and once the door’s shut behind you, you’re panting like you had run on the treadmill and lifted weights.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you hiss, discarding your things on the table beside your bed, kicking off your running shoes, then laying down and staring at the ceiling. He knows. He has to. Ghost’s whole job depends on him being observant, and he looked at you like he was reading a fucking book. 

You groan and press your palms into your eyes until phosphenes appear, dancing around and shimmering like fireworks behind your eyelids. You’re going to have to leave the 141 out of pure mortification. You’ll have to go into some kind of witness protection, change your name, and move to the other side of the earth. Or if you stay, you’ll have to pretend Ghost doesn’t exist. You’ll hide behind walls, slinking through the building’s HVAC just to avoid him like you’re working on a heist. Maybe you can convince Soap or Gaz to accompany you everywhere so you can hide behind their bulk.

But then, your horrible brain reminds you of what you’ll miss out on. It runs through a greatest hits reel of your crush so far—Ghost’s eyes, his presence stretching long over you like a shadow, his massive frame, his arms. The tattoo, detailed enough to tell from a distance, and then the thought of running your fingers over it, tracing all the fine points and lines. And are those his only tattoos, or are there more?

And his voice. Jesus, you replay the few words you’ve heard him say over and over, savoring each syllable, each quirk of his accent. Even the last thing he said—

I wouldn’t mind it, though.

That makes you open your eyes again, widening them as you take in the pocks and scrapes on the ceiling. He wouldn’t mind what? Having company in the gym? Having you, specifically, as his company? You don’t know what to make of it, or what he meant by it. Honestly, you feel like you don’t know anything right now.

Except that you want him. That’s the only thing you’re sure of. You want to know how his hands feel on you, how they would run over your bare skin, what the callouses on his fingers would feel like on the most delicate and sensitive parts of your body. Your imagination leaps ahead of you, guiding your own hand down into your shorts and under the band of your panties. You tease yourself, just dipping your fingers into the wet heat, trailing them over your clit like a hint to yourself, coaxing your arousal out of your panic.

His hands would feel different. When you rub your index finger over your clit, you imagine his finger instead, pressing gently against you, building up friction slowly, making you ache. You wonder if he’d savor your reactions, watching you get worked up, grinding against his hand to seek any kind of relief.

“Easy, Ladybird,” you imagine him saying, the nickname now a tease. And he’d know your real name, the one hidden away in your file. He’d whisper it into your ear, breath hot on your neck, his whole body eclipsing yours.

Your pace quickens, fingers running urgently between your clit and opening, causing your core to tighten and your breath to come in short gasps and barely-concealed moans. Ghost would tell you to let them out, let the whole damn base hear how aroused he makes you, how badly you’ve wanted him.

You breathe his name into the small space of your room, a whisper in the still air broken only by the low hum of the forced air in the vents. When you finally plunge your fingers in, it takes every bit of self-control not to outright moan and let everyone nearby know what you’re doing. Normally, you can stay quiet when you get yourself off, but you’re damn near frantic with this, whatever it is Ghost has done to you.

His fingers in you, fucking you in long, languid strokes, drawing himself out and pushing back in—all the while, watching your reactions. When you rock your hips to the pace of your hand, you imagine his voice again, “That’s right. Fuck yourself on my hand. Let me see you.”

You’d show him. Hell, you’d soak his hand, and it would remind him that it’s his fault you’re like this.

The wet sounds of your hand on your cunt is lewd and loud. It’s almost too much, enough to make you stop at the apex of your pleasure, to hide yourself under the blankets in shame and pretend that none of this happened.

But the vision of Ghost keeps you going, keeps your fingers moving in and out, crooking them inside and forcing out a gasp as a white-hot shock of pleasure lances up your spine and settles warm in your belly. The pad of your thumb presses against your clit, and you multitask on yourself, building up that friction, bringing yourself to the precipice.

He’d take you there. He might even pull you back from the edge over and over, teasing you with the fall.

“Do you want it? How bad? Show me.”

God, you would. Any way he wanted, you would show him. You’d beg and plead if that’s what got him to finally make you come.

So you whisper, “Please,” into the night, to a man who is never going to be in your bed, never going to touch you like this, never going to see your pleasure through to the end. The Ghost in your imagination has to stay there, behind locked doors and bulkheads, secured and contained for good.

But until then, you chase your orgasm with him, hitting that divine height and going into a freefall. Blood rushes in your ears, muscles twitching, heart racing. Your head comes off the pillow, back arching, toes digging into the mattress, mouth open on a moan that you refuse to let loose. You come way harder than you ever have using your own hand, enough that when you finally lower yourself back onto the bed, you grimace at the feeling of a wet patch on the sheets.

“Fuck,” you say, very emphatically. To yourself, to Ghost, to the whole damn situation.

Groaning, you reach over and grab the towel, wiping your hand and tucking it under your ass before rolling onto your back again and wondering what the hell you’re going to do.

---

You’re going to hide from Ghost, that’s what.

Captain Price gives the team a few days off to rest up for the next mission, and you decide right then and there that you’re going to spend every second off base, as far away from the barracks as you can get. You’ll get a hotel, order a ridiculously expensive amount of room service, and marinate in your feelings for a couple days until it’s all out of your system. Maybe you’ll go to a bar or coffee shop and chat up some nice person who isn’t a tall, broad, terrifying British soldier. And maybe you’ll have a night of incredible passion and twisted sheets, and it’ll be so cathartic that when you come back to base, you’ll be a whole new person.

That plan holds until your phone goes off while you’re packing up.

It’s a text from Soap: ‘wyd?’

‘Going off radar for a couple days. Why?’

He sends a sad emoji, then two beer glasses clinking together, a soccer ball, and then a big red question mark. Apparently, Soap only knows how to speak in hieroglyphs.

You smile, and type back, ‘Sorry, need to go clear my head.’

Skull emoji. Question mark.

‘None of your beeswax,’ you send, followed by the soap emoji.

‘that sucks,’ he types back. There’s a short pause, and then he types again. ‘cause he was looking for u earlier’

Your heart damn near comes to a stop, and you very hesitantly respond, ‘Why?’

‘idk. think he wanted to ask u smth’

Nope. You’re not taking the bait. If Ghost wants to talk to you, he can come right up and—and you can walk off in the opposite direction and act like there’s something incredibly interesting that you need to see right that second.

You type a few variations of ‘Then he can come and talk to me himself,’ but none of them sound particularly nice. Ghost hasn’t done anything wrong, so there’s no reason for you to act like he has. And for that matter, you’re supposed to be hiding from Ghost, not encouraging him to find you. Instead, you send back a clipped, ‘Okay.’

Nothing.

For one hopeful second, you think Soap’s mercifully let the conversation go, allowing you to go in peace to your nice hotel and your overpriced room service food.

Instead, you get the sunglasses emoji, a wink face, and, ‘k i told him to come see u’.

‘WHAT’

The only response is the skull and the little running cloud dash emoji, suggesting that Ghost is making a beeline right to your room. Panic seizes you and you fling your phone on your bed like somehow it’s going to help. It bounces harmlessly, then lands screen up, emojis taunting you.

Quickly, you start shoving the rest of your clothes and toiletries in your bag without a care as to where everything goes, eager to book it out of there as fast as your legs can take you. Once your bag is zipped up and thrown over your shoulder, you think you might be in the clear. Mission nearly accomplished.

Nearly.

Two solid knocks on your door almost make you hit the ceiling. You hold still, using that Jurassic Park wisdom again: if you don’t move, he can’t see you.

That applies to fictional dinosaurs, not trained killers, and certainly not Ghost. He knocks again, then follows it up with, “Ladybird, it’s me.”

Yeah, you know. That’s the problem.

Briefly, you consider going out the window, shimmying out and potentially getting caught on a base security camera for someone to laugh at later. That doesn’t make the problem go away, though.

You can just tell him you’re in a hurry, that your ride is at the gate right now and you don’t want to keep them waiting. Whatever conversation he wants to have, it’ll have to wait until you get back. It’s a good response. Solid. Foolproof.

And it dissolves the second you open the door.

He’s there, not vanished in the disappearing act you were hoping for, and all that want flares up again the moment you see him. He’s in casual dress like what he wore to the club—boots, jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, balaclava. His posture’s more relaxed, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other hanging at his side. You meet his eyes, and your regret mixes with desire welling up inside you.

It’s that intense gaze from the helo, the brief but incendiary look from Berlin, the thoughtful gaze from the gym. You’re drawn up in it immediately, and this time, there’s no possibility of looking away. Ghost has you locked in.

He takes in the sight of you, dressed in your civvies, backpack on your shoulders, and raises his brows. “Going somewhere?”

Your mouth is cotton-dry, and you’re proud of yourself for putting a little syntax together. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m headed out.”

Right now, you should say. I’m going out right this second and I cannot be stopped. Do not engage.

But you don’t say that. You leave the words as they are, hanging between the two of you. In that moment, you’re two opposing fronts of contradictions—you want him to go, stay, talk, stay silent, touch you, leave you alone.

Ghost seems to sense this, that you’re not making any move to either speak to him or push him away. He doesn’t get into your space, staying right where he is while looking at you with his head slightly tilted. “Can I come in a sec?”

No. “Yes.” Please.

You take a step back, allowing him to walk into your room. His presence seems to fill it, like there’s too much of him and too little space to contain it. He closes the door behind himself, then finds a spot against the wall (the rare section that isn’t covered by posters or mementos) and leans against it. Still, still giving you your space.

You’re all nerves, waiting for him to speak, yet feeling like you should say something—to get all your feelings out in the open, exposed and waiting for him to pick over and do with what he will. But your anxiety and silence wins out, and instead you fidget, trying to find a point in the room to fix your gaze. Ghost takes all your attention though, holding it in a firm, invisible grip that can’t be broken no matter what you do. You get now, more than ever, why people are so scared of him when they end up at the wrong end of his skill set—he immobilizes them, rendering them completely unable to do a damn thing.

He watches you for an agonizingly long moment, then sighs. “Look, I didn’t want to bother you if you were busy, but Soap said you were around,” he says. Ghost doesn’t trail off or leave a space in his words for you to fill in the blanks. It’s a good thing—no place for you to misinterpret him—but it suddenly leaves you terrified at the possibility of what he’s going to say.

“Just for a little bit,” you hear yourself say, voice subdued and small.

He nods. “Then I’ll just get it out now before you go. More or less a question.”

Fuck. You feel a strange, uncomfortably cold sensation curl up tight and tense in your stomach. The feeling of standing at the edge of a long drop, knowing you have no choice but to let go.

His eyes are locked on yours, unrelenting, pinning. And then he says, “Do you have feelings for me?”

Right. No way to misinterpret.

You suck in a breath—a gasp, jerking at the question even though you knew it was coming.

You could lie. It’d be easy to do, just a few movements of tongue, jaw, and lips. No, I don’t. Three easy words. You could say you appreciate him as a teammate, as a professional, as someone you can trust in tough situations. He has your back; you have his. Anything beyond that is too much, to far outside of the commanding officer-subordinate hierarchy.

But you can’t lie to him. He’ll know. He’s trained in looking for tells, for the slightest quirk to denote that you’re holding back the truth. That, and you don’t want to lie to him.

Instead, quietly, you say, “Yes,” and inwardly brace for impact. Any kind of dressing-down from your C.O. and reminder of responsibilities and duties; or on a personal level, that Ghost doesn’t do relationships. You’re tensed up, waiting for its inevitable blow and all the shrapnel that’s definitely going to land right in your heart.

“Oh,” he says.

Oh.

Just one syllable, said deceptively, uncharacteristically soft. It belies so many things—possibilities, dangers. This man is fucking complicated.

And then he takes a step toward you. Just one. Just enough to close the gap that many inches. You don’t back up, but you’re too afraid to walk to him, unsure of what’s coming next.

He’s looking down at you, gaze passive, calm, and strangely open. You’ve learned new and interesting ways to read his eyes since you fell for him, but this one has an unknown definition, a kinesic oddity that you can’t translate.

And for a moment, you let yourself hope.

Then, he says your name. Not Ladybird. Not your rank. Your name. The sound of it is a rush in your ears, in your whole head, through every artery, vein, and capillary. He takes another step, slower than the first, drawing in closer before he says, “Do you want this?”

You nod. There’s nothing else you can do. You take a step toward him, looking up into his eyes and trying to read everything there. “Do you?” you ask. You’re still waiting for the rejection, as though Ghost is the type of person to lure you in only to shut you down.

Rejection doesn’t come. Instead, he steps forward to close the gap, one of his hands finding your waist.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

Holy shit.

You stare at him in surprise, and the look on your face must be ridiculously easy to read. His other hand goes up under your chin, tilting your face toward him. The touch of his fingers is exactly like you imagined, the callouses on his thumb brushing over the soft skin underneath your jaw, causing you to shiver.

Ghost leans in close to your left side, skull’s grin close to your ear, and whispers, “Thought you hated me. Every time I looked at you, you’d look away.”

A near-hysterical laugh bubbles up in your throat, and comes out as a compressed, breathless giggle. All that time, you were so hopelessly in love with him, you couldn’t look at him without feeling like your heart was about to give out; and he interpreted that as dislike.

“God, no,” you say. “Total opposite.”

He laughs in your ear, and the sound chases out the remainder of that cold tension, replacing it with a newfound heat that feels good. “Wish I’d known sooner,” he says, and one of his hands goes up to push a strap of your backpack off your shoulder.

You ease out of it, dropping it to the floor, before reaching out and tentatively touching his waist in return. Through the fabric of his hoodie, you can feel how solid he is underneath, and you run your hand along his side in silent wonder.

Ghost moves back suddenly, and you only have a second to question why before the light goes out, leaving you in muted darkness permeated only by the bare sliver of sunlight filtering through your curtain. One hand finds your waist again, pulling you close, walking you toward your bed.

All you can think is no fucking way over and over, even as the back of your legs hit the side of the bed, and Ghost is lowering you down. Your back touches the mattress, head on the pillow, and Ghost is over the top of you, his hands bracketing your head. He looks down at you, mostly in shadow, only the bright white of the skull motif visible in the darkness. Then, his eyes flicker to his left, and he abruptly snorts.

You furrow your brow. “What?”

Wordlessly, his hand moves to the right of your head, and he picks up your phone.

Your phone which is still on, showing the emoji-heavy conversation with Soap. Ghost flips the phone to show you the last text he sent.

Skull emoji, kiss, black heart, red heart, ladybug, eggplant, peach, confetti ball, birthday cake.

“What the fuck, Soap?” you say under your breath, grabbing the phone from Ghost. You quickly turn it off and shove it onto your bedside table, groaning in embarrassment.

Ghost shakes his head, and unlike Soap, he doesn’t remark on it. Instead, he brings the situation right back on the rails with one hand going up under your shirt. Then, he says, “Close your eyes a second.”

You do, without question. You hear a faint rustle of fabric, and then his lips press against yours.

You gasp against his mouth, and that thrill you felt at hearing your name seems to rush back through you twofold at the thought that he took his mask off for you. He kisses you firmly, a guarantee that this is what he wants. You reach up with one hand, combing your fingers through his hair, nails scraping along his scalp and drawing out a quiet groan. He smells like standard-issue soap and laundry detergent, and the faint spice of cologne only just clinging to his skin. The feeling of kissing him is dizzying, entrancing, and the sound of it just hammers home that this is happening to you, in your room, with him.

He pulls back just a little, kissing a trail from the corner of your mouth down to your chin, then your jaw, and up to your ear. The sensation makes you shiver again, arching up into him involuntarily. You hear and feel an amused huff of breath, before he says, “What do you want?”

Good god, what don’t you want?

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Anything. Whatever you want.”

He nods against your neck, then tilts his head up to press a kiss to your temple. “Tell me if it’s too much, or if there’s something you don’t like. Communicate.”

You grin, mostly at the sotto voce version of his command voice. “Yes, sir.”

He huffs a laugh and continues kissing down your neck, down to the hemline of your shirt. Undressing comes as an easy next step, shoes off first (and they were on the bed, ugh), and then Ghost pulls your shirt up; you lift yourself enough to help him pull it over your head. In the darkness, he does the same, and you watch his silhouette remove his hoodie, then pull his shirt over his head and drop it off the side of the bed. You can’t see his face, but the faint beam of sunlight touches his hair and brings out a hint of pale gold. It feels like a secret shared between you, adding to that warmth building up inside.

He leans back down, kissing down your sternum to the upper hem of your sports bra. He starts to go lower, and you decide then that you’d like to take at least a little initiative.

“Wait,” you whisper. “Come back up here.”

He does, like he’s accustomed to obeying your orders rather than the other way around. You reach up and touch his chest, eager to feel this part of him, the one he typically buries under layers of clothing and gear. He sighs at your touch, head dropping down to rest on the pillow beside you.

He’s firm and toned with well-honed muscle earned through endless missions and exercise. At the same time, the skin of his chest is surprisingly soft—even the scattered network of scars and keloids that mark his body. You feel old and new wounds, some still raised as they heal, some concave with age. They’re long, short, thick, thin, orderly, and jagged. Starbursts of bullet wounds, hard lines of cuts, spatters of shrapnel, textured lines of old stitches. His whole torso tells a long, tragic story from cover to cover, chest to back.

But he leans into this read of him, letting you feel every scar, every painful moment. His breathing is steady in your ear, giving way to the occasional sigh as your fingers trail over his skin.

In turn, he touches you. You don’t have even a fraction of his scars, but you have a few he can note. You know when he touches them, by the way his touch lingers, learning each one. It feels reverential, or communal—the two of you engaging in a silent trust exercise. He doesn’t ask about them, and neither do you. All of that is for another time.

Ghost presses a kiss to your shoulder, then pushes up until he’s over top of you again. His free hand goes down to the waistline of your jeans, finger tracing teasingly over the zipper. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” you say, breathless. As if you’d say anything else.

He undoes the button, then the zipper, slowly pulling your jeans to your hips, then removing them entirely. He sits up on the edge of the bed for a moment, removing his boots, then his jeans. You lay there, watching him move, feeling your arousal start to grow and burn like a low flame.

When he touches you again, you silently agree that you wish you’d said or done something sooner. It’s bliss. He’s gentle with you, mindful even, in a way you’ve never experienced or anticipated from someone like him. He helps you out of your bra, letting you pull it all the way off before his hands palm your breasts in slow, deliberate movements. It’s an extension of his exploratory touches, learning your body inch by inch.

Your breathing quickens, and Ghost looks up at you in what you guess is concern. “Doing alright?” he asks.

Your face grows hot, and you nod, turning your head to kiss his cheek. “I’m fine,” you reply. “I just don’t know what to do.”

It’s not like you haven’t had sex before, but sex with him feels completely different, like it doesn’t belong in the same category. You’ve never wanted someone this badly, or had someone respond to you like this. It’s almost overwhelming, but Ghost reaches up and combs some of your hair away from your face before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Lie back a bit,” he instructs. “And tell me if you need me to stop.”

You do as he says, leaning up against the pillows as he moves down your body, leaving a trail of kisses down your torso to your hips. He’s a shadow moving over you, long and languid, and every touch just adds to the mounting heat. When his fingers touch the hem of your underwear, you shiver in anticipation, then arch your hips to give him a little leverage in removing them. In one motion, you’re exposed to him, even in the dark. Yet after touching him, and him touching you, you don’t feel as vulnerable. If anything, this feels safe. This feels right.

His hands go to your hips, then run slowly along the outer sides of your thighs. You think he might fulfill that fantasy from earlier, fingering you until you’re a mess, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure with his skilled hands.

Which is why it surprises the hell out of you when he goes lower, until his head is between your thighs, sunlight leaving gold stripes along his back.

“Ghost,” you gasp.

He looks up at you, and now more than ever, you wish you could see his face. You only see the faint shine of his eyes, but at that moment, it’s enough.

Then he spreads you, and licks a stripe from your opening to your clit.

If you were entertaining any thoughts before, any fantasies carefully curated in those rare hours of alone time, they flee in that single movement. Even the Ghost of your imagination never did this, tasting and savoring you in long, slow laps that make your whole brain short out like a blown fuse. The sound is goddamn obscene, especially as he leans in close and starts to lap at your clit. It’s a shock of sound in the silence, louder than even your own noises when you got yourself off.

Your right hand finds his head, fingers running through his hair as he licks you. He alternates between short laps and long strokes, tongue circling around your clit, teasing you, making you shudder and moan. It’s frustrating and fucking heavenly, the sensation of ebb and flow, receding and rushing waves of heat building up then flowing back.

Right when you think you can’t take the teasing anymore, he switches tactics. The teasing abruptly ends, and Ghost gets relentless.

You moan way too loud when he sucks at your clit, tongue swirling around it, the sound of his mouth on you loud as a gunshot. You swear they have to hear it down the hallway, or anywhere on base. At this point, though, you really don’t care who hears you, because they don’t have Ghost between their legs, getting them off in ways no deity ever intended.

Then his fingers join his mouth, index tracing circles around your entrance, dipping in slowly, tauntingly.

“Fuck.” The word is sharp in the air, as you arch at the sensation.

It’s too much; it’s not enough.

He tilts his head up a little, but when he speaks, you feel his warm breath ghost over your sex. “Let me hear you,” he says, words drawn straight out of your fantasies. Every door containing that imaginary version of Ghost is unlocked, every bulkhead breached—that Ghost and this one are one in the same.

And when he pushes that first finger into you, you follow his order to the letter.

It comes out as a broken wail, cut off when he starts thrusting and licking you in alternate strokes. His pace quickens, merciless, sharp eyes watching you from the shadows as your head rolls back on the pillow, chest heaving to catch a single solid breath. Your hands drop to your sides, fisting the sheets just to have something to hang onto, any kind of anchor as Ghost guides you through a tempest.

You moan his name, last consonant catching on a sob of pleasure when he starts to add a second finger. Only then does he pause, and the absence of his mouth is stark. 

Then he says your name, temporarily drawing you out of the cumulonimbus of arousal you’re flying through, briefly bringing you back to earth.

You look down at him, the silhouette of his head, small locks of hair sticking up from where your fingers combed through. You see him tilt his head to rest his cheek against your inner thigh, and his voice rolls out like a dull roar of thunder in your ears. “It’s Simon,” he says. “I wanna hear you say it.”

Somehow, hearing his real name in the midst of all this is almost too much. Like the last little vestige of a play on stage falling away and revealing the inner workings of the backstage, all the ropes and pullies holding the show together. He’s more exposed now, more raw, more human.

You reach down, trembling hand brushing over his cheek, over stubble and scar tissue, and the soft skin of a very real face.

“Simon,” you whisper. It sounds like a confession.

He doesn’t reply, but you feel him smile against your hand, briefly turning his head to press a kiss against your palm. Then he’s lowering himself down again, coaxing you out of the eye of the storm and back into the maelstrom. Two fingers thrust and curl, filling you, leaving you empty, touching places that send bolts of pleasure through you.

Your pulse becomes the thunder of the helo’s blades, your body trembling with midair turbulence. Simon fucks you on his fingers, tongue lathing over your clit, mouth fucking worshiping you. He takes you to that precipice, the long fall, the drop through cloud cover to a faintly-marked point on the earth.

The step off the edge feels like perfect, natural progression.

Your orgasm sweeps through you from toe to tip, a roll of white-out pleasure shaking you, wringing a cry out of your mouth that makes Simon fuck you harder. His fingers don’t let up, working you through the tidal wave, taking you to shore on the other side.

You’re boneless at the end, slumping back on the pillow and panting, shivering, taking stock of your limbs and extremities as they each come back online after the outage. You only vaguely register the feeling of Simon moving on the bed, coming up to lay beside you.

He murmurs your name, then kisses you, and you can smell and taste yourself on him. Your hand goes up to run along his jawline, one rogue thought telling you, yeah, you can cut glass with it.

How everything gets so gentle afterwards is beyond you. Simon’s hand is on your face, thumb brushing the soft skin under your right eye. You can feel his erection against your leg, and somewhere in the back of your mind—still tingling with pleasure, shimmering bright and brilliant—you know how you’re going to take initiative.

You break the kiss just for a moment, delighting in the soft sigh of protest you hear and feel against your cheek. Then you lean in close, pitching your voice low like his, hoping it has the same effect on him.

“Hope you don’t have any plans this weekend,” you say, brushing your hand over his shoulder.

You feel him smile against your skin, and he shakes his head.

“Thought you were heading out,” he says.

“Only if you’re going with me.”

One arm goes around your waist, pulling you close as he nuzzles against your neck. “We have some time, though, right?” his voice slides over you, suggestion clear and presented like a gift.

God, yeah you do.

---

Somewhere in between rounds, your phone goes off on your bedside stand.

Once.

Twice.

You don’t hear it, and the short buzz is drowned out by moans and the soft slap of skin on skin. When Simon makes a move like he’s going to check on it, you hook him back in place with your leg around his waist, pulling him in close, then kissing him silent. He falls into it, all too happy to oblige.

So you miss the skull and ladybug emojis, then the volume symbol.

[shaunamilfman]

Being Jackie Taylor's controversially young gf

pairing: jackie taylor x reader note: let me be delusional lmaoo

definitely broke up a semi-serious relationship with a man she'd been dating for a year or so when she realized she would have to spend the rest of her life with that guy. In my mind she got really drunk one night at a sorority party and had an “oh, shit” moment and avoided him for two weeks before breaking up with him. 

i see Jackie as a news anchor. honestly, I think it would really fit her. always struck me as a morning person.

meets you at a coffee shop that she has to rush into at the crack of dawn before work. she's so fucking happy and in a good mood that it puts you off at first. like seriously, it's like 6 AM, why is she smiling??

Jackie immediately takes a liking to you. starts going out of her way to stop by whenever you're working, even though it's five minutes out of her way and she likes the coffee at the other shop better. 

she's so flirty, incessantly even. she derives so much pleasure from making you nervous. even with all the flirting she does, she doesn't seriously expect you to reciprocate her interest. she's immediately stunned and a little unsure when she realizes you wrote a flirty comment on her cup, because don't you realize how old she is? 

comes back in the next day and mentions it and is immediately flattered when you just shrug and hand her the usual before she can even order it. Jackie's so flustered by your attention that she leaves without paying. runs back ten minutes later and practically throws the money at you before sprinting back to work. 

Jackie really likes the fact that you don't know who she is. i mean, who watches the news anymore?? 

you finally catch a clip of her as the anchor and realize what she does. she gets so shy when you tease her about it. asking her for her autograph as a joke and she's tripping over herself and bright red

god, she's never like this but you just make her so nervous sometimes. makes her feel like a kid again and she never thought she'd like that. 

doesn't even cross her mind to be embarrassed or hesitant about dating someone half her age. starts talking about your college classes and one of her friends is like “oh, it's good they're going back to college at their age” and Jackie's just like “oh no, they went straight out of highschool 🥰.” doesn't even notice the way their jaw dropped as they're doing the math. 

worries constantly about how you perceive her. she seems so charismatic and confident that you wouldn't think she would be so insecure, but it's constantly on her mind. she's not embarrassed about you at all but she keeps waiting for the day that you realize she's too ‘old’ ever since someone pointed that out to her for the first time. 

tries way too hard to seem hip and cool. she spent hours researching how to use modern slang correctly even though she already mostly had it down. 

over the moon whenever you reference liking something from the 90s. she'll talk your fucking ear off about it if you let her. 

Jackie values your validation a lot less than she would've at 18, but she still really needs to be the center of your attention. one off comment from you can really have her off kilter for the rest of the day even if you didn't mean it. Jackie's more chill about it now, but she still has a desperate need to be liked. 

she gets so jealous when it comes to people your own age. there's so many spaces you’re in that she really just can't enter due to her age and it drives her crazy thinking about all the people who might be able to relate to you better or on a different level. 

such a reality TV fan. has you on the couch for days getting caught up on all 12 seasons of her favorite show before the new season airs. you just know she's got the best snacks though. 

ridiculously supportive of every little thing you do. if it has a competition attached, trust that she will be in the front row with your picture on a t-shirt. People definitely think she's your mom with how extra she is about it, but she doesn't even care. the crowd audibly gasps when she kisses you afterward, but she doesn't notice as she's too busy hyping you up about getting fifth place.

most considerate gift giver on the planet, I swear. she only gets better with age. it's so sweet and thoughtful that you almost tear up every time. 

won't lie about her age but also won't correct other people. your friends are like “what is she, thirty???” in disbelief when they meet for the first time and Jackie's ass is just like “... yes. that's it.” 

world’s most expensive makeup collection, i swear. it’s so expansive that you're almost in awe the first time you see it. entire shelves dedicated solely to it

sometimes when you get bored sitting outside the shower listening to Jackie yap you start googling the prices of things just to feel something. what do you mean that skin cream was $250???

Offers to give you a tour as an excuse to get you into her room. You’re looking around her one-story house like 🤔. You’re not sure there’s a single room in this house you can’t see from the living room, but you’re not stupid enough to give up that chance.

[steddieas-shegoes]

Eddie was acting weird.

Well, he was always a little weird. But this was weirder than usual.

For one thing, he kept sneaking into the bedroom as soon as he got home from work, not even acknowledging that Steve was cooking dinner in the kitchen. He always came up behind him and kissed his shoulder before going to shower. Always. But not for the last couple of weeks.

Then, Steve noticed he would be on the phone with Hopper of all people. It’s not that they didn’t get along, they’d moved well past that, but they didn’t exactly seek each other out for conversations. He waited until Steve was in the shower or already in bed, which rubbed Steve a bit wrong. Eddie never hid shit from him.

But the turning point, the moment that Steve decided he needed to say something, was when Eddie went to dinner with Robin. Alone.

Eddie and Robin were friends. Some would even say close friends. It’s hard not to be when you face what they have together. But they always hung out with Steve.

So when Steve found out they’d been out without him, he confronted Eddie.

“What the hell are you up to?”

Steve was maybe coming off as a bit of an asshole. His hands on his hips like he was ready to discipline a child, his face serious, voice stern. But he had to know what was going on.

Eddie raised an eyebrow, not used to being at this end of Steve’s mom pose. He usually stood behind him with a smirk, arms crossed in front of his chest to emphasize his disappointment and amusement at whatever child had earned it.

“What do you mean?”

Steve rolled his eyes.

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Dinner with Robin? Without me?”

“Am I not allowed to be her friend without you?”

Eddie’s voice had turned guarded in a way that it hadn’t been with Steve in years.

Steve paused. Something was wrong. Eddie wouldn’t be acting like this if it wasn’t something big.

But what could he possibly be talking with Robin and Hopper about secretly? Was he in trouble? Were they trying to charge him with something from years ago? Why would he go to Robin about that and not Steve? Why would he have to sneak into the bedroom every evening?

The math wasn’t adding up, but Steve nearly failed math two years in a row so maybe he shouldn’t try to make the calculations.

“Are you in trouble? I can help. We can go somewhere. Hopper doesn’t have to know. Is he helping you? He should, he knows you’re innocent. They can’t even charge you for anything anymore right? There’s like, a statue of limits or something?”

Eddie was staring blankly at him.

It must be worse.

Maybe he was going into Witness Protection and Steve couldn’t come so he was trying to plan how to tell Steve. Oh God, Steve couldn’t let him go with no idea where he would end up or what his name would even be.

“Eds, please. You can’t go. They may not give you a choice, but you could maybe write to me so I can follow you? I’ll change my name too.” Steve felt tears in his eyes, and he hated it. He hated that his reaction to this was panic and crying as if he was the one in trouble and on the run. “Do they know we’re a package deal? And Robin. Robin will have to come. Is that what you talked about at dinner?”

Eddie was still just staring at him.

“Eddie please. Talk to me.”

Eddie shook himself out of his stupor, looking down at the floor and mumbling something Steve couldn’t quite hear.

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“I’m taking you to Disney World.”

That was not a sentence Steve ever thought he would hear. Especially not from Eddie fucking Munson.

His first reaction was to laugh, but when he saw the way Eddie’s face fell, he stopped.

“Um. Okay. You’re serious,” Steve let his thoughts wander as he watched Eddie’s whole body tense the way it did when he was working himself up.

Steve thought about how they had watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade last year and saw a float from a new Disney film, he couldn’t remember which one now, but he remembered turning to Eddie and saying, “you know my parents never took me to Disney World? All that money and they spent it all on their exotic vacations and cruises and left me at home.” Eddie had looked at him like he broke his heart before he said “Wayne could never afford it so I never really bothered to ask.”

And it wasn’t that a lot of their friends had been. Growing up, more kids spent time at beach resorts or the lake for summer vacations. Disney was still so new to people, it seemed like a pipe dream for anyone who didn’t have at least a middle class income.

But Steve saw the commercials. He watched the movies. He secretly loved the idea of a whole park dedicated to the childhood happiness and magic he felt when he watched them.

But he never asked his parents, and by the time he thought he could try to go, he was “too old.”

He’d given up on the thought.

Eddie was playing with his rings nervously, still avoiding eye contact with Steve.

“You’re taking me to Disney World?” Steve felt his voice break as the realization washed over him.

Eddie was somehow finding the money to take him to a place he’d secretly wanted to go since he was a kid, even though it was a place he probably didn’t want to go, and he’d wanted to take him so badly he somehow involved Robin and Hopper in the planning process.

God, he loved him so much.

Steve stepped closer to Eddie, hesitantly reaching out to pull his hands apart and lace their fingers together.

Eddie finally looked up at him and Steve couldn’t help leaning in to kiss him softly.

“You’re taking me to Disney World.”

Eddie nodded, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

“How? When? Why does Robin know? Why does Hopper know?”

Eddie chuckled before he placed a kiss on Steve’s forehead.

“Robin knows because she’s been arranging everything. I couldn’t really do it here and work’s been busy so I couldn’t do it there. She offered to help. We’ve been planning it since last Christmas.”

Steve felt himself fall even more in love. Somehow, the love of his life and his platonic soulmate have been planning this incredible trip for him for six months and had only recently given anything away.

“Hopper knows because I did have to make sure I could leave the state. I know my name was cleared, but I just wanted to be certain. Then, he got involved with the planning because he wants to take El and Will this year.”

Steve was gonna start crying, probably any second. He could feel the lump in his throat getting thicker.

“I’ve been saving up anything extra for months. The kids all put in some money to buy your ticket. Mrs. Wheeler let me use Mr. Wheeler’s airline miles to book the flight so it was only about half the cost. Mrs. Henderson gave me her work bonus to put towards the hotel at Dustin’s insistence. Apparently she usually uses it to send him to camp, but he didn’t want to go this year. So. Yeah. Surprise?”

Steve was crying.

Everyone had played a part in this happening, and Eddie was the man behind it all.

Steve threw his arms around Eddie’s neck and jumped to wrap his legs around his waist. He did this all the time, so Eddie only stumbled a little before settling with his hands under Steve’s thighs to hold him up.

“I love you so fucking much,” Steve said against Eddie’s shoulder, tears staining his shirt. “Thank you.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart.”

Eddie placed a kiss on Steve's temple, letting his lips linger for a minute before pulling away.

“So we leave this weekend.”

Steve dropped his legs, immediately panicking about the trip.

“What? What about work? I have so much to do. How long will we be gone? I’m supposed to bring Dustin and Will to a show Sunday. Oh no. I don’t even have a bathing suit. There’s a pool at the hotel right?”

Eddie kissed him, effectively shutting him up, though not quite quelling his panic.

“I’ve already arranged all that. Mike got his license and got permission to drive them. Robin got you off the schedule. There’s a bathing suit in the bag I’ve been packing slowly for weeks.”

“Oh my God, that’s what you’ve been doing. I’ve been standing here waiting for my hello kiss while you secretly pack things for a surprise trip to Disney World. I’m so stupid.”

“Hey. None of that.”

Steve nodded once distractedly. Yeah, yeah, no talking negatively about his own intelligence or whatever they all made him agree to.

“When were you gonna tell me? When we were on the plane?”

“As if you would have arrived at an airport without asking me ten million questions,” Eddie rolled his eyes. “I was gonna tell you tomorrow night at dinner. Will even made this card that had clues inside.”

“Shit, I ruined it.”

“Sweetheart, no. It’s okay. I won’t tell Will. You can still keep the card. It’s a really cool design. He made Disney World look like a D&D game, said you’d probably not get all of it, but thought it was cool. It is, and I think I want him to design a tattoo for me when we get back, but I may have to call the shop in Indy I go to and –”

It was Steve’s turn to cut off his rambling with a kiss.

“I can’t wait to go with you. I can’t believe you would want to.”

“I’d go anywhere with you, you know that.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

[the-kr8tor]

hihi!! I hope you're having a great day and a new year!

I have a small fic request (u can take it any other forms u want, all up to you!) Can I request a fic where reader asked Hobie if he would rather elope instead of a normal wedding? Since he doesn't like the idea of getting marriage (My hc by the way). Eloping is still kinda like a wedding but just the two of them! No loud music, not alot of money spent etc etc! U can write on how they would do it!

(also I'd like to imagine this is them getting 'enganged' before having the twins HEEHHEHEHE) (i hope this isn't too much) (i would love to see on how you'd write this!!)

reader can be gn or FEM btw :)

Thank you for the adorable request 😘

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Brown/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.5k

Tags: No use Y/N, no specific description of the reader (r is mentioned wearing makeup though), lovestruck Hobie, FLUFF.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Hobie watches you sing with the band that's currently playing further away on stage. He dragged you out behind all the crowd so you could properly enjoy the concert without getting elbowed by someone. He doesn't mind standing that far from the stage since he gets to see you dance unabashedly when there aren't a lot of people this far back.

The music isn't that loud from where you're both standing, helping Hobie hear your singing, providing a front row seat to your very own concert. He thinks you deserve top billing from how you belt out the lyrics.

The strobe lights illuminate your face, lighting up your best features, add it up with the moonlight shining directly at you like your very own spotlight, he can't get his eyes off you, lips softly smiling, fondness seeping out from his pores.

You feel his stare before you feel his featherlight touch atop your arm, knuckles brushing on your skin, goosebumps spreading through them like fire.

Grinning at him, you wipe sweat off your brow, guessing the summer heat has probably melted all of your makeup, thinking that you look worse for wear.

“Yeah, Hobs?” He once hated that nickname but with you saying it, it might as well be his given name. He loves it if it's you who says it.

Hobie has never seen you look so beautiful even with your mascara running down your cheeks. He's seen you at your worst, loved you more through it, and will continue to love you through your best too.

He loops his pinky around yours, clammy hands meeting equally clammy skin. He blames the weather for the lack of physical affection, if it weren't for the heat he'd be embracing you like a boa constrictor, taking your breath away without devouring you for dinner of course.

“You okay? You look like you're about to pass out. Do you want to sit down for a minute?”

His next words shocks you both.

“I have no idea where we go from here.”

“What?” You chuckle nervously. Maybe you should've worn waterproof mascara. “What are you saying, Hobie?” You forgo his pinky, opting to hold both his hands instead.

Your frown tells him he should've thought this through.

“Sorry,” he laughs shakily, none of the usual Hobie charisma you're used to. “I meant, fuck this is hard.” he's sweating, why did he decide to wear leather vest and heavy boots in this heat? He blames the weather for his shortcomings.

Your heart falls in your stomach. “Are you…are you breaking up with me?” words barely strung together with your tongue tied up.

“What? No!” Hobie backtracks in a split second. “No, love, that's not what I meant.” shaking his head, he removes his hands from yours, deepening your frown.

In an attempt to fix his blunder, he cups your face, thumbs rubbing just under your eyes, spreading the dark ink all over your skin. He definitely needed to think it all through.

Tears start rolling down your cheeks, mascara running with the wetness, turning you into one of the heavy metal band mates that played a couple hours ago.

“Shit!” He roams his face around the concert hall, not knowing how to fix the situation.

“What did you really mean, Hobie?” You sob, balling his shirt in your hands tightly.

Hobie inhales and exhales, collecting his thoughts properly. “We're living together.”

“Uh huh.” You nod, confused.

“We clearly love each other.”

“You're just stating the obvious.” you pause your weeping when he groans in frustration. “What is happening?”

“I–” his next words surprises you more than him. “I wanna fuckin' marry you, love.”

You blink rapidly, tilting your head, utterly flabbergasted. “Huh?”

“That's what I meant with ‘I have no idea where we go from here.’” he sighs, facepalming, pursing his lips. “I want to take another step forward with you, but fuckin' hell I hate the bloody pomp and circumstance of it all.” A smile spreads across your face with every word he says.

Did he just ask for your hand in marriage?

“At the same time I don't think we have to marry just so people would know how committed we are to each other.” He's rambling and you smile wider through mascara filled tears. “Not to mention the fuckin' government knowing about all of it, seriously, why can't they just mind their own business about—”

“Hobs,” it's your turn to hold his face, he stops speaking, his chest heaving, eyes glued to you. “Let's elope then.” Hobie mentally conks himself right on the head for not thinking that. “just us, no two hundred guests, no thousands of pounds needed for the ceremony, no stuffy officiant. Just us and our vows.”

Hobie laughs at himself before he places his head on your shoulder, he can't believe he just asked you to spend the rest of your life with him.

Nosing your neck, he embraces you fully, swinging you slightly to the music that's definitely not for slow dancing. Holding on to him, you kiss his hairline, tracing it with your lips.

While Hobie recuperates from his blunder, you on the other hand feel like you're about to burst out of the seams, flooding the entire venue with your love for the man before you.

After the song ends and they announce the new act, with the roar of the crowd Hobie has one last thing to add.

“Let's do it now.” Hobie lifts his head, facing you in all your glory, heart shaped eyes staring at him affectionately, face aglow with so much love that Hobie can feel it flowing directly to his chest. “Let's elope right now, say our vows, we don't need an officiant to declare us married when the band corroded coffin works just as fine.”

“With a few hundred witnesses and a cover band as our wedding singers?” You loop your arms around his neck, linking your fingers together just to hold him closer. Nodding, you can't help but giggle. “Sure, let's do it right now.”

“You first.” Hobie thinks he chose right.

“Nu-huh, you asked, you go first.”

With a joking huff and a thumping heart, he eggs you on.

“I think the bride goes first.”

“Yeah? You've been to a ton of weddings?”

He laughs, the sound is better than the band playing in the background. And in that musky concert hall, underneath the stars and strobe lights, you do your vows.

“Okay, I'll go first.” You clear your throat, hands shaking not from nerves but from excitement. “I vow to always mend your wounds when you get home.” He smiles, eyes shining with unshed happy tears. “But I can't promise that I won't complain and nag you the entire time.”

Chuckling, you continue. “I vow to always be understanding, and to love you until I'm six feet under ground and even then I'd continue to love the shit out of you, Hobart Larry Brown. Even love your government name.”

Hobie can't help in anymore so he leans in but you stop him with your hand shielding your lips.

“You're horrible.” His words lack venom, all love and endearment pointed at you.

“I just vowed to love you unconditionally and you call me horrible?” Your words are muffled that he barely understood it. Yet he still pecks the top of your hand, to satisfy his need to kiss you. “You're not allowed to kiss me, not until we finish our vows.”

He rolls his eyes comically and you laugh. Your lips hurt from all the smiling.

Face hot, (not from the weather) you wipe his cheek free from sweat, leaving your hand to grasp his face. You hope it's enough to convey how utterly in love you are with him.

“My turn?”

“Mm-hmm”

Hobie inhales, he has fought a bunch of villains who wanted to end him but asking you if you want to marry him has him more terrified than facing green goblin. He's exhausted just from that. But he's more than ready to do this, to make his vows. It's only you isn't it? The love of his life who's currently staring at him warmly.

He's glad you agreed to elope, he can't imagine doing this in front of a hundred guests.

“I vow to always come home even when I'm beat up and bloodied. I'll crawl just to get to you.”

If your makeup wasn't ruined before it's properly ruined now with how much tears you're letting out. A few people look at you two weirdly.

“I vow to make time for you, I'd sacrifice sleep if you ask me.” He whispers the next line. “I'm serious. That's how much I love you.”

You laugh through the tears, gripping his collar, it might look like you're about to beat him up but you're actually holding back from snogging the shit out him.

“I promise to love you as long as you let me.” Hobie takes one of his rings off his finger, a favourite of his, a promise to you. The word wife slips his tongue and it has you almost fainting.

That got you and now you're sobbing your heart out. But after a beat, he lifts your face by your chin to let him look at you, he's right, he chose the right one.

“How does forever sound?” you manage to let out, lips still wobbly.

“Perfect. Forever sounds bloody perfect.” He leans once again, this time you don't stop him.

“You may kiss the sweaty bride.” You laugh and you kiss your husband.

[overthestars-and-offtoneverland]

Some People Will Not Believe Me

If it's any consolation, this story slightly embarrasses me because it feels like some fake shit I'd tell younger me to hype myself up in an attempt to convince them it might be worth making it to adulthood.

So, I work in childcare. I interact with kids all the time and being a person who enjoys children's media tends to help me bond with my kids from time to time.

There is a little girl at my job named Violet.

Now, me being me, I asked if she liked A Series of Unfortunate Events because she's in the target age group for the series.

She says yes and that she is a big fan of Violet Baudelaire, though her parents don't really like her watching the Netflix series because they think it has scary subject matter (literally the point, but go off). I suggest the books to her and inform her that I myself have been a fan of the series since I was a little younger than her.

We bond a little over the series and then I physically watch her eyes drift down.

To my left ankle.

And, in spite of my tattoo being the book version rather than the Netflix version, she immediately recognizes it.

She proceeds with a suspicious squint in my direction.

And let me tell you the amount of dopamine and serotonin that rushed into my brain! I have been waiting forever to have a moment like this!

Truth be told, other children have recognized my tattoo and given me this look in passing. Usually in bookstores, once in a Pizza Hut, don't asked questions.

But none of them actually said anything or confronted me and I would never just walk up to some random child that doesn't have some form of relation to me.

But this child was one of my students. And she was certainly going to confront me about it.

And her name is Violet???

Hence begun the world's weirdest coincidence and playful rivalry I now have with a child as she has decided I must be her personal Firestarter Nemesis (all a game, all in good fun).

She has accused me of being Count Olaf to other students. (I even got to pull a "What eye tattoo?" once)

She taunts me that I'll never get away with my schemes.

She loves the Count Olaf impression I occasionally do with my students (I'm an art and drama teacher lol. Fun fact: Kids love when you commit to a bit and are slightly and jokingly mean i.e. "It's time to go home, hun" vs *looks at them bluntly* "Go home." Gotta be able to read your audience though)

Tell me why this child has walked into the facility with fake, giant hundred dollar bills two days in a row giving me a physical "fortune" to steal?

Gotta say I'm doing way better than Olaf because I've succeeded twice (again, all in good fun. She got it back after I got my gloating out of the way).

Point being, adulthood is fucking weird, but occasionally life lets your inner child have some fun.

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen

TW: nsfw, angst

You wake up to the smell of bacon, coffee, and something sweet in the skillet.

Usually such a thing would mean you are dreaming, and you need to wake your ass up before you’re late for work. But you roll over to look into your tiny kitchen, finding a sight fit for Playgirl Magazine before your disbelieving eyes.

Dear Penthouse, I can’t believe this actually happened to me…

Detective Tom Ludlow is in your kitchen, making pancakes…in nothing but a towel around his trim waist. His dark hair is combed back, still wet from the shower. His broad shoulders are something to write home about–Kansas farm boys had nothing on this beautiful specimen of masculinity.

Had the night before even been real?

As though he senses your return to consciousness–or maybe the weight of your gawker’s stare upon him–he turns to look at you. “Morning, beautiful.”

You blink with surprise, because he is talking to you.

“Hi,” you greet, clever as ever, and goddammit but are you blushing?

“Whacha looking at?” he teases, spatula in hand. The very picture of domestic bliss. God help you, but in that moment you were 300 percent ready to put a ring on this man.

��Just…the most best thing I’ve ever seen,” you admit, knowing you’ll kick yourself for it later.

However, the smile he pays you, smug yet somehow gentle–it fries your brain entirely.

“Likewise, sweetheart.” He crosses the short space with a few long strides to press his lips to yours. “You like pancakes with blueberries?”

You’d bought the ingredients–and promptly stuck them in the cupboards–for just such a purpose, thinking that someday, when you had time, and weren’t bone fucking tired from working 12 hour shifts days in a row, you’d make a point to treat yourself.

Funny, how that never happened, until Tom Ludlow came around.

Here you are, getting emotional about blueberry fucking pancakes.

“Yes,” is the only answer you can muster, and he kisses you so sweetly that it curls your toes.

His soft smile down at you will be the death of you. “Sleep well?”

“Like a well-fucked rock,” you tell him, winning a bark of masculine laughter. 

“Likewise, beautiful. Definitely likewise.” He vacates the couch to flip his pancake. You continue to stare, still dumbfounded.

“Tom?” you ask, still struggling to wake up.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Did last night…actually happen?”

“Sure did. Don’t you remember driving to Vegas? We got the best Elvis in the building.”

You blink stupidly for a few moments, before registering his absolutely shit-eating grin.

“Very funny. And the joke would be on you, if you married me on a drunken lark.”

“Why?” he asks, seemingly amused by your discomfort.

“I told you. I’m a fucking mess.”

“Far as I can tell? You’re fucking perfect, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.” 

You’re not really sure why this pithy little compliment brings tears to your eyes, your lip quivering. Only a beat later does he notice, and he rushes over again.

“Hey, hey, no crying, baby, I’m sorry. What’s wrong? I was just joking.”

You swipe at your eyes with the heels of your hands, embarrassed. “You’re just..so sweet, and I actually fucking believe you, when you say this shit, ok?”

He blinks, but god bless, it only takes him a moment to assess, and act. He presses his soft lips to yours, then his forehead to your forehead, as though he can will you to accept his declarations through osmosis. “Believe it,” he tells you. “It’s true…well. Not the Elvis bit. We can do that next weekend if you want.”

You know he’s joking…but it still doesn’t fail to utterly melt your insides. This man who manhandled and harrassed you has turned out to be the biggest fucking softy, and you just might lose your shit.

You’ve already cried in front of him too many times, though, so you play it off and act like what he’s saying is no big deal. “Really? I think I’d rather have Michael Jackson instead.” 

You wonder if he misses being married. If he fucked his wife like he’d fucked you last night…you can’t fathom stepping out on him. But then you also know, that sometimes cops can also be married to their jobs. It could make for a difficult threesome. You imagine going without him, while he was working an intense case, would be absolute hell.

Tom snorts. “Whatever floats my lady’s boat,” he answers, flipping another pancake onto the stack. He ports them to the table with a flourish. “Come eat, sweet girl. You gotta work today?”

“Later. Unfortunately.”

He sticks his full lip out in a pout that should be illegal on a grown ass man. “Then eat quickly, because I’m not done with you yet.” he informs you with a wicked smirk that causes a brand new flood between your already sticky thighs. 

He turns, that broad, tapered back on full display, to finish plating breakfast, and you can’t not watch the tight muscle in his butt shift in the thin towel. You get this sudden strange urge to sink your teeth into him and latch on, and wonder if ancient cavewomen bit their partners to lay claims. Because that’s what Tom Ludlow works on—the part of your spongy brain that developed before speech and theory—the part that wants to bite and howl. 

Evolution is a bitch. 

Oh no, he can cook. And cook good. The pancakes he sets in front of you, drizzled with honey and topped with fresh blueberries, taste like a fluffy heaven in your mouth. Even the coffee is splendid, done up blonde and sugary just the way you prefer. “Tom, damn,” you compliment between mouthfuls. “You went out to get blueberries?” It’s selfish, but the thought of him leaving you alone even to run out and grab something for you makes your insides twist uncomfortably. 

“Oh, no, I borrowed some from your neighbor.” 

Of course at that moment you have an entire mouthful of coffee that you almost spray on his bare, beautiful chest. “What?!” 

He adopts a bemused smile. “Very nice lady.”

“Please tell me you had more than just a towel on?” 

“Less, actually.” 

He bursts into laughter and the astonished look on your face. 

“I’m gonna kick your ass, Ludlow.” 

“She asked me something really interesting.” He wipes a little honey off your top lip and sucks it into his mouth, making you dumb enough to forget you’re annoyed. “She asked me if I’m the nightmare?” 

“I have no idea what she’s talking about.”

“You are a terrible little liar, you know that? I can see your tell from a mile away.” 

“Oh, what is it?” You smirk, shove a bite of pancake into your mouth. 

“You’re lucky I’m hungry,” he threatens, playful and promising, sending a thrill through your chest. 

You grab a glob of honey on your finger and kitten lick it off, almost bold enough to make direct eye contact with him for more than five seconds while you’re doing it. “Or what?” 

He pops up from his seat, and your first instinct is run. Run away. You make it two steps before he has you grabbed around the waist and is dragging you back to his place at the table. 

Your squeals of nervous laughter crescendo into a moan when he pulls you down onto his big cock. It surprises you as much as it did last night, how well he fills and stretches you. Not a piece of your fluttery hole unpunished by his silky, maddening pressure. You immediately grind, eager for that pressure to shift and rub and build you, but he stills you with a mitt on your waist. 

Then his big hands bunch in the ruffled fabric of your sundress, which somehow you never managed to remove amidst both of your eagerness to get to other parts of you instead. Slowly he draws it up over your head, tossing it away somewhere across the room. Before you can even begin to think about feeling self conscious he makes a low sound of appreciation behind you, running his hands down your curves. 

“So fucking beautiful. I just wanna stay inside this pretty little pussy all day,” he tells you, smoothing his wet tongue across your shoulder. You arch into him, and he nips your skin for the retaliation. “Feel her throb while I tell you what I wanna do to her. Jesus, you’re soaked.” 

You try to squeeze your thighs together for precious friction on your clit, but he tugs them back open, chuckling at the pathetic attempt. “You wanna fuck yourself, baby?”

“Yes. Fu-uhck.” 

“Want me to pet that pretty clit while you ride me?” He kisses up your neck, into your hairline, tugs your ear between his teeth and you see white fire. 

“Yes, Tom. Yes. Please.” 

“Then eat your breakfast.” 

It’s impossible to focus on the delicious food anymore. The chunks of stuff getting forked into your mouth are no match for the small taste of him. It isn’t long before he’s done with silverware and hand feeding you, making you lick and suck his sticky fingers clean. 

“Atta girl. Keeping me all warm and cozy.” His mouth traces circles on your upper back that make you twitch and gasp while his heavy pointer and index finger rest on your tongue, sweet and salty-pleasure and pain-the desire to move trumping all of it. 

When his fingers trail up your side and land on your nipple, rolling and pinching, you clench your thighs shut again. He grunts at you, although you think it was meant to be a sound of disapproval before you clenched deliberately on his cock. 

“You want to cum?” 

“Yessss.” 

“Then open your legs back up.” 

You obey with a groan of frustration, widening your hips so that the tantalizing pressure is off your throbbing clit. That means all you can focus on is having him inside you, and that would be great if he would just fucking thrust. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He grabs your hips to hold you in place. “You’re busy.” 

“Could be important,” you say. 

“More important than this?” He grinds up, into your cervix, into all the sensitive soaked walls of your cunt, and the answer to his question is no. Absolutely not. There is nothing more important than him or his cock. 

“Tom,” you hiss. 

He sighs. “Alright. I’ll get it. Get dressed.” 

How empty you feel, when you slide off of his cock as you stand on trembling legs. He halts your progress by gripping your hips, pressing his mouth to the curve of your buttocks. You forget about the door, and everything else, turning in his arms so that he can bury his face in your cleavage. “These beautiful–” He kisses one breast cupped in his hand, “Naughty,” a kiss for the other, just beside your nipple, the tease, “titties are in so much trouble.” He sucks on your perked nipple with a pop, making you cry out. 

Knock knock knock.

“Someone’s fucking determined,” he grumbles against your skin. 

Reluctantly you manage to pull away from him, and you remember this state of the art technology in your door called a peephole. Naked as a jaybird, you peer through the tiny lens–and gasp at the sight on the other side.

This clearly interests Tom, his head canting at an angle in question. You shake your head, just knowing a perfect storm is brewing. “It’s no one. Ignore it,” you say quietly, hoping they don’t hear you on the other side, praying they have the sense to go away. You try to distract Tom again with kisses and by trying to pull him towards the bedroom, but dammit this man is solid as a fucking tree when he doesn’t want to move.

“Who is it?” he asks with a lifted brow.

Knock knock. “Y/n? I know you’re home.”

Goddammit.

What can only be described as a wicked grin spreads over Tom’s handsome features. “Oh. Let’s say hello, shall we?” 

[maraschinomerry]

Hi! Could you please write a Lockwood x reader fic involving the prompt: You aren't well, but you don't want to skip training and make them worry, so you continue on as usual, thinking it's not that serious. But that's proven wrong when you faint right in front of them mid-fight. Mixed with the dialogue: "You hold it like this and- why are your hands trembling?" Thank you in advance! 💙

Pretty Boy

Pairings: Anthony Lockwood x gn!reader

Content: mild swearing, whump (fainting as in the prompt), mentions of not eating or sleeping, cute flirty ending

A/N: thank you for such a great request!! I've actually also just got over being not well while I was writing this (I'm fine now and wasn't this bad!) so it was weirdly cathartic 😅

Word count: 2.3k

The blissful quiet of the kitchen at 35 Portland Row was shattered by an incredibly loud, almost violent sneeze. You threw your arm across your face just in time to catch it. That was weird. You never sneezed.

"Bless you," Lockwood frowned over the top of his magazine.

That was day 1.

On day 2, you were all out on a case, in a dilapidated Victorian house. In a divide-and-conquer strategy for such a big place, Lockwood and George had headed upstairs while you and Lucy stayed on the ground floor. Fumbling around in the dim light of the dining room, Lucy threw open the curtains to let in what was left of the evening sun, accidentally unleashing a cloud of dust which shimmered in the beam of your torch. You both coughed a little in surprise.

Your coughing didn't stop for the rest of the night.

Day 3 was spent relaxing, recovering from getting home in the early hours of the morning after a gruelling fight with a pair of Type Twos. Or rather, everyone else was relaxing. You were in your room, fluctuating between wrapping your shivering form in your duvet and throwing it off so you wouldn't melt into a puddle. The bowl of soup you'd made yourself for lunch grew cold where it sat untouched on your bedside table.

A sleepless night heralded the arrival of day 4. Your symptoms had mostly abated by the evening, and you desperately hoped to claw back a few hours of rest. By dinner time, bleary-eyed, you forced yourself downstairs to try and get at least one meal of the day. Fortunately, the kitchen was empty, so at least you didn't have to explain your recent lack of presence to anyone. Unfortunately, none of the contents of the fridge were even remotely appealing right now. You settled for a slice of toast which you took back upstairs. Two bites in, you felt your stomach flip. Great. The rest went straight in the bin.

A gentle knock sounded on your door the morning of day 5, after another night of tossing and turning without ever drifting off.

"Yeah?" you called wearily.

Lockwood poked his head in, dressed in a loose Henley T-shirt and sweatpants. "Morning. Just thought I'd check you were alright, you didn't come down for training." Oh shit. You and Lockwood had been doing weekly training together for months - it started not long after you joined the agency, when he'd come down to the basement for practice and found you already there, and you'd ended up sparring. It had happened a few more times, and eventually you fell into the habit of both going down on Friday mornings so much it became an unofficial appointment.

"Oh, sorry," you swallowed a yawn. "I lost track of what day it was. Give me five minutes."

"I sort of assumed you weren't coming down dressed Iike that." He nodded to your fuzzy pyjamas with a smirk, and you tugged shyly at the hem of the top. "Have you had breakfast?"

"Yeah." That was a lie. Lockwood studied you for a moment, and you wondered if he could see right through you, but then he nodded to himself.

"Alright, see you downstairs." He began to leave, but popped back at the last second. "I'm not saying the pyjamas are a bad look, by the way, they're cute, just maybe a bit warm for fighting in." He grinned again, and disappeared. What was that supposed to mean?

—

Five minutes later, as promised, you traipsed down the basement steps in runner shorts and a tank top. This was the last thing you wanted to be doing right now, but you loved getting one-on-one time with Lockwood and knew how much it would hurt him to break the tradition and how concerned he'd be about you if he found out you'd been ill.

Lockwood gave you another puzzled look. "Are you sure you're okay?" He'd seen you this low energy before, but normally only the day after a case.

You gave the most convincing smile you could muster. "Fine. What's the plan?"

He furrowed his brows once more, before apparently deciding against whatever he was thinking. "Okay, there was a new move I figured out on the last case. I thought I could teach you and see if you think it's any good?" That last part sounded so open and vulnerable. You could imagine what he was thinking - was it a fluke? Was it him overselling his talents? Did it look ridiculous? He got like that sometimes, needed snapping out of it. Reassuring. Your smile was more genuine this time.

"Sounds good, it certainly seemed effective."

You tried your best to concentrate while Lockwood demonstrated the move, really you did, but you were running on empty and the basement was so delightfully cool. Maybe if you just lay down on the floor for a bit, you'd sort yourself out.

"Did you get that?" Lockwood's voice cut through the fog of your thoughts, and you dragged your eyes up to meet his, which were nodding to your hands. You hadn't the slightest idea what it was he expected you to have got.

"Uhh…"

To your relief, he mistook your distraction for confusion and stepped closer to help, carefully off to one side to avoid the blade as his hands rested over yours.

"You hold it like this and- why are your hands trembling?"

You barely registered the alarm in his voice, or the uncontrollable tremor that was indeed present and spreading up your arms. Nothing in your body seemed to be responding properly any more. Did you still have hold of the rapier? Why was your chest so tight, not allowing any air in? An invisible wad had trapped in your throat, and you desperately sucked in a breath through your nose. Gosh, Lockwood smelled good. Lavender and bergamot. And he was pretty, too. So pretty. Those deep dark eyes, gazing at you with so much longing. No, not longing. He didn't do that, did he? Plus, he was frowning too much for longing. Concern? You didn't like it when he frowned. You tried to pout, but your lips didn't move. That was annoying. So were the lights. Had they always been this bright? It hurt. Everything hurt. You needed to leave. Now.

Panic took hold of the last working corner of your brain and sent a jolt of electricity down to your legs which finally reacted, carrying you shakily towards the stairs. You muttered something incoherent, mouth not quite as functional. The effort drained the last dregs of energy, and your legs stopped working again.

"Whoa, whoa-" a voice behind you gasped, hasty footsteps echoing. Who was that? There was someone else down here, wasn't there? You couldn't remember. Wait. There was a pretty boy, right? He seemed nice. You tried to tell him you were okay, you wanted to. As you pitched backwards, the silhouette of the pretty boy swam into view, blocking out the harsh lights above. That was better.

Everything went black.

—

You were laying somewhere warm and soft. That was odd. And it was less bright behind your eyelids. Where were you? Hadn't you been down in the basement? With the cold floor and the cold lights… and the pretty boy? Was he still here?

You tried to call out for him, succeeding only in a groan. The surface beneath you shifted by your feet in response, and your eyelids fluttered open a fraction. There he was. Framed by the golden rays filtering through the window behind him and dappling across his dark hair.

"Hey, pretty boy," you murmured. Proper words; that was more like it. Next step: opening your eyes fully.

Ah.

The pretty boy was Lockwood, brows knitted upwards as he shuffled further up what you gradually realised was your bed.

"Hey." His voice was thick, with the hint of a shake. "How are you feeling?"

You groaned again, moving to sit up. Lockwood instantly reached out, one hand on the small of your back and the other lifting the pillows to prop up behind you. "Been better."

Under any other circumstances, you think he'd probably have laughed. As it was, he huffed out a breath and you spotted a brief tic in his jaw. "That's a mild way of putting it. You collapsed in the middle of training. I had no idea what happened, I thought…" His gaze dropped to his lap as he trailed off. The silence clenched tightly around your heart. Eventually, he spoke again, still not looking at you, voice cracking and barely above a whisper. "I was so worried about you."

The tension in your chest pressed down further, and you thought you actually heard your heart shatter.

"Hey, Lockwood, look at me." You raised a hand, still trembling but for an entirely new reason, up to cup his cheek. At last, he looked. Those beautiful dark eyes were watery, and his nose ruffled as he tried to hold back the tears. "I'm okay, see? I'm here, I'm okay, and I'm so sorry for making you worry."

A warmth spread over the back of your hand as he brought his up to meet it. His fingers curled over yours, thumb rubbing calmingly across your knuckles. Whether the calming was for you or him, you couldn't say. "But are you sure you're okay? People don't just collapse like that, and you've been out all day." Your eyes widened a little as you glanced at your alarm clock. Almost 6. Wow.

"Honestly, it's nothing serious. Kind of stupid, actually; the irony is it all happened because I didn't want you to worry." That made him chuckle. That was promising. You continued. "I was ill - I don't know if it was a cold or flu or what - but that wasn't great to begin with, and then with it ruining my ability to eat and sleep I just… didn't have anything left to give."

You don't know what reaction you expected from Lockwood: frustration, confusion, disappointment perhaps. You certainly weren't expecting him to look quite so… guilty? "Why didn't you say something when I came to find you? We could have cancelled training." It came out sharper than you were expecting. Oh. There was where the guilt came in.

"I didn't want to break the tradition."

"To hell with the tradition if this is what it does to you!"

You faltered. Was it just your current condition, or had your mouth gone very dry? "Wait, I'm sorry, I didn't mean…" You took a steadying breath. "It's not just that. I don't mean it like it's some obligation. I love our sessions! Getting to have that time just for us, having it be our thing, it's the highlight of my week. And it's been a pretty shitty week so I wanted this one thing to be nice."

The fire in Lockwood's words died out, and he almost visibly deflated. His free hand reached up unexpectedly to brush a strand of hair from your face.

"Well, I'm glad it means that much to you, but next time will you please tell me when something's wrong? I can survive missing our date more than I can survive missing you."

Hold on.

You were definitely still ill. Your cheeks felt warm and your heart was pounding against your ribcage. That was the only possible explanation. Definitely nothing to do with the fact that the boy you'd been in love with for months had just called your training sessions a date. Oh god, you'd infected him too, his face was flushed. "Date?" you breathed.

"Only if you want it to be, of course, I don't want to jump to conclusions. Although you did call me 'pretty boy' barely five minutes ago, so I'm sure even George would agree with the legitimacy of my hypothesis." Oh, how you'd missed seeing that smirk he'd grown all of a sudden.

"I'm not entirely sure you can take the high ground on this one, love, when you said even more recently how you couldn't survive without me."

"I think so long as I'm right I can. Especially since, if we're going off who said something last, you couldn't even argue without calling me love."

"I wish we were still holding rapiers, I've got a chance of beating you at that."

Lockwood laughed, all earlier emotions replaced with nothing but tender affection. "Get some sleep, and then we can test that theory." He made to leave, but where your hands were still entwined you tightened your grip a little.

"Will you stay? Please? In case I didn't make it clear enough with fainting, I haven't been doing so great at the whole sleep thing."

When he nodded, you wriggled over to one side of the bed, allowing him to slip under the covers behind you. Everything about him felt cosy, and you snuggled towards that feeling. It took him aback for a moment until he draped an arm over your stomach, gently tugging you closer so the two of you slotted together like you'd been designed to fit one another from the start. His breath tickled your ear, but its constant rhythm slowed yours in turn. Your eyelids grew heavy.

"You know," you mumbled sleepily, "you could take me on a proper date. Only if you want to, of course, wouldn't want to jump to conclusions."

He squeezed you playfully. "I think I've got enough evidence to consider it. Lunch tomorrow if you feel up to it?" You hummed a contented agreement. As your eyes drifted shut, a feather-light kiss pressed against your temple. "Good night, love."

"Good night, pretty boy."

[abbyslev]

𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻𝒀 𝑴𝑶𝑵𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹- 𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑬 𝑿 𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑬𝑹

A/N: hi angels! i wrote this in two days and its probably rushed, so i apologize, but i wanted to post something while i work on some other stuff. as always, feedback is appreciated and i hope everyone is having a good day! ily all!

WARNINGS: alcohol consumption, fingering, bathroom sex, rough! hange, top! hange, hair pulling, mirror sex, let me know if i missed any!

You traced the edge of your cup, staring at the red lipstick stain that was on the cup.

          You didn’t regret coming, you just wish you friend didn’t leave you stranded in the middle of a party. You were familiar with everyone here, but not enough to go up and start a conversation.

           You picked up your cup, taking a small sip. You brushed off the burning in your throat, licking your red lips. “Did your date leave you?” A voice startled you from behind. “Jesus.” You turn around, laughing. It was someone from your old highschool.

       “Date? Oh no, I came with them.” You point at your best friend, who was taking a row of shots with her girlfriend behind her. “Yeahhhh, I'm assuming your DD?” The reach behind you, pouring themselves a shot. “Eh.” You shrug. You watch them as they drink the shot with ease.

       “How’d you do that?” Your eyebrows furrowed, mouth slightly open. “You get used to it.” Hange shrugs, laughing it off. You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “It’s loud as hell in here. Wanna go upstairs?” Hange nodded their head towards the stairs. “Yeah.” You nod. 

         They push open the bathroom door, flipping on the lights. “Surprised it's clean, they usually trash this place.” Hange sat on the edge of the bathtub, taking your drink from your hand. They closed their eyes, holding back a laugh. 

       “What?” You lean on the counter, raising your brows. “This is 95% punch. There’s like…no alcohol in this.” They hand it back. “Okay first of all, you’re not funny. Second of all, I'm not a crazy alcoholic like you.” You drink a bit, setting it down. “I could definitely make you some better shit than that.” They nod towards your cup. 

          “Sure.” You nod. “I remember you used to throw the best parties in high school.” Hange smiled. “That was all her, not me. I just bought the stuff.” You shook your head. “Oh, yeah? And you’d be in the middle of the circle, always dancing on someone. Drunk as hell, too.” 

        You didn’t even really notice Hange. You knew they were played the drums and were top of the class, especially in chemistry, but that’s all you knew. Hange on the other hand, they knew everything about you. They knew you loved getting shitfaced, loved cherry flavored rolling paper, preferred vodka over pink whitney, and hung out with Connie and his crew. 

         “I was not.” You covered your face in embarrassment. “After prom, at Sasha’s house, you danced with a whole bottle while making out with Sasha and then threw up in her yard  not even an hour later, so yeah, you were pretty drunk all the time.”

        “Okay, what about you?” You crossed your arms. “You were all nerdy, always getting everything right in class.” You faced them, pushing your hair behind your ear. “That doesn’t mean I deprived myself of having fun. I was smart and partied all at once.” They stood up, leaning on the wall next to you. 

        “That still makes you nerdy.” You smiled, holding back a laugh. “Well, you always came to school late, all pretty and shit. You always had your lips all shiny and the cutest outfits. You were never in dress code.” Hange approached you. The room became a whole lot smaller. “Are you implying you liked me, Zoe?” You tilted your head, pushing yourself off the counter. Their hands landed on your waist, bringing you to them. 

       “Did I say that?” They leaned in, lips brushing over yours. Their nails dug into the skin of your thighs. “N-no. But you’re acting like that.” You looked up at Hange. “Acting like what, mama?” They grabbed your chin, making you look up at them.

      “Like you wanted me.” You place your hands on their upper arms. “Who said I didn't?” They push their lips onto yours. You were lifted up from the floor onto the counter. You opened your legs a bit, hands running inside their shirt.

       “Fuck.” They push their forehead against yours, hands working on the back of your dress. While you slip off your dress, they  take their shirt off. You lick your smudged lips, eyes lowering down to Hange’s happy trail. You felt yourself becoming more wet by the second.

         Hange pressed their lips to your bare collarbone, sucking and tracing random shapes. Your voice gets caught in your throat. “Come here.” They slide you off of the counter. “I need you.” You whisper. “I know, baby.” They push your back up against themselves. 

       You were now staring at yourself in the mirror. Hange stood behind you, head in between the crook of your neck and shoulder, pressing wet kisses along your body. Your dress slowly slid off the rest of your body, leaving you in your black, lacy panties. They grabbed your thigh, placing it up on the counter. 

        You made eye contact with Hange through the mirror. “Someone’s impatient.” She mumbled against your shoulder as she saw the desperation in your eyes. They slid their hand in your panties, fingers hovering over your dripping clit. “Please.” You watch their veiny hands rub your lower stomach. 

          “You have to be quiet.” Hange placed a cold finger on your aching bud. Your eyes rolled back, a quiet whimper sounding at the back of your throat. “Shhh.” They whispered in your ear, forming small circles. One of your hands sat on top of their working hand, the other held a fistful of their hair, whispering their name while your face scrunched up in pleasure.

        “I haven’t even touched you yet and you’re already so whiny, baby.” They press a kiss on your shoulder blade. Hange inserted a finger inside you. You gripped their wrist, your legs twitching, aching to close.

      “Keep them open, baby.” They whisper,  adding their ring finger. Your back arched as they pumped in and out of you, sucking and nibbling on your sensitive neck. “Fuck.” You choked out, leaning your head back into their shoulder.

        Hange pushed you over. Their hand went from your lower stomach, to a fist full of your hair. Your skin crawled as the cold counter came into contact with you. “Look at me while i fuck you.” Hange pulled your head back. Your lipstick was smeared and your neck was covered in hickies. 

         Hange’s waist pushed you up against the marble even more. Her fingers slipped from inside of you, into her mouth. You watched as they stuck them into her mouth, licking them clean. “So pretty.” Her wet fingers traced your back tattoo. 

         Your whimper, jutting your hips out to let her know that you wanted more. You felt a sharp pull at your head. “Patience.” She tsked. Her fingers slipped in your again, this time from the back, without a warning. 

           “Hange,” You mewl loudly. “Hush.” She watched as your legs closed themselves. She slipped her knee in between, shaking her head. She lowered her lips near your ear,  grunting. Her fingers sped up, a quiet squelch made Hange whisper your name, praising you for how beautiful you were.

          A knock startled you. Your eyes shot open, making your neck snap towards the door. “Hey, you in there?” Your best friend called your name, jiggling the doorknob. “Hange.” You whisper, freaking out. Hange continued to pump her fingers in and out of you, disregarding the fact that your friend was right outside the door and you were clenching around Hange. 

         “You ok?” She called out again.  “Please.” You beg, closing your eyes. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, your legs shaking. “Answer.” She nibbled at your earlobe, now facing up at the ceiling. 

         “I-i’m in here.” You manage to choke out. Suddenly, Hange started to toy with your sensitive clit. Your polished nails dig into your arm. “What’re you doing in there?” She asked, her words slurred a bit together. “Uh,” You racked your brain for something, but it was hard when Hange was fucking you dumb from the back and you were close.

         “Fuck.” You moan into your arm, before Hange yanked your hair to face the mirror again. “Tell her.” Hange mouthed. “I felt sick- shit.” Your legs gave out. Hange held you by your waist, watching as you rode her fingers, head against the mirror. 

       “Want me to come in?” She jiggled the doorknob. “N-no! It’s ok, i‘ll be out in a- fuck…” You felt your cum run down your thighs. “minute.” You finished your sentence. “Good girl.” Hange kneeled down. “Okay, well i’ll be downstairs. Find me when you feel better.” You heard her footsteps fade. 

      Hange grabbed your waist, twisting you around. She grabbed under your thigh, placing it on her shoulder. She had a small spider tattoo on her arm you didn’t notice before. She licked up your thighs, pressing a small kiss on your clit. 

      “Hange, please, I can't.” You shake your head. “Yes, you can, baby. I know you can.” She licked you clean, smiling as you placed a hand over your mouth. She stood up, pressing her wet lips against yours.           “Can a nerd do that?” She handed you your dress. You roll your eyes as Hange slips their shirt on. “Call me soon.” They press another kiss against your mouth, shoving their hoodie in your arms, before leaving that bathroom. You look at yourself in the mirror, realizing you needed the damn jacket.  “God.” You mumbled to yourself, getting dressed.

[pawnshopbleus]

Put Me in a Movie - Chapter Two

Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

Summary - You’re a famous actress and he’s one of the greatest directors of all time. What happens when you get cast in his new movie?

Chapter One

There was nothing essential to do right now. You had the opportunity to lounge around in your house so you took it. Later, you would have to get ready for an event you were invited to. You loved dressing up and attending events. They made you feel like an important person, but you loved being comfortable even more.

You stayed in bed thirty minutes after waking up just scrolling through Instagram and TikTok. The edits fans made of you on red carpets or in movies always warmed your heart. You remember being one of those fangirls and how much getting recognized by one of your idols would mean to you.

Stella called you about five minutes after you got up to use the bathroom. She was calling to tell you that she has more information. You were going to play a Russian spy that falls in love with an American soldier during world war two. “And you’re getting paid a million dollars upfront as well as one percent of the total box office revenue. You are one lucky son of a bitch,” Stella laughed.

“Stella, you know I don’t like it when you say stuff like that,” you playfully scold your agent over the phone.

“Sorry, but it’s true. Anyways, you have a table ready to do tomorrow so please don’t get shit-faced at the event tonight. I know you like to party, but we can’t have another New York Fashion Week incident,” Stella remarked.

You were invited to New York Fashion Week two years ago and were never invited back. At the after-parties, you had one too many drinks, and the next thing you know, photos of you sleeping on the sidewalk were all over social media. Luckily, it only took two weeks for the media to forget about the whole incident. Let’s just say New York City is a place you don’t go unless you absolutely have to.

“I’m a good girl, Stella, I’ll have a few shots at the after-party and I’ll be on my merry way. No more sleeping on the sidewalk for me.”

“Fine, I’ll see you soon.”

You hung up the phone and sighed. Other than Stella, no one really ever talked to you. There were a few people here and there, but they were only interested in furthering their careers. There are shallow and fake people in Hollywood and you’ve definitely met a few. When you move to a city like this it’s almost inevitable. It’s like high school but worse.

You pushed the loneliness aside and turned on the television. There was never anything good during the mornings so you just settled for the regular old news channel. The two news reporters provided you with sufficient background noise to get you through the day.

Around two in the afternoon, your hair stylist, make-up artist, and stylist came over. The type of event you were attending tonight was a fashion show and then the after-party. You were the brand ambassador for the fashion house so you had to look your absolute best as you sat in the front row.

Your hair stylist and make-up artist did quick work on your already beautiful features. Your make-up artist went with a very natural and glowy look that would make you look ethereal. Your hairstylist lets your natural hair out and loose. Tonight you were just going for a simple yet classy look and you felt like doing an intricate hairstyle would take away from your face. Your stylist put you in the brand's latest design and complemented the way you looked in it.

You checked yourself out in the mirror and you were completely blown away by your beauty. This usually happens when you get all dolled up for a premier or an event. The last time you checked your phone it was two thirty, now it was five twenty-three and you needed to leave soon. You thanked everyone that enhanced your beauty today and waited for your driver.

The event was in the heart of downtown. Thirty minutes of sitting in the back seat of a limo with only the sound of you and your driver breathing was going to drive you insane. Thankfully, you made it to the event alive.

The designs on the runway were beautiful and camp. The fashion house had already showcased its ready-to-wear line last winter and was working on bringing in younger designers for some fresh ideas. You were paid to be here so you had to look interested and intrigued by the designs. You saw some pieces that you wanted and some that you absolutely loathed but by the end, you were ready to party.

The after-party was being held at some mansion in Beverly Hills. You don’t know how you got there, but does that really matter? Right now, you were doing shots in Beverly Hills of all places. Shot after shot after shot. The burn disappeared after the third one anyway.

You know you promised Stella not to get shit-faced again, but sometimes promises were meant to be broken. You were twenty-six after all and you were never going to be twenty-six ever again. Luckily, you weren't the type of drunk to get on the table and strip, but you were still sort of embarrassed by your state. It’s not your fault alcohol tastes so good.

Outside by the pool, you lay on one of the tanning chairs. You’re facing the night sky while also trying not to throw up. Your eyes are blinking slowly. You mentally fight with yourself not to fall asleep. You can’t fall asleep now! “You okay there?” A voice asks. The voice came from the left of you. You turn your head to see who was talking to you and you’re faced with one of the most majestic beings ever. His face is chiseled to the gods and his voice is smooth like butter, but also harsh like rocks. It’s hard to explain but it definitely does something to you. He looks like Adonis reincarnated.

“I’m fine. I think I just had too much to drink,” you slur your words a bit but they’re still understandable.

“Ya, I can see that,” he chuckles. He takes in your tired frame. Your make-up is a bit smudged from a night of partying but you still look beautiful nonetheless.  “How about I take you home,” he offers.

“Woah there mister, you are obviously very attractive but I don’t just go home with people. I don’t even know your name,” you sat up. You must have sat up too fast because soon your head was pounding.

“Miguel,” he said, “Miguel O’Hara.”

You must have sobered up enough to get your act straight. This was Miguel O’Hara, the director you would be working for for the next few months. You couldn’t let him see you like this. You didn’t want him to think that you were just some drunk party girl that doesn’t take acting seriously.

“Oh, Mr. O’Hara. I’m-” You tried to introduce yourself but he just waved his hand causing you to shut your mouth.

“I know who you are,” he said, “Now, I don’t want my actors to show up to table reads with hangovers so I think it’s best if I take you home.”

You didn’t want to argue with him so you followed him to his car. It was a modest black Range Rover with a black leather interior.

“My address is-” You started but once again he interrupted you.

“I know where you live. Stella gave me your address after I told her that you were drunk.” You groaned, “Stella’s going to kill me. I promised her I wouldn’t get drunk.”

Miguel just smirked at you and pulled away from the house in Beverly Hills. As the two of you drove, you couldn’t get over the fact that you just decided to trust Miguel so fast. He was technically your boss for the next few months so you had to listen to him.

Miguel’s letting the radio play. He’s playing a station that plays old cumbia music but it does the opposite of its purpose. Instead of making you want to get up in dance, it lulls you into a deep and peaceful sleep.

Chapter Three

[m34gs]

So I will be honest. I was really excited for In A Violent Nature. I went into it blind, which I think is probably the best way to have done it. I was excited to see what it would bring and what kind of scares it would give. I watched it with a friend the day it got uploaded on Shudder. But, I have mixed emotions and overall feel a bit disappointed with a few major parts of the movie. And I'm bored, tired, full of cold-medicine, and haven't slept more than 2 hours in a row for three days so I'm gonna talk about it. This should be obvious, but if it's not, Spoilers Ahead.

First, there were many things I really did like.

the perspective: almost the entire movie is filmed from the perspective of the murderer. As in, we follow him around instead of the victims. It's interesting to me because usually the opening scenes either set up the backstory or introduce the victims to the audience. You could argue "well that's not unusual, it just means the protagonist is the murderer and you were being introduced to him" and that's fair. That's a fair way to look at it. However, even for an introduction to the killer it was done in an unusual way (and I loved that). Throughout a good chunk of the film, the audience has a third person view from behind the killer. It's almost like we're playing a third-person view video game. You don't get to see his face for quite a while. Again, that's not necessarily an unusual perspective, but to have it go on that way for so long through the movie is. The audience gets a very limited interaction with the victims and most of it comes from what we see from the killer's perspective.

the soundtrack (or lack thereof...): this movie had very minimal music during attack scenes. In fact, I think the only murder that really had music during the scene was one where a character was listening to a walk-man. And the music did not give horror vibes, which is always an interesting juxtaposition. This means that every hit, every slice, every squish was loud. Every step in the woods was heard. It was eerie because it was so silent and I just found I really liked the decision to do that.

the lake scene: when one of the girls jumps in the lake and goes for a swim, everyone knows where that is going to end up. I thought it was done in an interesting way. Instead of a lot of splashing, the audience gets her initial fear and then she's pulled under. She resurfaces once, to weakly call for help but is immediately pulled under again. Then her body silently floats to the top. This is one of the few scenes where we aren't watching from over the killer's shoulder. Instead, there's a wide view of an otherwise undisturbed body of water and then her small, short-lived struggle. I thought it was interesting how she never had a chance and how eerily calm everything else was around her. No one else would have heard her. I think it was a very different but effective way of portraying the isolation and hopelessness of the situation.

the yoga murder: this one was more of a "is he gonna go there oh my god oh yup oh wait what the fuck oh shit" kind of a moment for me. That's why I liked it. That's it.

the woodsplitter murder: Idk, I liked the slowness of this one. I always find the deaths where you're forced to watch or wait for your own demise and are helpless to do anything else are some of the most terrifying. And that woodsplitter was old and slow as fuck.

Things I didn't really like:

the face reveal: so we spend a good chunk of this movie either looking over the killer from behind, seeing him in the shadows, or seeing him with a mask on. The point is, his face is obscured. This usually means One of two things: there will be a face reveal that has significance either in revealing who the murderer really is or in scaring the victims, OR there is no face reveal and the audience is left to wonder and imagine. In my opinion, either option would have been fine. And if anyone were to say "it reveals it was Johnny"; no it does not. We knew it was Johnny. Everyone assumed it was Johnny from the beginning because of the way the story was told. A "reveal" would have been if they made it Johnny's father's spirit instead of Johnny's, but they would have had to played that up more in the story. Or if they made us significantly doubt it was Johnny instead of basically saying it was to begin with. The reveal instead was done so anticlimactically and away from the view of protagonists so you lose the value, in my opinion.

the ranger: so I get his point in the story. He was the one to point them in the right direction, to tell them why things were happening and what needed to be done to put things back the way they were. I just didn't really like him and I felt like his character kind of fell flat for me.

Colt's death: listen, I get they were in a tense situation and scared. But who the fuck thinks going up behind an armed murderous vengeful spirit who just brutally destroyed your friends' bodies and fucking yelling at him is a good fucking idea. So yeah, Colt's death pissed me off a little. I did find it a little humourous how Johnny was like "fuck you in particular" and proceeded to fucking hack his face off like it was his day job, but man, it really didn't need to go that way. You could have just kept running away. Like wtf.

the ending: Now, I'm not dumb. I get a few things. Number one, love that we got a final girl, top tier trope. Number two, it was great to see a reference to Texas Chainsaw Massacre with her getting picked up in a truck. Liked the shot where we got closure that Johnny did get his necklace back and went back to sleep because he was comforted by it. Very nice. HOWEVER. Why did we have to listen to some random woman ramble about how her brother was almost torn to shreds by what they assumed was a bear? For god knows how long? Like she just kept rambling about nothing. That type of scene sets a good thing in the beginning because it gives the victims something to blame other than a "mysterious masked murderer" and allows for more suspense. At the end it doesn't have the same effect. I get it was supposed to be that she feels hunted the entire time, even when there's no one there, and that her entire freak-out even when Johnny doesn't show up for the rest of the film is meant to show the lasting effect trauma will have on her. But did it have to be such a long part of the film? because a haunted look through the window, the woman's voice fading into the background, suddenly pulling over, she can have her freak-out, and I think it would give the same message, but waste less of my time. And I do feel that the ending scene kind of wasted my time. I will admit, at first I was curious and kind of waiting for a plot twist or something more, but then I just became frustrated, and after it ended I was annoyed.

That's just my personal thoughts on the movie. If people don't like it they can move along. I don't hate the movie but I was significantly disappointed by the ending and the face reveal in particular.

[blainesebastian]

a dream is a wish your heart makes

words: 1,287 ship: austin butler x reader summary: (anon request) “sequel to Disney proposal fic”  notes: this is a small part 2 to ‘full of magic’, you should read that first :)  warnings: none tag list: @killerqueenfan, @karamelcoveredolicity, @elizabethrosecresswell, @gigisworldsstuff, @stylespresleyhearted, @rairaielv

You'd never consider yourself that much of a worrier, there's never seemed like much of a point. In your opinion, worrying is just gonna mean that you'll suffer twice, so, why bother? Clearly in all the times you've told yourself this, you were never planning a wedding—so what do you know?

You know that wedding planners exist and that maid of honors and family members usually help with this sort of thing, getting all your ducks in a row...because at this point all you feel like you're doing is putting out small fires for something else to pop up in your peripherals but. One of the mistakes you think you make is that you kind of insist on doing everything on your own. And so much of it feels doable? You make lists all the time and get shit done and only accept help when you absolutely need it—but then a year turns into five months and now you're at three and then one and...you're worried about a day that's supposed to be one of the most perfect in your life.

And maybe that's the issue. Too much pressure for a 'perfect' day and not allowing anyone to take things off your plate (or well, checklist). You can figure out most of this on your own, right?

Right...that's why you're drowning in a sea of paperwork on your dining room table and you've lost at least two mugs underneath somewhere. Swallowed up. You frown—you're beginning to forget what this table actually looks like beneath.

The thing is, everything major is booked—this is just the little things, which are somehow worse and more stressful. These are the placecards, the flowers, the reception favors, the small cards and giftcards for the caterers and other people who are gonna work to make this wedding perfect.

"What was I thinking?" You mumble, shifting papers around. Getting proposed to at Disney was one thing...but now getting married? Whole other can of worms.

Of course, it seemed like such a good idea at the time--why wouldn't it? You were also completely swept up in the romanticism of having a Disney wedding. Austin was willing to spend any expense, even though you insisted that you didn't need to. You had joked about having your wedding at Disney once and that was kind of the end of it, those comments became checklists, and those checklists became plans. To be fair, it's not that you're not excited...even though you're incredibly stressed, it's just...it almost feels like part of a dream. Though how could it not when you're going to get married in the most magical place on earth?

Admittedly, you love Disney—you've always been a huge fan even though it's taken you a bit to get there. You're definitely able to associate perfect memories with Magic Kingdom, given that's where Austin proposed to you. Being with him within itself feels magical, so—and you know how corny that can sound on the outside, but...you're not gonna deny that's how it feels. So how can you pass up that opportunity to continue it there?

There's this gazebo before the Boardwalk near the Beach Club resort and it overlooks the bay, the Swan and Dolphin and Yacht Club resort. It's simple, beautiful but there's so many hoops to jump through, I's to dot, T's to cross. You run a hand over your face, pinching the bridge of your nose as you close your eyes.

You feel rather than see Austin come into the room, his hand slipping along the back of your shoulders and running down your back. He leans down and presses a kiss to your head, a small shiver coursing down your spine as you catch a hint of his cologne.

"I keep having nightmares I'm gonna get buried under paper."

Austin chuckles lightly, squeezing your shoulder before slipping into a chair next to you. "You're gonna give yourself a migraine—you know we got other people to help you with this, right? Including me?"

You sigh a bit dramatically and tip your head back before rolling your gaze to your fiancé. "I know," You reply quietly, a soft smile tugging the corners of your mouth, "I just keep thinking about everything that needs done and I get tunnel vision."

He hums before nodding, reaching for a few pieces of paper aside. He knows you, doesn’t need to elaborate on that—he gets exactly how you’re feeling. But he’s also right. You can’t take utter control over all of this. For starters, there’s way too much to do that you can easily delegate to some other people to help and secondly, the last thing you want to do is associate your wedding with negative feelings of stress and general ickiness.

Alright, fine. You’ll get some help, stop trying to control everything, because it’s not possible anyways.

“I guess I just wanted everything to be perfect.” You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you push the chair back from the table. You turn your body, facing Austin, knowing how cliché that sounds.

You should know better, at this point, than to be a perfectionist—there’s no good reason to be. And yet it’s difficult to stop when those nagging thoughts come rolling in. Austin’s pretty good at shushing them, though, sometimes with a simple touch. He shifts slightly in his chair to take a look at you, brushing your hair over your shoulder in a fond gesture. He gives you this look which you know says—you worry too much.

“It will be.”

You crinkle your nose because…you know that Austin is an optimist but, “How can you know that?”

He holds your gaze for a long moment and before he speaks, you can tell how serious he is about the words that are going to leave his mouth, an emotion you can’t quite name in the depths of his blue eyes, “Because I’ll be with you.”

And despite the fact that there’s a slight glimmer of added mischief a moment later in his gaze, you know he wasn’t kidding. You laugh softly and roll your eyes, making Austin grin.

He takes your hand and squeezes, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, “What, you didn’t like that? I was gonna make it part of my vows.”

You playfully push his cheek with your other hand but he’s quick, grabbing it and using it as leverage to tug you closer, kissing you.

Needless to say, you definitely have a necessary distraction for the afternoon.

--

And it is pretty perfect, as if you had any reason to doubt or think otherwise.

You think one of the most surprising aspects is just how fast everything goes—all that planning and worrying for it to be over and done in the blink of an eye, in the flash of a camera bulb, a heartbeat.

You go back to where Austin’s proposed before you both leave Florida for your honeymoon, standing in front of Cinderella’s castle, looking down at the ring on your finger. A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, running your thumb over the underside of the band. The sky is orange this time, candied pink, as the sun dips down behind the soft blue and silver structure.

To face the future with another, who means more than any other, is to be loved.

You can’t help but smile as you feel Austin come up behind you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, your jawline and your cheek before you turn your head and your lips brush. Your thumb runs over his wedding band.

That’s definitely the magic of love.

--

The line in italics come from the Disney movie The Rescuers.

[blackacre13]

I think its pretty much an established fact that lou is a total womaniser, so I have this headcanon that after Debbie comes back from jail and they rekindle their relationship Lou has some problems going back to being completely monogamous. So could you do a Lou pov where she has all these girls flinging themselves at her and usually she wouldn't hesitate to say yes but Debbie means so much to her that she could never cheat. bonus points if the end has loubbie smut ;)

“You sure you don’t want to come with me tonight?” Lou asked, lingering in the doorway like she’d done every night for the last week.

She didn’t want to push Debbie. She didn’t. Lou couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to try to slip back into any sort of normal after what Debbie had been through, but a selfish part of her wanted Debbie to make her presence known in Lou’s club. Mark her territory. Declare that she was back.

Lou could say she was taken in a dozen different ways, but she’d also been saying that for years while Debbie was away. It had been habit. A habit that most women knew wasn’t actually the truth of the matter. Debbie had told her not to wait. Lou wasn’t in a committed relationship. Lou and Debbie and been label free for as long as they’d known each other, the truth of what they were never uttered aloud. And with Debbie behind bars, Lou had no one to go home to and only the option of inviting women who weren’t Debbie back to her place.

It had been difficult at first. She had blonde hair. She was a redhead. Nobody had Debbie’s brunette hair that slid from mahogany to midnight. Green eyes. Blue eyes. Never the right shade of brown that glimmered like amber. She had just seen Debbie last week. And then it was last month. And then she’d lost count of the days. Couldn’t remember the scent of her or the feel. She wasn’t sure what was fact and what was fiction when she pulled up a memory to pine over.

The “no thanks” and “I’m good” were habit, but there were other dangerous habits too. Helmet long gone on her bike. Nicorette gum down the toilet in a rage and a pack of cigarettes in her back pocket the same night. Vodka. A shot or two snuck in between serving. Then a pint glass. Then just like the days of Deb away behind bars losing meaning, Lou lost count of drinks.

Tammy was there to pull her out of her stupor. And she was beyond grateful for someone to chide her like a mother and hug her like a sister. But it was Danny of all people who closed his eyes and pinched his nose as he uttered softly, “when’s the last time you let yourself get laid, Miller?”

After giving him shit for saying it and having a much less awkward conversation about it with Tammy and Debbie too, courtesy of Tammy playing monkey in the middle, Lou replaced liquor with women.

A shot with a kiss. A drink with willing fingers slipping through her waiting heat. Bottle after bottle with tongues and teeth and sex. Never two nights in a row with the same woman. Never letting them call her by her name. Barely giving and more receiving. She felt too guilty. She only wanted to give Deb pleasure. Make her feel good.

And when Lou had returned to the club with more than a pep in her step, a permanent grin slung across her lips, she felt like she was sending out flashing lights and warning signs: I’m taken. I’m not interested. Don’t approach.

But much to her chagrin, she’d established a pattern. Women leaning over the bar a little too far, showing off cleavage and twisting their hair. A hand slipping into Lou’s own cleavage or pocket with a tip and the promise of just a little something extra for serving them.

It was easy to say no. It was just a word. But it was harder to see the pout. Harder to hear the “your loss” and “you sure?”

She just wanted Debbie to decide that tonight was the night she’d come to the club, strutting through the door, moving through whatever interested gaggle was barricading Lou behind the bar that night and claiming her as her own. She’d take a kiss or a hand leading her out of the club. she’d take a hickey to the neck or nails raked down her arms. Hell, she’d let Debbie fuck her against the bar right then and there. Her head was swimming with the thought, but now it was Debbie backed against the bar, skirt hitched up around her hips, Lou’s thigh between the brunette’s as she nipped at her ear, whispering in a low, deep voice what she was going to do to her right here and right now, without caring who saw.

Lou wanted to demand that Debbie come with her. Just drag her by the arm and take her back into her world. But she found herself slamming the door shut and pacing back towards the brunette, melting against her on the couch as Debbie looked up at her confused, but accepted the kiss Lou offered, moaning as it went from chaste and sweet to messy and deep, Lou tugging at Debbie’s lip in a way that was sure to bruise.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Lou promised, scraping her nails down Debbie’s chest as she groaned, haphazardly tugging at Deb’s shirt, buttons snapping and scattering. Her eyes were practically glazed over as she took in black lace and olive skin that waited for her beneath, Debbie’s nipples poking against the embroidered flowers. “But I want you to come with me. Right now.”

“Jesus, Lou,” Debbie whimpered, her hips lifting as Lou undid her slacks, her own legs straddling Debbie as she wiggled her hand inside Debbie’s pants, hissing at the heat.

“I want you on my fingers and on my tongue, Debbie. I want you all over me. I want them to know I’m yours. Only yours. That you’re the only one I take home. That I’m coming home to you. And I want you on my mind the whole time I’m gone.”

“Well, I think—“ Debbie smirked, rolling her bra cups upwards to reveal her breasts as she led Lou’s head roughly towards her, the blonde’s lips locking around her nipple. “I have just the plan for that.”

[dailyautophagy]

do you ever feel like you are doing the right things

that sentence is kinda different depending on which word you emphasize

but please emphasize Ever cause that’s what I did lol

I will shower for the second day in a row today

It feels wasteful lol but also like I can’t just keep leaving the day on me and then be shocked when I get a pimple lol like 👍 hey retard, your pores need to get cleaned out, they are tiny gutters. How many pores do we have?

You ever type a question and then highlight it to look it up instead of actually opening a different app and typing it again

Look lol

you ever do that?? It just OPENS safari for you lol

iPhones are a drop of evil in the bucket of WORLD EVIL so like stfu about the child slaves like who’s making androids because I think my iPhone maker kid is probably friends with your android maker kid. And I can’t worry about everything happening in the world or I’ll implode, so…. TRAFFICKING IS WORSE. These kids just have to hurt their hands. BOTH ARE NOT OKAY. But there are levels to the evil shit… there are levels to everything

Like scale of 1-10 where 1 is got no dessert and 10 is got molested how bad was your childhood

….. anyway lol so you know how some things just do not feel right lol

How do we do things we know are wrong

Not even WHY but literally how lol what brain function is that

we aren’t just input/output creatures??…. I mean, we are lol input food, output waste, but with thoughts it’s like - input information, scumbag brain decides to ignore half that information and run with some part of it, output action…

it just doesn’t make sense that I KNOW going to sleep early and getting up early is good for my literal brain chemistry - and still don’t do it consistently

like amyloid plaque cannot build up if you sleep correctly because our body CLEANS ITSELF INTERNALLY at night lol so yo if you eat late and your body has to DO DIGESTION guess the fuck what your scumbag brain is like hey I know if I don’t digest this food it will rot and kill you so I have to do this BEFORE i can start all of the other INTERNAL CLEANING sooo - oopsie if we don’t get to everything. and then we wonder why Alzheimer’s and dementia are a problem.

Barbara O’Neill taught me more about the brain than fucking …. Any class. Granted I didn’t take brain chemistry classes lol but do you know how many prerequisites I would have to take before I could get to this information lol idk if that’s how shit works anymore - I remember more of highschool than college tbh because I didn’t smoke weed until the senior year of highschool and then NEVER STOPPED like how do I have a job lol paperwork, is how. DO YOUR PAPERWORK. Cover your ass. Everything will be okay.

usually going back to sleep feels good so i assume it’s the right thing but alas sometimes just because something feels good does not mean it is the right thing lol like doing DRUGS

Also this man mowed the lawn yesterday and I didn’t even suck on his penis about it

That

Is

Unacceptable

I have take not one but two large shits so now I am going to shower instead of laying back down til 630 lol

Can I just say how much I love not having kids

But I do have the time to make kids breakfast like set up a school room lol like teachers can’t even imagine a class size of single digits let alone 1-2 lol it would be SO EASY no wonder home school kids seem weird they know everything before everyone else and then probably look around at society like ‘these stupid fucks’ lol

There was a kid in my neighborhood named Walter and we played with k’nex and he didn’t have a TV and I think my parents knew his parents were doing a better job than them …. They were lol

Okay time to shower for another 40 minutes :D

Kidding, should be less time cause I don’t need to scrape off layers of dead skin from my AGING FACE. Castor oil you bitch, rub it on you after shower, why you never remember to do it????

I guess morning rambles are my thing now

[project-sekai-facts]

would it be too out there to predict the rest of the units this rotation getting an event this month and having 5-in-a-row unit events (especially since there were 3 mixed events in a row just before this) The characters are generally equal in limited card amounts (either 4 or 5) so I think rui getting a 6th lim isn't too improbable (for tsukasa it is since the devs would have likely stated something regarding back-to-back lims by now), and mmj and n25 have their 2nd lim sets already.

There isn't really an indication of who could have the banner if it's mixed, or who would be in the mixed event in general, except for if they're allowing a vser in the banner (since there's been lims for all the vsers in the past two months) Len is an obvious choice in either direction since hes still lacking a lim with the ocs (rin and meiko having 2, and the others having only 1) (and yes, there's a two month gap only but that has happened a lot at this point)

and if it is a wxs lim then nene is also definitely a lim since her last one was in january, which is currently the most due for a lim of all the characters and has only 4 lims at that, so that could indicate her appearance if this event is a mixed event too.

the game has never done more than 4 unit events in a row before, but given the mixed event spam, maybe 5 in a row could happen. it would balance out the 3DMV:2DMV ratio as well if they did 3 3DMV events and 2 2DMV events.

i think rui lim is possible, but mainly because nene needs a lim and wxs needs a lim banner. i'm still sorta hesitant on him because less than half the cast is on 5 lims right now, so maybe it's a bit too soon for 6th lims. i dunno they did get shiho and an to 5th lims when len got to 3 though so anything goes atp.

if it's a mixed event i think all OC is most likely unless they decide they hate len fans. i had the old 1-B duo down plus Haruka because they're like the most in need of lims right now. all i know is that if it's mixed haruka there's no way haruka isn't lim. usually 11 months is the max between lims aside from that one time with kanade. nene is also most likely for mixed event right now i think, or maybe emu (i think if it is a perm rui unit event then it would have emu as gacha considering how they seem to be trying to balance out how many times characters appear on each other's banners). having 3 mixed events in a row kinda threw off the schedule so i dunno if seasonal events (read: vday/white day) are gonna be a thing this year, but if they are that knocks out akito and probably minori. actually wait considering the time of year there's probably a cultural festival event coming up. miyajou doesn't really work for that though. yeah haruka isn't getting a lim i need to give up on the 11 months thing MMJ lims don't work, miyajou lims don't work. Kamikou 2-A Nene banner...? eh that doesn't really work either. Rui/Emu/Nene wxs banner maybe that works best right now. either way 6 lims might actually happen. i've lost track of what i'm saying take this

this is probably so so wrong but i'm too tired for logical thinking right now oh shit haruka already had a new years lim idk what we're doing with her anymore. also toya and an being reward on VBS could mean they have 4*s soon which kinda backs my kamikou cultural fes spec. i dunno. i'm gonna stop now