#tis the season of spook | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

evermoreal · 9 months

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it always leads to you ࿐

pairing: simon riley x reader

genre: dad’s best friend au, fluff, smut, a touch of angst

cw: smut - this is 18+ minors dni, age gap (ghost is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s), fem!reader, reader is implied to be shorter than ghost, unprotected sex (bad idea!!!!!), praise kink (excessive use of ‘good girl’), oral (m & f receiving), face-fucking (he’s gentle abt it), ummmm a man that is Not ghost makes unwanted sexual advances, small mention of blood (someone gets a cut on their forehead). please lmk if i missed anything !!!!!!

summary: coming home for the holidays is both a blessing and a curse — cheesy music, bittersweet nostalgia, and simon riley, your father’s best friend and the man you’ve had a stupidly big crush on for years.

author’s note: hiii!! um a Few things . firstly, i seldom write smut & when i do i never post it. i have put off posting this for so long bc i was so nervous — it was originally meant to be a christmas gift to u guys 😭😭 n e ways we Prevail. also i despite being Obsessed w him i’ve never written for ghost !!!! i want to do soo much more for him & the other cod men, so if u have any reqs/ideas, my asks are always open !!! love u guys soooooo much i hope i enjoy ! 💋💋

word count: 11k (sorry 😭)

credits: title is from tis the damn season by taylor swift, and the beauuuutifullll render/edit of ghost is by user dwisesz on twitter!

before you met him, you’d heard endless stories. for as long as you could remember, your father recounted tales of his friend ‘ghost’ from the army. every time he came back from deployment, there’d be something new — ghost’s snipe from 2,700 meters away, ghost making your dad laugh so hard beer came out of his nose, ghost making a new recruit cry simply by staring at them.

there were others, of course, too; gaz, who your father had quite the soft spot for; john, who quickly became your favourite when you met him a few years ago and he snuck you a sip of wine at dinner; soap, who was new to the team but had enough passion to carry an entire army on his back.

ghost, though — he was your dad’s favourite. though he claimed to be too honourable for favourites, the way your father spoke about him made it clear. a simultaneous respect and affection woven through every recounted story.

it was a shock you didn’t meet him until your freshman year of college. your father and ghost’s leave fell around the same time, and your father had invited him to stay with your family. your father never revealed much about ghost’s history, but you knew it was dark and splattered with blood. he was alone now, and though he claimed he preferred it that way, he’d accepted your father’s invitation.

from your bedroom, you’d heard the front door creak open, and without so much as a breath you were bounding down the stairs, bare feet smacking against the hardwood. your father was in the midst of putting down his bags when you threw your arms around him. “dad!”

he reciprocated immediately, pulling you tightly against him. “hi, honey. i missed you.”

as you pulled back, he patted your head, and you spotted a shadow along the floor. following it toward the still-open door, you found a broad, menacing figure, blocking most of the sunlight. he was nearly as wide as the doorway, and the top of his head just barely made it under the threshold. over his face was hidden by a black balaclava with the faint impression of a skull along the front, faded with age and use. despite the endless stories, you were immediately intimidated, and stepped closer to your father.

your dad squeezed your arm, chuckling. “lieutenant, this is my daughter.”

looking between the two of you, simon took a slow step forward, and extended his hand. his movements were careful, like you were a wild animal he didn’t want to spook.

hesitating briefly, you slipped your hand into his. the warmth of ghost’s hand bled through the gloves he wore as he squeezed yours once. “nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

“it’s nice to meet you, um, mr ghost.” you had to crane your neck to look him in the eye.

a low, raspy chuckle rumbled from his chest, and beneath the balaclava, his eyes creased into tiny half-moons. “just simon is fine, love.”

and, really, he didn’t even give you a chance. there was no warning, no preamble. in an instant, fear ignited into something far more dangerous — attraction.

with a warm stomach, you smiled, and tried your hardest to keep it from growing too wide. “right. um. simon. yes.” you bit your cheek. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”

finally releasing your hand, he murmured, “terrible things, i assume.” his wink was quick and cheeky and certainly wasn’t meant to release a swarm of butterflies in your stomach, and yet . . .

“mostly,” you joked, and beside you, your father laughed. it was a rude awakening — ice water splashed over your silly little daydream. this man was only a few years younger than your father — in no universe would he give you a chance, and in no world should you want him to.

as quickly and as unassumingly as you could, you excused yourself, claiming you were in the middle of packing — which was mostly true. you were due on campus in less than two weeks, and if you didn’t start now, you’d leave it until the night before and end up forgetting something.

initially, you’d dreaded spending two weeks under the same roof as simon. it was a surefire plan to end up embarrassing yourself, because you’d never really been able to act normally around a crush, especially one in the shape of a 6-foot-whatever behemoth. yet, as the days went on, that dread steadily began to lift. despite your school girl crush, simon was easy to talk to. a lot of the time he was quiet, but his eyes never wavered from you, listening intently and humming where it mattered. he was fun, too — he recommended good movies, took you shopping while your father ran errands, taught you the best places to hit a man if one attacked you.

(a picture of simon, dramatically curled up in pain after you’d accidentally kicked him in the balls during a lesson now sits in your phone’s ‘favourites’ folder).

two weeks went by far too quickly, and before you knew it, your dad and simon were lugging your belongings up and into your dorm. not a single bag was left for you — you were tasked with the important duty of telling them what went where. when all was said and done, simon handed you a tiny piece of paper with a ten-digit number scrawled messily across it.

“in case you ever need me,” he explained, warm brown eyes peering at you beneath terribly long lashes. “i know your dad’s always there, but — just in case.”

then, he’d patted your head and squeezed your shoulder, murmuring a, “good luck, kid.”

and, though he was lovely to look at and talk with and exist around, you knew it would never be anything more. no matter how desperately a silly little part of you wished it. he spent time with you because he didn’t have anyone else. never had a daughter or a niece to spoil or playfight with. it was endearing, the way he interacted with you. wholesome and innocent and if that was all you’d ever get, you’d be happy.

— ∘♡༉∘ —

college was a lot. it was simultaneously the best and worst time of your life, passing by at both a snail’s and bullet’s pace. somehow, you ended up halfway through your final year. the holidays had rolled around, leaving you on a train, weaving over the tracks as you made your way back home.

in the years you’d been away, you’d kept in contact with simon. he joined your family for every holiday, and beyond that, you texted him often. sent him photos of your proudest grades, spirit days, or yummy meals. he’d even occasionally text you first, asking how your classes were going, if it was raining there like it was here, if you got home safe on the nights he knew you went out.

the landlord he’d rented his shitty apartment from ended up selling the place and simon had to relocate, finding a place only a few minutes from your dad’s. they loved to bug you, now — sending selfies and videos. to occupy themselves on their offtime, they’d opened a car repair shop together, and it only got worse.

you weren’t supposed to be home until tomorrow, but you were feeling homesick and your bags were already packed. before long, you were stepping out of a taxi, bags in hand, and ambling up to the shop.

the reception area was tiny, sweetly decorated for the holidays and playing some generic christmas station. leaning against the desk was soap, slyly flirting with the blushing woman behind it.

his eyes lit up upon seeing you. “the fuck’re you doin’ ‘ere, lass?” he questioned far too loudly. immediately, you shushed him, and he caught on. “ooh, i love surprises. they’re back in the garage, workin’ away. y’want me t’film it?”

giggling, you shook your head, accepting the quick side hug he gave you. when you slipped through the garage door — opening it bit by bit, never too quickly lest it creak, soap returned to the customer.

the garage was stocked with cars in disrepair and various parts you couldn’t name if your life depended on it. the stench of motor oil, cigar smoke, and antifreeze stung your nose as you made your way over, where simon was wheeled beneath a car, thick thighs flexed inside oil-stained jeans. your father was turned away from you, bent over a shoddy metal table table and observing an array of papers. an ancient radio sat next to them, croaking out a rock song from your childhood.

“one of these days, i’m gonna teach you to use spotify,” you called, voice bouncing off the cement walls and ceiling.

a bang proceeded your words, and in the same instant, your father turned around, exclaiming your name and wrapping you in the world’s tightest bear-hug.

“we were supposed to pick you up tomorrow!” he said, voice muffled to your ears beneath the suffocating squeeze of his arms.

“figured i’d surprise you,” you supplied, stepping back from his grasp once it loosened. immediately after, you were enveloped by simon, who stunk of grease, cheap cologne, and tobacco. you inhaled; it was lovely.

“my favourite college student,” he murmured into the top of your head. “how y’been, trouble?”

when you pulled away, a dark splotch caught your eye. a small but growing patch of blood stained the top of his balaclava, turning the black fabric a murky shade of brown.

“shit! you’re bleeding!” you yelped, stepping away from him and searching your surroundings — there wasn’t much for medical supplies in a garage.

beside you, your dad was laughing; a deep, wheezy sound. “did y’hit your head?”

simon grunted, shooting you a playful glare. “if college doesn’t work out, kid, y’ve got an easy spot on the one-four-one. you’re quiet as a mouse. scared the shit outta me.”

despite yourself, you snorted. “i’ll keep that in mind. d’you guys have any bandaids?”

“there’s some in the office. bottom drawer of my desk,” your father replied, voice tinged with amusement.

“thank you, dad. simon, come. i took a first-aid course in high school.”

obediently, simon followed, keeping just a step behind as you moved through the garage. from his table, your father called, “we’re going out for dinner tonight, don’t make plans!”

“sir yes sir!”

simon and your father’s office was a small room just off the garage. carpeted, with off-white walls and dusty blinds letting in yellowish rays of sunlight. dusty photos hung from the wall; a few of you and your father; the 141; a german shepherd simon adored.

moving to the desk, you bent over and dug through the mountain of junk in the bottom drawer. the box of bandaids was shoved into the corner, bent and creased. simon copied your movements, rounding the desk and sitting on the worn desk chair.

“d’you know if you have anything to clean it with? hydrogen peroxide, saline, any kind of antiseptic?” you questioned, opening the drawer above it, which contained only invoices and a chequebook.

humming, simon stood, moving to the cabinet and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. at the roll of your eyes, he chuckled. “it works, doesn’t it?”

“i suppose it does,” you replied, collecting the fast food napkins you’d spotted while searching for the bandaids. then, after he’d sat once more, you softy placed your fingers at the bottom of simon’s balaclava. “may i?”

whenever simon’s eyes met yours, your breath hitched. every single time. whether it was because of that stupid crush that never went away or because his gaze were simply so intense, like an entire world existed within small pools of deep brown. pulling you in, drowning you. it was impossible to look away.

again, he hummed, granting you permission. gently, you rolled the fabric up, revealing his face inch by inch. this wouldn’t be the first time you’d seen his face — he spent far too much time around you to hide it. he still wore it more often than not, though, and every time he bothered to tug it off, it was like seeing it for the first time. roman nose, full lips, the scar across his brow, the prickly dusting of facial hair along his jaw. it was a shame he hated photographs — you’d frame it if you had any less sanity.

in your distraction, the tension had grown thick, humming in the silence of the room. clearing your throat, you took the whiskey from him, turning it over in your hands. “this stuff is shit.”

his face twisted. “how the hell d’you know what whiskey tastes like?”

snorting, you uncapped the bottle, and began to soak the corner of a napkin. “y’know, riley, i’ve been legal for a while now.”

his lip twitched, forming a crooked smile. “i know. it’s hard not to. y’keep growing. every time i see you, you’re . . .”

he trailed off. placing a gentle hand on his forehead, you tilted his head backward, and began to gently wipe at the cut. “i’m what?”

imperceptibly, he shook his head, careful not to jostle you. “more of a woman.”

you barked a laugh at that, and his smile grew. “more of a woman? what does that mean? i had tits when i met you, simon.”

simon rolled his eyes. “that’s not — what i meant. you’re . . . not a kid. you’re meaner now, for one.”

resuming the cleaning of his wound, you pouted. “mean? you wound me. maybe i’m just not scared of you anymore.”

“no, you’re not mean. always been a sweetheart.” his eyes fluttered shut beneath your ministrations. “you were scared of me?”

you giggled, and placed the bloodied napkin in the trash. then, you dug out a bandaid. “no, not really. nervous, maybe. intimidated.”

“is my handsome face really so daunting?”

this time, your laugh was lacklustre — he’d hit the nail straight on the head. “you’re bigfoot in a skull mask. before you spoke, i was a bit nervous.”

“but you’re not? now?”

peeling the parchment from the back of the bandaid, you met his gaze. “no. why would i be?”

this time, it was simon that looked away. you delicately placed the band-aid over the cut, before he said, “thank you, angel.”

you smiled, and, like you were drunk of the proximity of him, placed a quick, daring kiss to the band-aid. “if i wasn’t such a generous nurse, i’d say you owe me. you’re lucky.”

simon breathed laugh, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think the tops of his cheeks were pink. clenching and unclenching his jaw, he murmured, “lucky indeed.”

— ∘♡༉∘ —

in hindsight, believing your high school friends were capable of growing up was one of your less intelligent ideas. call it boredom or stupidity, but when a few of your old friends invited you out to the bar, you were compelled to accept.

it, unsurprisingly, went dreadfully. the first half of the night was fine — the first round of shots was purchased by one of the sweeter ones. you caught up over murky-coloured cocktails, swapping stories about your new lives and reminiscing over your old ones. the alcohol warmed your skin and loosened your limbs. the night went on and the amount of patrons doubled; you recognized a lot of them from old classes or bus rides or kindergarten friendships.

a boy from high school, one that hadn’t said a single nice thing to you in the entire four years, approached you with something that was supposed to be a smirk. you were polite at first, nodding along to his slurred words, exhaling when he attempted a joke. he dragged a hand over your thigh, and when you shifted away he easily followed. you excused yourself, muttering something about using the restroom, and he took it as an invitation.

“y’like it public, huh? never took you as the type,” he garbled, sliding off the barstool and following your movements. “i like whatever you like, baby.”

“no, i — actually need to pee,” you stated, glancing around the bar for your lost friends. he stared at you for a long minute, eyes narrowing.

“mm, fine. i’ll — i’ll pull up my car, we can head back to my place.”

“no, i—” you began, eyeing his sleazy grin and glazed-over leer. “i don’t want to go home with you. i’m not interested. i’m sorry.”

it takes a few moments for him to wrap his head around your words; each one spelled out across his face as it’s processed. finally, his expression twisted into a sneer.

“should’ve fuckin’ known not to waste my time with you,” he barked, unfocused eyes glaring daggers at you. “once a whore always a whore, huh?”

the most embarrassing part of this was the tears. you didn’t let him see them — too prideful to let them fall before you muttered a “fuck you,” and escaped out the side door.

the night air was freezing, twinged with the sharp bite of early winter. without a jacket or alcohol — you’d sobered up as soon as his hand touched your leg — to warm you, you were left hugging yourself, digging your phone out of your purse.

you could have sobbed when a red battery symbol lights up the screen, before flickering back off, dead. you just might have had you not spotted a pay-phone a few meters away.

there were only a few coins in your purse. had it not been kept for just-in-case situations like these, there would be none at all. shoving a few into the coin slot, you dial the number you’d had memorized from childhood.

it rang several times, wind whistling in your other ear, before your father’s voice stated, “sorry, can’t reach the phone. leave a message.”

a choked sound left your throat. what the hell were you supposed to do? most of your friends had split off into tiny sub-groups, and you were too ashamed to ask any of them for a ride. there was the option of asking a bartender to call a cab, though the idea of that was, for no real reason, profusely embarrassing. then, you remembered the one other phone number you’d memorized.

you don’t really know why — there was no reason for you to remember it, especially over any other phone number. yet, when he’d handed you that crumbled sheet of paper, your eyes had traced over the shapes of the numbers, and for some reason committed them to memory with no further effort.

whatever the reason was, you didn’t feel like questioning it. you were merely thankful you did. with cold fingertips, you pressed the digits into the payphone.

he picked up on the fourth ring. “who’s this?” was the greeting.

“it’s me,” you replied, and you barely were able to finish saying your name before he was cutting you off.

”what’s wrong? are you alright?”

huffing a quiet laugh, you said, “‘m fine, simon. i just—” you sighed, clutching the phone tighter in your hand. “i went out with my friends, an’ i—i’m just not having a good time. i tried to call my dad, but it’s past ten, so he’s passed out. i’m sorry—”

“where are you?” he asked, and there was a rustling in the background.

there were only a few bars in town—he knew immediately where this one was. “i’m on my way, i’ll be there in ten. are you in a safe spot, sweetheart?”

“i’m in a telephone booth. my phone died.”

“of course it did. would you be willing to go in an’ ask the bartender to use the phone?”

“no.”

“alright. okay. just stay on the line with me then, okay? d’you have any extra change, in case y’run outta minutes?”

”yeah. i should be good. i’m—listen, si, i’m really sorry—”

“if i hear that word come outta y’r mouth again we’re gonna have issues,” he said, and you laughed despite yourself. “‘m glad you called. now i’ll get t’see your pretty face.”

a girlish giggle sounded from your chest, and if it weren’t so damn cold, you might’ve been embarrassed. “i hate bars.”

“y’go to the wrong ones,” he replied. “one day i’ll take you out to one of my favourites. show you a decent drink.”

“my drinks are decent,” you argued. there was a whooshing sound on the line, and you panicked. “you’re not driving your motorcycle, are you?”

“didn’t have anything else with me,” he said. “y’got a problem with my harley, trouble?”

“your harley is a death machine.”

simon chuckled. “i’ll drive slow with you.”

“you should be driving slow now.”

another laugh. “i’ll be there in three.”

“simon!” you admonished. “you said ten!”

“that was four minutes ago.”

shaking your head, you said, “your lack of self-preservation should be studied.”

in the few seconds he took to reply, your teeth clacked together, and simon swiftly asked, “are you chattering?”

your lack of response served as one on its own, and he continued, “doll, what’re you wearing in this telephone booth?”

“um,” you started, chewing your bottom lip. “a skirt.”

“and a jacket?”

“uh.”

“christ,” he swore. “your lack of self-preservation should be studied. it’s not even 5° out.”

“jackets are a lot of work to carry around in a bar,” you argued, though you knew it was fruitless. “and i wasn’t really planning on spending any time in a telephone booth.”

“y’should always prepare for the worst,” he stated. “what if i hadn’t picked up, hm?”

“you always pick up.”

for a short moment, the other line was quiet, with only the quiet whoosh of the wind brushing past the speakers. then, “yeah, i do.”

the way he said it — so tenderly, like an admission — had any response dying on your tongue. your heart felt oddly warm, and didn’t quite know what to do with yourself, curling and uncurling the phone cord around your fingers.

“‘m here, trouble,” simon said, saving you from further awkward silence. a headlight glared against the glass of the phone booth, hallowing fingerprints and rain stains. squeaking out an, “okay,” you hung up the phone with a click and stepped out.

he was off his motorcycle already, immediately tugging off his jacket and wrapping it around your shoulders before pulling you against him.

“god, you’re a fuckin’ ice cube, sweetheart,” he said. he held you like that for a while, arms wrapped so tightly around your frame that you worried you’d morph into him. not that you minded — he was warm.

afterwards, simon cupped your cheeks, tilting your head upward as he examined you, as if you were ill or injured. furrowing his brow, he asked, “were you crying?”

you attempted to look away, ashamed, but in his grip it proved futile. “not much.”

“what happened?” he asked, and there was something in his voice, laced in the low rumble of it, that sounded threatening. it wasn’t meant for you, that was clear — he’d never direct anything hostile toward you. before he had even the barest idea of who or what made you cry, he was already furious at it.

“it’s nothing.”

“tell me,” he demanded. then, softer, “please. i just — need to know.”

moving your gaze from a far-off shape in the night towards his, you were unable to keep it from him. “i—this guy. i went to high school with him.”

a spark lit his gaze. “what’d he do?”

for a few breaths, you were quiet, trying to sort the words into something only mildly wrath-inducing. “he wanted, um, to take me home. i didn’t want to. he got upset.”

the spark caught, lighting his gaze into a furious blaze. even beneath the balaclava, you could see his jaw clench. he stepped away from you and set on a warpath toward the bar.

“simon—no,” you yelped, hurrying to catch up with him. it was a difficult task—your shoes weren’t comfortable and his long legs moved swiftly. finally, you caught his leather sleeve in your grasp. “don’t. please, don’t.”

at the sound of your voice, soft and warbled, he stopped, turning to face you once more, and whatever he saw on your face had his eyes softening.

“i don’t want to deal with him any more than i already have,” you said, staring up at him. “i just—i just want to leave. can we go to your house, please? i don’t want to be alone. i don’t want to think.”

the neon bar lights cast strange shadows across your frames, illuminating you in various bright colours as you stood, gazes caught in one another. simon seemed to fight with himself for a moment, fury and something far more tender battling for authority. the latter won out; he exhaled a long breath, hand cupping the back of your head and pulling you into him once more.

“let’s go, yeah?”

you nodded, following with your arm wrapped around his as he led you to the bike. attached to the back was an extra helmet, which he placed atop your head, adjusting it with a heady stare you couldn’t meet. the helmet smelled like pine and tobacco and vanilla and simon — it was everywhere, and you blissfully drowned in it.

when it was to his satisfaction, he tugged his gloves off and pulled them over your fingers. they were large and loose on you, and they were still warm from his skin. afterward, he pulled his own helmet back on, and held a hand out, helping you onto the back of the machine. large hands adjusted your hips, manhandling you into the right position, and it took everything in you not to make some sort of embarrassing squeak.

“okay,” he murmured, bent over your shoulder. “i’m gonna sit on the front here. you’ll have your arms wrapped around my torso, okay? and you’re not gonna let go, at all. yeah?”

you nodded. “mmhmm.”

“i need to hear your words, love.”

meeting his gaze for the briefest second, you repeated, “i won’t let go.”

“good. i won’t too fast with you, but if y’need me to pullover, just let me know, yeah?”

another nod, and this time he gave you a pointed look. “i’ll let you know,” you stated, lips just barely twitching.

with a gloved hand, simon pat your helmet and mounted the bike. after the briefest moment of hesitation, you wrapped your arms around his middle. even through the leather, he was warm; you couldn’t help but burrow a bit further into him. with merely a glance at simon, it was obvious he was built — far more than any other man you knew. to feel it beneath you, though, was an entirely separate thing. he was solid and unyielding but not harsh; a thin layer of fat kept him just soft enough.

“good girl,” he praised, patting the hands you’d entwined in front of his belly. you pressed your eager grin between his shoulders.

the motorcycle rumbled beneath you, and, slowly, he eased the gas, weaving through the tightly-crammed parking lot. just as he was about to exit the lot, he asked, above the exhaust, “you alright?”

“mmhmm,” you hummed, cheek pressed against leather. then, “yes.”

with that, he accelerated onto the road, joining the late-night traffic. the wind whistled in your ears and bit at your exposed legs; you pressed yourself further against him, and his back vibrated with the sound he made in acknowledgment. above, yellowish streetlights warmed the pavement and passing cars. gas stations and markets and various homes passed by in a colourful blur.

at a red light, while you sat still, simon’s hand came down, brushing over your knuckles in slow circles. the movement was featherlight and you wondered if it was unconscious — as soon as it flicked back to green, he moved the hand back to the handles without any acknowledgment.

the ride to his place was closer than it would have been to yours. simon lived in a small, red brick townhouse, far enough from downtown to be quiet, and close enough to access it without any hassle. he could afford better, though he opted for this because ‘it was all he needed.’ a stove to cook on, quiet neighbours, and a bed to sleep in — these were his only requirements.

steering the motorcycle beside the curb, he parked it there, and leaned backward into you. “how was that?” he asked. the world seemed strangely quiet without the hum of the engine.

“fast,” you said lamely, honestly. “not as bad as i thought, but i still prefer cars. they have walls. and heat.”

simon laughed, shaking his head. the sound echoed through his shoulders, which you were still pressed against. “when i get you a jacket i’ll make sure it’s heated.”

the idea of simon purchasing you a leather jacket to ride with him more often — it made your face heat up and your cheeks ache with a restrained grin. you were barely able to get yourself under control before he was sliding off the bike and offering a hand to you. even with his help, maneuvering your way off with mostly-numb legs was a difficult task. you just barely were able to land steady-footed on the pavement. as if simon knew this, he kept a hand on the small of your back as you walked up the steps to his home.

inside, it smelled like simon. pine, english breakfast tea, and something unique to him. the only thing missing was the stench of a cigarette; you knew he refused to smoke inside.

the decorations were minimal yet cozy; it was surprisingly neat. besides the pair he’d just kicked off, the shoes were lined up along the wall. you’d been inside very few times, and never long enough to observe. in the living room, the lamp was still on, bathing the room in warmth. there was a cup of tea on the coffee table, only a few sips left. beside it was a novel you didn’t recognize, dog-eared halfway through.

every detail felt important, like a glimpse into him. had the bar not left you feeling sticky and unkempt, you could have stayed here observing for hours. yet, your shirt felt suffocating across your chest, and the nape of your neck felt sweaty despite the earlier chill.

“um,” you began ungracefully. “do you mind if i use your shower? i feel . . . icky.”

his lips twitched at your choice of words, and he nodded. “yeah. lemme show you the bathroom, sweets.”

following him up the stairs, he directed you to the bathroom, pulling two towels out of his linen-closet. then, he said, “shower’s fuckin’ complicated. too fancy. lemme get it started for you.”

you watched as he ducked in, fiddling with buttons and knobs until steam danced over the glass doors. afterward, he looked back at you, peering at your figure. “that’s not very comfortable.”

you followed his gaze, glancing over your outfit. “well, no.”

he huffed. “i’ll get y’something of mine,” he stated, and made his way toward the door. “i’ll leave it on my bed, yeah? just down the hall. if y’need anything, sweetheart, just shout. i’ll be downstairs.”

giving a soft smile, you nodded and said, “okay. thank you, simon. really.”

“no need. i’d let y’live here if it meant never going to that fuckin’ shitehole again.”

“it wasn’t that bad of a bar.”

he gave you a dead-pan stare. “shite. hole.”

amused, you rolled your eyes, and pushed the door shut. on the other side, you heard a chuckle — the smile that bloomed on your face at the sound was unbidden.

it’d be a lie to say it didn’t feel strange to strip in simon’s house. the fact that only a few walls stood between you sent a strange thrill through you. it was in your best interest to ignore it — your heart and body had incredibly inappropriate reactions to the man, and tonight they seemed to be at an all time high.

he was being kind, nothing else.

once your clothes were peeled off and discarded on the tiled floor, you stepped into the shower. immediately, the warmth enveloped you, melting the tension out of your muscles and washing it away.

simon didn’t have much of a selection when it came to soaps. you were thankful he had a decent face wash, though — at least there were no three-in-ones.

the body wash smelled lovely — that dizzying, woodsy scent native to simon danced alongside the steam in the bathroom as you lathered it across your skin. though it was tempting to stay for longer, you didn’t want to waste too much of his water. you stepped out, and wrapped a shockingly soft towel around your abdomen.

the house was quiet when you stepped out of the restroom, clothes collected in your hands as you padded toward simon’s bedroom. this was the one room you hadn’t yet seen, though you could have predicted quite a bit of it. neat, minimal decorations. a king-sized bed because anything smaller wouldn’t fit him. folded atop were joggers and a sweatshirt.

it wasn’t a surprise you had to roll up the pant legs until they were ridiculously cuffed at the bottom. the sight of yourself in the mirror made you snort; you were drowning in simon’s clothes. butterflies swarmed your tummy, too—you were in his clothes, like you belonged to him. the train of thought was dangerous, you quickly looked away.

exiting his bedroom, you heard a quiet, continuous popping sound. padding down the stairs, you followed it into the kitchen where simon stood, collecting a bit of butter and a salt shaker.

though your steps were quiet, simon’s eyes were on you before you even stepped inside the room. his gaze swept your figure, dwarfed in his clothes, lingering just long enough for you to catch it before he was shifting it away, jaw twitching beneath his balaclava.

after a moment too long, he said, “hey, trouble.” his voice was low. “making popcorn. there’s tea.” he gestured with his chin to the counter where two mugs sat, one of which you’d gifted to him nearly three years ago now. a black cat was painted on the front, a grumpy expression wrinkling it’s little face (“it reminds me of you,” you’d said). in a significantly less interesting mug was your tea, several shades lighter than his black.

“thank you,” you murmured against the lip of the glass, wincing slightly when a sip burned your tongue.

“do you—” he began, taking the popcorn out of the microwave and pouring it into a bowl. “how’s a movie sound?”

you grinned. “it sounds lovely.”

“there’re dvds in the cupboard out there,” he explained, sifting the butter and salt through the popcorn. “take your pick.”

a snort. “why am i not surprised you still use dvds?”

simon raised a brow. “i spend half my life in barracks. netflix is a scam, love.”

“sure,” you said, grinning impishly. “grandpa.”

despite your teasing, his movie collection was vast. a lot of them you hadn’t heard of, though you picked out a familiar one, presenting him with your choice when he joined you in the living room.

“diehard, hm?” he gave a crooked smile. “tis the season, i suppose. you have good taste, sweetheart.”

“i know,” you stated proudly. “but you should keep complimenting me.”

simon huffed a laugh, and placed the disc in the dvd player. “i already feed your ego too much.”

making yourself comfortable on his couch, you agreed, “you really do.” then, when he procured a blanket and draped it across your lap, you snorted. “this isn’t helping.”

placing the popcorn between you, simon tugged off his balaclava and shoved a few pieces in his mouth, saying, “sorry, sweets. can’t help it.” his smile was lopsided and boyish, charming. the tv flickered on, basking the room in a blueish glow, before simon clicked ‘play’ on the movie.

together, you watched the opening scenes of the movie. a few jokes were muttered back and forth, but, other than that and the sounds of the film, it was quiet. the popcorn was delicious, lathered in an unhealthy amount of butter and salt, you shovelled it into your mouth.

the tea, too, was lovely. warm and sweet, and, combined with the comfort of simon’s presence, you were sleepily lulling back into the plush couch. with low eyelids, you tried to make yourself comfortable, manoeuvring your body this way and that. huffing, you stared down at the couch, searching for a decent position, when you spotted simon’s lap.

all muscled and soft, he’d make the perfect pillow. would he mind? you sincerely doubted he would. it was innocent, after all. you simply wanted to relax. the only one it might be awkward for was you, and if you could get past your stupid crush for a single hour, it’d be perfect.

after one more moment of doubt, you stretched yourself out and hesitantly laid your head on simon’s lap. beneath you, he tensed for a moment, and you just about thought you’d fucked everything up before he relaxed back into the couch. a large hand made a home on your back, running soothingly up and down your spine.

laying against simon like this — it was so peaceful. your mind hushed to a low hum as you nestled further into him, eyes trained on the screen. his fingers trailed upward, tracing a pattern on the nape of your neck and returning south.

the movie was entertaining, though you felt yourself slipping into sleep. occasionally, simon’s fingers would slip over a ticklish slip of skin, and you’d shiver, causing him to exhale a chuckle.

slowly, as your mind quieted, so did the sound of the film, until it was an unintelligible mumble. the world started and ended with simon’s thighs beneath your cheek, and his hand against your shoulders.

against your eyelids, the screen was bright, lighting them up uncomfortably. huffing sleepily, you pressed your face into simon’s lap, burrowing further in an attempt to make yourself comfortable. beneath you, something firm prodded against your cheek, and at once you were very awake.

simon, suddenly, stiffened. the hand on your back halted, fingers hovering over your skin before dropping away completely. “oh, fuck—christ, sweetheart, i’m so sorry. i’ll drive you home, okay? or—i’ll call a cab, if you’d rather that—”

“simon.” the word was firm enough to catch his attention, quieting him if only for a moment. your mind swam—a mess of confusion, lust, excitement, and need. when it proved too difficult to sift through, too impossible to cohere, you voiced the one word you could manage:

“please.”

despite the long-forgotten movie being your only source of light, the reaction simon had was the clearest you’d ever seen. his breath hitched, chest rising and falling rapidly. his gaze, so dilated it was almost entirely black, narrowed on your face. it darted between your features, like he was searching for some sort of hidden meaning in your words, like he didn’t quite believe you.

in retaliation, your hand, trembling only slightly, came up and grazed the too-large tent in his trousers. immediately simon’s hand gripped your wrist, squeezing his eyes shut and inhaling sharply.

“kid—” he said then, and the word was wrapped in molten heat. it was gravelly in a way you’d never heard before, a rumble in his chest. goosebumps broke out along your skin. “don’t start something you’ll regret.”

“i’m not,” you stated bravely, daringly. you adjusted your position, only to face him better, and he did not let go of your wrist. you hoped he couldn’t feel the rapid thrum of your pulse beneath his thumb. “please, simon. i want this. i’ve wanted this.”

that snagged on something in his brain; caught his attention and held it. he stared at you, intense as ever. behind his gaze was a dilemma; a war you could only see traces of. after a few suffocatingly long moments spent beneath heavy tension, something won out, and the grip on your wrist loosened.

immediately, with years of want behind your touch, you grazed your hand over his clothed length once more. the breath in your chest stuttered when you grasped it, feeling just how big he was beneath your fingers.

a sound rumbled in simon’s chest; a groan of sorts. exploratorily, you tilted your head down, holding his burning gaze as you brushed your lips over his trousers.

“fuck,” simon cursed, hand grasping the back of your skull. he didn’t push or move you at all; he simply held it there, like he couldn’t bare to not be touching you himself.

the button of his trousers was difficult to undo with shaking hands, but you managed, pulling down his fly barely seconds after. with uneven breaths, you delved beneath the band of his briefs, pulling him up and out of the fabric.

the sight of simon’s cock was enough to get you off on it’s own; too thick for one of your hands to wrap around it, long enough that it bobbed against his shirt as you stared, too entranced for embarrassment. he was uncut, and there was a mound of curly, dirty-blond hair at the base, trimmed just enough to stay out of the way. you exhaled, breath ghosting along his length. the grip simon had on you tightened

again, you looked up at him. simon’s gaze was unwavering, as if looking away was some sin he was too pious to commit. it was then, as he gazed down at you with a burning gaze, that he seemed to read something in your expression. a pleading, a search for guidance. whatever it was, it had him speaking. “go ahead, sweet girl. get y’mouth on me.”

like his words triggered some sort of instinctual response in your body, your mouth was immediately moving. you licked a long, languid stripe from base to tip, revelling in the warm, salty taste. then, your lips wrapped around the head, suckling slightly before descending another inch.

“fuck,” he cursed again, hand moving in soothing circles against the back of your skull. “good fuckin’ girl. such a good listener, aren’t you?“

the words pulled a whimper from your throat. you released his dick for the briefest moment, a string of saliva connecting you, before wrapping your lips around him again, hollowed cheeks taking as much as you could manage. the fact that it was only half was disappointing.

“christ, angel. y’mouth is — heaven. fuck.” the choked sound of his voice only emphasized his point. when you made another noise, something between a whimper and a whine, he chuckled, and said, “like me talking to you like that? telling you how good you are? fuck, y’re so sweet. my sweet girl.”

moaning against him, you attempted to take more. betrayed by your gag reflex, you pulled back, choking, eyes glistening with tears.

simon cooed, hands cupping your jaw and thumb brushing over your cheek, wiping away a tear that’d escaped. “oh, angel, y’don’t need to take so much so fast. you’re doing so well. lemme show you. is that okay? can i help you?”

swallowing the excess drool in your mouth, you nodded, and his eyes crinkled with a smile as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“words, love.” though his voice was soft, it was a command. “thought i taught you this already.”

“please,” you whispered. “show me how,” his face was close enough to see the thin wrinkles around his eyes, the soft dusting of a five o’clock shadow over his jaw. “wanna make you feel good.”

simon’s lips curved before they pressed against yours, all gentle and soft like you’d break if he were any rougher. it was inebriating to be treated so reverently, hands holding your jaw like you were something precious. simon made you feel like you were.

his lips moved languidly. he took control of it easily, guiding your lips with his own. he didn’t escalate it, didn’t shove his tongue into your mouth like so many other boys had. he kissed like he found pleasure in this alone.

arms tangling around his neck, you gently ran your nails over the nape of his neck, where fabric met skin. simon groaned, softly nipping at your bottom lip. you giggled.

as much as you adored this — you’d kiss simon for hours if he’d let you — you were getting impatient. you’d gotten a taste for him, and you were quickly becoming addicted.

when you pulled away, he let you, stare darting between your kiss-swollen lips and glazed-over eyes. he watched your gaze trail back down to his crotch, and chuckled quietly.

“eager thing, aren’t you?” he questioned, leaning in to press one last kiss to the corner of your mouth. “go ahead, trouble.”

you didn’t need to be told twice — keeping your head on his lap, you laid out on your belly, across the couch. his hand found your head again, and this time, he gently guided you forward, allowing your lips to find his cock once more.

“that’s it, love,” he murmured. he had you stay like that for a while, suckling contentedly on the head and lapping your tongue over his slit.

“if y’need to come up for air, tap my thigh, alright?” he instructed. you nodded, before correcting yourself, allowing him to slip from your mouth only to voice, “okay.”

simon exhaled, the sound shaking towards the end as your long laved the underside of the head. “good fuckin’ girl.”

though you’d blown guys before, this — simon — was different. something about him, his scent or the sound of his voice or simply his presence, created a haze that had your mind going cloudy. with your lips wrapped tightly around his cock, your world started and ended with simon riley.

little by little, he inched you down his cock. never too quick and never too much. in that moment, he seemed to know your body better than you. always stopping just before your gag reflex was triggered, just before your limit was reached.

“look at you, breathing outta your nose. you’re a natural.”

your breathy moan vibrated against simon’s cock; his thighs tensed, though he didn’t buck his hips or push you down. he continued his languid pace, inching you down only when you could handle it.

“so good,” he muttered. at this point you’d taken more than half of of him. breathing steadily out of your nose, you used a spare hand to grip the remaining length, pumping it in time with your mouth. “fuck. ah, angel, ‘m gonna cum if you keep tha’ up.”

spurred on, you hollowed your cheeks and took another inch, blinking away tears. his pelvis barely a few centimeters from your nose, now, and with one last deep breath, you swallowed back the rest of his cock.

“fucking christ—!” simon swore, pulling you off of him as gently as he could manage. you sputtered, coughing and sniffling as tears ran freely from your eyes.

“oh, none of that now, love,” he cooed, big hands cradling your jaw as he kissed away your tears.

“did i do something wrong?” you asked. your voice was raw.

“no, no. of course not, love. you could never do anything wrong,” he stated, pressing a lingering kiss to your hairline. then, he chuckled, warm breath ghosting along your skin. “‘m not as young as i used to be, pretty girl. ‘n if i’m finishing tonight, i want it to be in this sweet cunt.” to make his point, he cupped you over your panties, which had become embarrassingly wet over the last bit. sensitive, you whimpered, curling further into him and grinding down. “how’s that sound, hm? y’gonna let me fill y’up?”

vehemently, you nod, gripping the wrist that’d snuck up your skirt for support. “please. yeah, yeah. i want that, si.”

with shaking hands, you gripped the bottom of your top in an attempt to yank it off. swiftly, simon stopped you, one hand large enough to catch the both of yours. “mm-mm. if ‘m gonna fuck you, ‘m gonna do it proper. y’deserve better than a shitty couch, dove.”

in the next breath, you were swept up into simon’s arms, legs wrapped tightly around his torso. a high-pitched squeak escaped you and tapered into a laugh as he carried you up the stairs, towards his bedroom.

“such a gentleman,” you joked, toying with the collar of his shirt.

“i try’,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your palm when it cupped his jaw.

after closing the door behind him, simon gently dropped you on the bed. you giggled as you bounced, bracing yourself on your elbows and looking up at him. for a moment, simon stood, gaze locked on your frame, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“fucking hell,” he cursed, finally. “you’re a dream.”

“a dream?” you echoed, grin simpering into a smirk. “y’been dreamin’ about me, riley?”

in a single, fluid motion, simon tugged his shirt off. he was a mass of muscle, age just barely softening his edges. tattoos ran up his arms and across most of his chest, where hair the same shade as his happy trail grew.

“‘course i have,” he answered, like it was obvious. then, he kicked off his slippers and fit himself between your legs, arms bracing himself just inches above you. “making me act like a fucking teenager again, wakin’ up to wet boxers.”

the thought of simon having wet dreams about you made your head spin. dumbly, you blinked up at him, and found yourself unimpressed with the balaclava still covering the upper-half of his face.

“can i?” you asked, voice quiet enough you wondered if he’d even be able to hear it. his small smile, though, gave him away. he nodded.

little by little, you rolled the offending material upward, revealing every mesmerizing inch of his face. tossing it to the side, you took a long moment to admire him: the long blond lashes, the sloping scars, the light spattering of freckles, his crooked nose.

“y’so pretty,” you stated, honestly. rose blossomed across his cheeks and nose, leaving you with a wide grin. simon pressed a kiss behind your ear, though you had a sneaking suspicion it was to hide his face.

“think that’s supposed t’be my line, love,” simon replied, gently nipping your throat. as you giggled, he continued downward, kisses growing sloppier as they reached your collarbones. then, he pulled back, fingers slipping over the hem of your shirt. he met your gaze for a brief second, searching for the permission you’d always give him, and tugged it off.

left in only the lacy scrap the lingerie shop deemed a bra, simon stated openly at you. this time, it was your turn to squirm, hands instinctively reaching to hide your face. easily, he caught your wrists.

“no. no. i wanna see you,” he said, squeezing your arms once. “cover your face and i stop, alright?”

huffing, you kept your hands at your side, and he twitched his lips. afterward, he smoothed large hands across your skin, over your stomach and ribs, cupping your chest. “so gorgeous.” he squeezed. “fuckin’ hate the idea of you going out in somethin’ like this when i’m not with you. no more. if y’wearin’ this, it’s for me, yeah? no one else.”

biting your lip, you nodded, not trusting your voice enough to speak. simon disagreed with your decision, seeing as he pinched your side. “no one else,” you affirmed.

“good girl.” he drew out the words, eyes trained on your chest, before he was reaching behind and unclamping your bra with his fingers. sliding it off, he tossed it haphazardly into the growing pile of clothes on his floor.

simon wasted no time in resuming his assault on your skin, leaving a kiss here and a bite there. he swirled his tongue over your tits, paying special attention to your nipples, playing with one while he had his mouth on the other. little marks littered your saliva-soaked skin when he reached the top of your skirt.

one more glance at you and he was tugging it down, along with the flimsy nylons you’d worn. swiftly, he pressed an open-mouthed kissed to your cloth-covered cunt, easily keeping your hips down when they tried to buck.

the air was cold against your soaked cunt when he peeled back the fabric, pulling it over your ankles and discarding it on the floor. as had become his habit, simon took a moment to admire you. eyes blazing and turning the skin beneath it warm. your hands fisted the blankets as you resisted the urge to cover up.

“so pretty,” he said, moving backward down the bed and climbing off it. then, he tugged you with him, earning a tiny yelp, before kneeling at the end of it. “wanted t’taste you for fucking ever. y’gonna let me, sweetheart? hm? you gonna let me taste your sweet cunt?”

nodding, you squeezed your eyes shut and breathed, “please, simon.”

his fingers, warm and steady, trailed up your thighs, pulling a shiver from you. “spread your legs a little wider for me, baby. there y’go. good.” then, slowly, they inched towards your centre, spreading you open. you didn’t have to look to know he was staring.

all at once, his tongue was on you, licking a long stripe up your folds and over your clit. you moaned embarrassingly loudly, trailing off into a long whine when he didn’t let up. your fingers knitted themselves in his blond waves, tugging as gently as you could manage. he groaned in approval, the sound vibrating through your cunt and sending your back arching.

“fuck! simon,” you yelped. his hands held your legs apart when they attempted to close, overwhelmed by pleasure.

he slipped away from your heat only to say, “keep sayin’ my name.”

whining, you pushed his head back into you, and he chuckled, resuming his ministrations on your cunt. simon was talented with his tongue — something jealous burned you at the thought of how he got so good. the thought was quickly scrubbed from your brain, though, when he flicked the tip of his tongue over your clit, circling it once, twice, before descending again.

“please,” you whined, though you didn’t know what you were asking for. his pace had slowed, now, sloppily making out with your cunt like it was something he could worship. “simon . . . ”

the pleasure was inescapable; your body was torn between grinding down on his mouth and trying to wriggle away from it. it didn’t help that he was doing it so leisurely; tongue moving languidly through your folds and over your clit like it was for his pleasure instead of yours. that thought got you off all the more.

your legs trembled, winding around simon’s head and damn near suffocating him — not that he cared. when you glanced down, he was watching you, nose shiny as it brushed against your clit. simon smirked — you could feel the movement against you.

had you been in any other state, the sound you made as you tumbled over the edge might have embarrassed you. as it was, though, you didn’t have the mind for anything other than pleasure as your back bowed off the bed and your legs tightened around simon’s skull.

he was saying something — you only understood bits of it, but it sounded like a mindless litany of praise. “there you are, there we go. so good, so fucking good.”

he paired each praise with a kiss to your cunt until you were trembling from overstimulation, just pushing past the edge of too much. simon climbed up the bed and pressed wet kisses across your face; when he licked into your mouth and you tasted yourself, you moaned.

“you’re a fuckin’ vision, sweetheart. never knew you’d cum so pretty. y’gonna let me see it again? hm? y’gonna let me fuck you, baby?”

you were nodding before the words were even out of his mouth, snaking your arms around his neck and kissing him deeply. without breaking it for longer than a few seconds, simon moved the two of you further up the bed until your head rested against his surprisingly soft pillows.

simon groaned appreciatively when your nails scraped against his skull. you grinned, and breathed, “you like pain just as much as me.”

simon chuckled, biting your chin. “maybe. when it’s you.”

“what was that you said earlier? something ‘bout feeding my ego?”

another laugh, and he joked, “i’m too far gone, now, i think. i’m just here to serve.”

“prove it.” your lips curved into a lust-drunk smile. “fuck me.”

with one last peck against your lips, simon smirked, and said, “yes ma’am.”

he leaned over you, then, tugging open the creaky drawer to his bedside table and fishing around. “shit.”

“hm?” you hummed, following his gaze to the foil packet between his fingers.

“‘s fuckin’ expired.” simon’s brow furrowed, and he brought the packet closer, squinting. you grabbed it from him, tossing it on the floor.

“i don’t care,” you said, probably stupidly, but the thought of not fucking simon right now had something foul twisting in your belly. “want you.”

running broad hands over your legs, simon gazed down at you, like your expression would say otherwise. you rolled your eyes. “i’m clean. i’m assuming you’re clean, if your condoms are expired.” simon pinched your side, and you giggled. ”please? want you to fuck me, simon.”

simon exhaled, and shook his head, smirking. “yeah?” he asked, fingers trailing over your belly. “y’want me to fuck you? cum in this little cunt?”

“yeah, yeah. please. want that.”

his lips press against yours again, hands continuing their journey downward until he was exploring your sensitive folds. you whimpered, quietly, but simon caught the sound and tutted. “i know, sweets. but i’ve gotta stretch you. don’t wanna hurt you, right? not tonight.”

lubing his fingers up with your slick, he started with his middle, circling your hole before slowly pushing inward. your earlier orgasm had relaxed you already, and he was able to add a second in no time. he explored for a moment, pumping his fingers in and out, curling them upward until he found that spongy spot that had your head rolling back in pleasure.

“there it is,” he said, and though your eyes were squeezed shut, you felt his smirk against your skin; heard it in his voice. “that feel good, pretty?”

the answering nod you gave was shaky and sudden, hands gripping onto his forearm for dear life. “fuck me, si. please—want your cock.”

“i know, i know. one more finger, how about that? then we can give you what you need.”

with a groan, you nodded, and sent him a short glare. he snorted, and muttered, “so impatient.”

“been waiting for fucking years,” you argued, though your point might’ve been lost in the quiver of your voice. “‘m allowed to be a little impatient.”

“years, hm?” his third finger prodded at your entrance. “guess i should hurry, then. poor thing.”

the way you dug your nails into his skin was both in pleasure and retaliation. three thick fingers pumped slowly in and out of you, curling in a way that had your thighs shaking.

finally, he slipped the fingers from you, the whine you gave turning into a moan when he plunged them into his mouth instead, savouring every bit of you. “so fuckin’ sweet.”

when simon’s fat tip ran through your folds, you tensed, and questioned if three fingers would really be enough. “simon . . . ”

though his voice was strained, he stopped, glancing up at you. “yeah, sweetheart?”

“i don’t—” his tip ran over your clit ”—fuck, i don’t know if you’ll fit.”

simon tsked, the hand not controlling his cock coming up to brush the hair out of your face. “don’t gimme that, sweets. you can take it, i know you can.” he kissed your jaw. “i’ll make it fit, yeah? how’s that?”

shakily, you exhaled, meeting his gaze. truly, you didn’t know if it’d wavered from your face all night. his eyes were so sure — you could do nothing but believe him. it’d fit. you nodded.

“yeah, yeah. there’s my girl.” again, his lips were on yours, tongue licking into your mouth. minty toothpaste, tea, and cigarettes overwhelmed your senses as his thick tip pushed inside, swallowing every moan you gave.

when he’d made it a few inches, simon pulled back. “how’s that?” he questioned. “y’okay, lovey? want me to keep going?”

you couldn’t nod fast enough. there was a bit of pain, but the pleasure of the stretch won out easily. tangling your hands in his hair, you yanked simon back down for a long, messy kiss. really, it was more so a clash of teeth and tongue and heavy breathing than a kiss, but you digress.

by the time simon was fully sheathed inside you, it felt like he was in your fucking lungs. he gave you as much time as you needed to adjust, though the way his fists clenched and unclenched beside your head proved how greatly he wanted to move. digging one of the legs wrapped around him further into his skin, you urged him to.

“fucking christ,” he groaned. simon dropped his head for a moment, hot breath fanning over your neck as he slowly rocked in and out. “y’so fucking tight.”

“m’not tight, you’re just huge,” you argued, a furrow in your brow. simon bit the juncture between your throat and shoulder—you giggled, the sound delirious.

propping himself up on his forearms once more, simon slowly pulled out, leaving only his tip inside of you, before swiftly thrusting back in, setting a harsh, steady pace.

little high-pitched sounds came from your chest with every thrust, cock abusing that spongy spot inside you that lit fireworks behind your eyelids. with the way you were clawing at his back, you’d be surprised if simon didn’t look like he was mauled by a wildcat tomorrow.

“so good. gripping me like a fuckin’ vice. swear it was like you were made for me,” he breathed, teeth grazing over your ear.

sense had long since left you — you only nodded, murmuring back, “for you, f’you.”

maybe the way his cock kissed your cervix would have you cursing tomorrow, maybe the way your back bowed with pleasured tension would have you hunching over in the morning — you didn’t care. right now, your world consisted of simon’s searing brown eyes and the toe-curling pleasure he supplied.

“feels so good.” your words were breathy, punctuated with a tug to his hair.

“yeah?” he questioned, smiling lopsidedly. “good. gonna fucking ruin you. you’ll never be able to take another cock without thinking of me—thinking of how good i made you feel.”

shaking your head, you whines, “no. no one else. only you.”

simon growled, thrusting especially hard as he licked and sucked at your throat. “yeah. you’re mine, aren’t you? my girl.”

“yours,” you nodded. “‘m yours, f’rever.”

simon groaned out a slew of curses, cock twitching inside of you. one hand reached down toy with your clit, making quick, slippery circles. “want you to cum again, baby. ‘m not gonna last much longer and — fuck — i need t’see it again.”

you’d already been dancing along the edge — his thick fingers and raspy words were a harsh push, leaving you dangling by one hand.

your eyes rolled back into your head, and his other hand was swiftly gripping your chin, gently shaking you. “on me, love, keep y’r eyes on me.”

with great effort, you kept your hazy gaze on his face, which was twisted in the effort to stave off his orgasm. you whimpered, and murmured, “say it again. say i’m yours. please.”

“oh, sweetheart,” he groaned, head dipping into the crook of your neck for a moment before finding your eyes again. “you’re mine, ain’t ya? my sweet girl. yeah. an’ i’m yours — always will be.”

the second the words left his mouth, you tumbled over the edge. your entire body shook, curving inward and wrapping itself around simon like it was trying to burrow inside him. in the haze of it, you heard simon shout, before warmth was spilling inside your cunt, filling you up to the fucking brim. if simon wasn’t simon, you were sure the grip you had on him would’ve broken something by now.

when you came back to, the world was quiet — soft breathing echoed through your ears, his and yours indistinguishable from each other. simon’s head was buried in your neck, the weight of him just bridging the edge of uncomfortable. it was bliss.

eventually, he rolled over, cock pulling out with an equally disgusting and enticing squelch. his spend leaked out of you, dirtying his sheets. neither of you minded, it seemed — he easily pulled you across his chest, pressing his lips to your warm forehead.

“y’with me, lovie?” his voice was barely more than a murmur.

you hummed, hand moving upward to trace over his sweat-soaked chest. “i think so.”

a quiet laugh vibrated in his chest, breath dancing across your face. you smiled in turn, crooking your neck to gaze at him. keeping in theme with the rest of the night, simon was already staring at you — his eyes seemed to shine when they found yours, and his lips curled up in a rare smile. you were met with the embarrassing urge to take a picture.

“you’re a mess,” he stated, chuckling quietly as his eyes darted across your face and body.

narrowing your eyes, you pinched his pec, and his chuckle became a laugh. “a beautiful mess, sweetheart. ‘s the prettiest you’ve ever looked, i promise.”

you rolled your eyes, and argued, “‘s your fault.” then, attempted to sit up — though his strong grip on your shoulder kept you down. simon frowned. “where d’you think you’re going?”

“i need to pee,” you stated, and he let you up with a huff. “then i need to fucking shower, again.”

simon made a sound. “how ‘bout i run you a bath, hm? lemme do the work.”

smiling softly, you glanced back at him. he took your hand that lingered on his chest and brought it to his mouth, pressing kisses over your knuckles. “that’d be lovely.”

simon stood, and when you looked over him, you smiled. hair mussed, lips swollen, skin glazed in sweat — he was just as much of a mess as you. in a single movement, simon swept you into his arms. with a yelp, you clung to him, and he carried you, bridal-style, into the bathroom.

placing you on the lip of the bathtub, simon left for only a moment to dig through his linen closet, and returned with a wash cloth. after running it under warm water in the sink, he helped you up once more and gently ran it between your legs.

afterward, while you used the restroom, simon ran the bath, using that intoxicating body-wash as bubble bath. spotting his back, which was covered in bright-red scratches, you giggled, feeling only a little bad.

“i’d say sorry for y’back, but really i look no better,” you stated. hickies and bite-marks littered your skin, decorating your neck, chest, and thighs.

snorting, simon moved to look in the mirror, eyes tracing the pinkish abrasions trailing from shoulders to spine. “i’ll wear ‘em with pride.”

once the tub had filled, steam dancing around the mound of bubbles, simon, again, helped you up. his skin was warm, and if the bath wasn’t so enticing, you’d be tempted to stay here, pressed against him.

easily, he lifted you up and into the bath, following you not long afterward. it was a shock he could fit all of his limbs in the tub, even moreso when you could fit between his legs. it was a bit squishy, but you couldn’t have traded it for anything — laying against his chest while his hands ran up and down your body. thighs, stomach, chest, arms — he touched you softly, reverently, lips pressing behind your ear.

“did you mean it?” you asked. the quiet hum of your voice seemed loud in the silence of the room.

“mean what, love?”

swallowing, you played with his fingers, and supplied, “that ‘m yours. that you’re mine.”

simon exhaled, and you could feel the small curve of his lips against the back of your neck. “i meant it.”

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blindmagdalena · 7 months

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I love the idea of you having a cat and she loves Homelander more than you. So she trots up to him, does belly flops next to his feet and always sits on him. You're like, "you TRAITOR!" and he is smug.

"Traitor," you accuse sullenly. There's nothing to be done about it, though. All you can do is watch your cat—your once loyal and beloved pet—purr and roll every which way, bumping between Homelander's boots.

Homelander's brows furrow, but he doesn't move. He's planted firmly on the couch watching the rolling animal. "What's wrong with it?"

You exhale an incredulous laugh. "What do you mean? She wants you to pet her."

His gaze flickers up to meet yours, those ocean eyes contemplative. There are times when Homelander is strange in ways that are difficult to articulate. He becomes lost in mundane moments that you take for granted.

Sometimes he's like an alien. A perfect approximation of a human assembled by an entity that knows of them only through film and the pop culture zeitgeist.

"Never pet a cat before?" You ask.

"No," he answers, surprising you. Oh.

"Well, just... stroke," you encourage, miming the gesture. "Head to tail, never backwards. Go with the fur."

He moves to do as instructed, but your cat startles at the touch and lets go a harmless hiss, sniffing at the leather of his gloves.

"Oh, what?" He asks the cat derisively, visibly offended by the unpleasant reaction. He always hates to learn he's done something wrong. "You instigated."

You stifle a laugh behind your hand. "You spooked her. Take off your glove."

A little reluctantly, he does as he's told, popping loose each finger of his glove before he slides it off, setting it to the side.

"Let her smell your hand first," you say, crossing your arms.

He shoots you a withering look, clearly unimpressed with the ritual of it all, given that he was the one initially accosted, but nevertheless he places his long, outstretched fingers in front of the cats face.

You watch, your jealousy dissolving in the wake of the revelation that this is his first time experiencing the favor of such a fickle little beast.

A few sniffs, and then your cat pushes into his finger, dragging her cheek down the length of it. He strokes down her back in turn, and the tentative mutter of her purr revs back up into a full on rumble.

Something shifts in him at her unspoken acceptance. The square line of his shoulders softens, as does his expression. He pets her a few times before letting her sniff again, the corner of his mouth twitching with the force she pushes her head up into his palm.

Another flop onto her back, belly wide open, paws primed. The trap is set.

"She wants you to rub her belly," you say, hiding the deviousness of your smile.

Homelander doesn't question it. He reaches out to ruffle the fur on her stomach, and her claws close on him with all the tenacity of a fuzzy little beartrap, snagging his hand with teeth and claws alike, her hind paws kicking wildly at his wrist.

His expression flattens. "You really are a traitor."

You laugh, closing the distance to sit next to him on the couch. Anyone else would have recoiled, but Homelander dispassionately endures your cats valiant efforts to mangle his invulnerable skin.

"Tis the season, I suppose," you say, leaning against him. "Happy Ides of March."

His lip twitches. No one appreciates a good Roman empire reference quite the way Homelander does. He untangles his fingers from her snare and scratches at her head, splaying his fingers when she ducks away, tail flicking, still purring ardently.

He leans back against the couch, putting his arm around you. You rest your head against his chest, and he turns to plant a kiss atop your head.

Your cat jumps up onto the couch, not content to be abandoned, and starts making her way onto Homelander's lap. She immediately makes herself at home, kneading into the soft padded thigh of his suit. His brows crease at the sound of her claws catching on the fabric, but he doesn't shoo her.

She settles on his lap for the first—but certainly not the last—time. He pets her from her head to the tip of her tail, the remaining bit of tension in him bleeding away as she purrs. Her persistent nuzzling even brings a faint easy smile to his lips.

You never thought that something as mundane as petting a cat would feel like a milestone, but in your time with Homelander, you've learned that he's missing an awful lot of those. Some more significant than others, but none that you would trade away.

Maybe sharing your cat's love isn't quite so bad.

#ask and you shall receive #darling anon #homelander x reader #homelander x you #my writing #x reader

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nekohime19 · 2 months

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Macaque study # S3 SPECIALS

Macaque in season 3 was a whole ride, really. The specials are quite literally the following of season 3 and it ties up quite nicely everything that has been already established beforehand!

So I would like to creates this time frame of Macaque in season 3 before we dive in the specials :

EP 1 : Macaque being established as a villain working for LBD yet we see he's nervous and frantic which is unusual for him.

EP 2 : Macaque as a threat that follows the team (and thus was not defeated the previous episode, it establish him as a recurrent villain this season)

EP 4 : Macaque goals does not align fully with LBD, he's about survival and he's playing a two-faced game by trying to balance the scale between LBD and MK.

EP 8 : Macaque first betrayal of LBD after learning of the samadhi fire but she gets a hold of him and chains him.

EP 9 : Macaque being desperate and his second betrayal of LBD, he goes after the samadhi fire for himself.

EP 10 : Macaque achieving his goals of freedom and fleeing away from this mess + MK proving Macaque wrong about heroes.

-> All in all, I do think season 3 was really tied up nicely concerning Macaque developpement. Like I said in my first study, LMK is a short series with not a lot of time, so every appearance is pivotal. We cannot have multiple episodes of Macaque hating LBD to really dig into our heads that he's not on her side, one or two scenes are enough for that, they have to be enough. You can feel like Macaque development is fast-paced but in reality it's just the kind of show LMK is, every appearance is meant to add layers. Here everything follow a logical order : you cannot have Macaque's first betrayal in EP 8 without establishing that his goals do not align with LBD beforehand (EP 4).

Now let's delve into the specials!

By theory, Macaque shouldn't return. He has everything he wanted this season : freedom. Yet he does return. He saves MK from the possessed Wukong by portalling him away.

This lil action tells us two things :

First, Macaque never left. He presumably stayed close to MK to watch the events unfold and when MK was put in danger he decided to intervene. This shows that Macaque does care about MK enough to stay behind even if he has the choice no to, but at the same time Macaque doesn't feel confident enough to reveal himself until MK is put in danger. And even then he doesn't show himself, perhaps because a possessed Wukong is quite intimidating and LBD is still near.

Second, Macaque portals MK where Mei is training with Red Son. This is not a coincidence. Clearly he meant for MK to be in a safe environment with known faces. And it also shows that it's not just MK that Macaque has been keeping an eye on after his flee but the whole team.

This scene serves us as an audience to indicate that Macaque did not leave but at the same time he's not fully on the team yet, even if he helps he does not reveal himself.

We see Macaque again some time after when the team are all together. It's interesting to see that Macaque chose to appear from Red Son shadow.

At the moment Red Son was the most isolated person of the team, while everyone was at the front of the frame, he was in the background.

Macaque chose to appear in Red Son shadow specifically because :

First, he came as an ally and didn't want to appear threatening. It would have spooked the team way more if he suddenly appeared in front of them. He was also perhaps more nervous than he appeared and wanted to put some distance between him and the team.

Second, it held significance. Red Son is here as a “reformed villain”, or at least he's here to help. Having Macaque emerge out of Red Son's shadow is a way to portray the same intentions : Macaque wanting to help.

Macaque : I hope I'm not interrupting. But if you're making a plan to defeat the Lady Bone Demon, I know a guy who might be able to help.

He makes his intentions clear by calling out the team plan, and offers them what I'll call a “peace offering” to be more easily accepted. We know that the not-mayor will not be of any help to create the plan (as we can see in the next episode) but Macaque, here, was more looking for a “proof of his goodwill” than a truly helpful hostage. By giving the team the henchman of the Lady Bone Demon he's proving how he's not on her side anymore.

The not-mayor reveals himself to be quite useless. And we got this shot of Macaque :

We can see how he's completely cut from everyone. He's cut from the circle, alone to the side of the frame, yet he's also tied up. I think it physically represents Macaque right now. The team is still suspicious of him, they tie him up, but at the same time he's not being interrogated nor being circled by the team. His place is ambiguous, in a weird in-between.

I think it's telling how it's Macaque who provides the inside information that the team tried so hard to pull out of the not-mayor. Macaque, out of anyone here (except the not-mayor), is the one who knows LBD best. He spent a lot of time with her. Moreover we already established that Macaque is a good observer (we can see how throughout season 3 he successfully gets a lot of the team characters simply by observing them), so we can easily assume that as much as he observed the team, Macaque also observed LBD.

And then, perhaps because he showed he was willing to go against LBD, MK includes Macaque in his plan to defeat her. And this is Macaque answer :

Macaque : Look, I brought you the Lady Bone Demon's lapdog but I'm not up for being a hero, kid…

I think it's pretty telling that Macaque is not fully on board with being a “good guy”. He spends so much of his life painting himself as the darkness to oppose Wukong's light, so much time building his act as a villain, even if he wants to oppose LBD, he's still reluctant to join the team and call himself a hero.

Even when MK proved how wrong Macaque's idea of a hero was, it's difficult to change the way you see things overnight. Macaque spent much of his rebirth hating heroes because of what happened with Wukong. He blamed everything on Wukong's status as a hero. So calling himself a hero stings for him.

And MK knows this, perhaps that's why we get this exchange :

MK : Stop you keep playing at being this bad guy, acting as if you're just in it for you. But I know, deep, deep down, you're not that guy. Help us. Make it right.

Macaque : I'm not a hero, bud.

MK : Then be a warrior.

MK just got it. He knows Macaque has been putting on an act since the beginning. He's acting as if he's only caring about himself yet he comes back to save MK even after he has the choice to flee far away from this. MK calls out everything we established about Macaque those previous seasons, how everything Macaque showed was just part of a performance to either enact his vengeance or appear more intimidating in stressful situations.

MK's words “Make it right” are pivotal in Macaque redemption processus. It can be interpreted as MK asking for help but it's also a way to offer Macaque a chance at proving his goodness, at setting the records straight. MK offers Macaque a chance to right his wrongs.

And while MK is doing his lil speech, Macaque is not trying to put on another mask either :

Macaque is genuinely surprised that someone calls out his act, or even picks up on it.

Yet still Macaque looks away and refuses, not because he doesn't want to right his wrongs but because calling himself a hero would be too much for him. It would question everything he is, everything he built those last years, and Macaque is not ready to abandon everything about himself and become a “hero.”

That's why MK's next words are Macaque saving grace. Because that gives Macaque familiarity. He doesn't have to cast away everything he is, or even the entire identity he built, instead he can be something familiar while still trying to right his wrong.

He can be a warrior.

It's important that Macaque doesn't jump on the occasion of being a good guy. It wouldn't have felt genuine otherwise. The fact he has the occasion to right his wrong but still doesn't call himself a hero provides a balanced in-between.

Macaque : What can I say? I'm dramatic.

Yes. Yes you are. Look at how dramatically you put your cape on!

Both Macaque and Red Son preparing themselves in the same shot is not coincidental. It's an emphasis on both their journeys to get here. If you don't see Red Son as a villain, you can't see Macaque as one either, there are differences between the two but at this very moment the show portrays them in the same way : the redeemed villains.

Macaque and MK confrontation with LBD is very important because Macaque is not just helping MK in a roundabout way, he's directly confronting the one who tormented him all season (LBD), the one he preferred to flee rather than fight before the specials.

LBD : MK the Monkie Kid and the Six-eared Macaque, here to embrace oblivion?

Macaque : The opposite actually. I'm kinda on this whole living streak thing right now, so we were hoping maybe you could call off this whole end of the world thing? Would really help us out.

We can see Macaque is still trying to diffuse the situation but this time it's interesting to notice that instead of doing it like he used to (with sarcastic quips and threatening smiles) he adopts an attitude closer to what Wukong would have done. Wukong is always the one to joke around and make light of a situation. Macaque actions and words are closer to what Wukong could have said if he wasn't possessed. Perhaps Macaque is trying another method to handle stressful situation without his villain persona now that he's in the good guy team, or in his way Macaque unconsciously imitates Wukong because Wukong is the only example of a hero he has.

This similarity between Wukong and Macaque in this particular scene is further emphasized by this action :

I don't have the exact episode in which Wukong twirl MK above his head the same way Macaque does in this scene but I know it happens in season 1.

I think the fight between Macaque and Wukong is quite interesting because the sequences is the exact same as their fight in s1 ep9, yet Wukong uses something he never used before : his laser eyes. It does makes me think that LBD is pushing Wukong to be way more violent than what he is and forces him to use power he doesn't naturally wants to (like his laser eyes that are particularly destructive). That could explain why Macaque is so easily defeated and so soon too, because Wukong is pushed beyond his limits and forced to abandon his fighting ethics.

I do love that to defeats LBD everyone in the LMK cast have to steps up and join forces together. But what I really love is the two scenes we got that emphasize Wukong and Macaque in particular. How they acknowledge the other despite everything that happened between them :

First we get their shared look and nod when everyone is coming together to merge their forces and power up MK's mech. This simple look speak volumes of how easily they can understand each other, they're on the same wagelenght even after years of being ennemies, it speak for itself of their bond.

The second is when they're side by side to push the staff on LBD, it's a nice way to hint at their rekindling relationship. They are in this together despite being ennemis since the start of the show.

Even if not everything is good between the two of them, far from it, this wordless acknowledgement that we see in those two scenes, of them fighting side by side, really ties up Macaque redemption quite nicely.

Then, after LBD defeats, we get the after-fight party that nicely ties up the series.

And obviously we get a fight between Wukong and Macaque.

Macaque : You're done with that right?

MK : actually I -

Wukong : Actually he was saving that for me. Cause you know, I'M his mentor *agressive eating*.

Macaque : Still the same Wukong. Doing what he wants with no regard for other.

Wukong : Oh yeah, yeah I'll keep that in mind next time you scheam with the ennemy and almost get us all D.E.D.

MK : You know you two are the same right?

Wukong/Macaque : I'M NOTHING LIKE HIM!

Macaque wanting MK's bowl of noodle because perhaps he doens't feel comfortable enough to ask Pigsy for one and MK is the only one in the team he feels comfortable talking too right now is one of my personal headcanon.

So first, I think that might be the first healthy fight between Macaque and Wukong. Instead of any of their other fights where they hid their true feelings between mask of nonchalance, here they are openly expressing their anger and frustration to the other. We can see Wukong is still salty about Macaque taking his place as MK's mentor, mayhaps he felt like his place was endangered. Macaque answers with a comment on Wukong's selfishness. Wukong, probably hurt by this, reply with a comment on Macaque working with LBD and endangering them all. Unlike before, all their bickering are direct and more in tune with the present. They're not trying to purposefully hurt the other by digging at past insecurities (Macaque fear of not being enough, Wukong unhealthy way of coping), instead they comment on recent events (Wukong stealing MK's noodles, Macaque working for LBD). Which I think is an improvement, no matter how tiny it is. It shows that they're not trying to hurt the other as much as before, they're not going at the other throat, even if they're still frustrated and angry.

Also, MK is so right when he says they're the same, it's even more funnier because they have the exact same expressions on their faces.

Wukong : Hey! Where do you think you're going!?

Macaque : Don’t know, somewhere I could do a bit of scheming probably. See you around MK.

Wukong : Eugh, I hate that guy so much. Acting like he's so cool!

I do like to think Wukong is questioning Macaque about where he's going because he doesn't want to see him go, 😌.

Macaque callback to Wukong comment minutes earlier is a funny lil quip to annoy him before disappearing. Also his soft tone when addressing MK does really shows he cares about the kid in his own way.

Wukong last line is so funny because no one said Macaque was cool, you're betraying your own thoughts here Monkey King.

All in all, I do think Macaque redemption was handled really well. Each episodes showed us a new layer of his character. His evolution, based on his actions alone, was logical. No matter how much you think Macaque hurts the team, you cannot erase the fact he saved MK twice this season, and keep doing so in later seasons. But I think we also have to remind ourselves that Macaque character arc is not finished yet!

Also, the voice over talking about “redemption” and having one of Macaque first genuine smile in the entire series is so heartwarming for me. The fact MK also draw Macaque smiling 🥺🥺

That was my study of Macaque in season 3 specials! Hope you liked it. If you have any more theories or if you simply disagree you can talk about it, I'll be glad to hear about it.

I'll post my study of Macaque in season 4 in another post!!

S1 / Previous / Next

#Shadowpeach #Lmk #Lmk study #Macaque #Lmk macaque #Six-eared Macaque #Macaque study #Macaque analysis #Lmk thoughts

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artfulacrostic · 1 year

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some of my favorite moments from the 1995 10th Anniversary Concert of Les Miserables bc it's BARRICADE DAY and thus tis the season:

the convicts during Look Down all being Valjeans from different countries

the bishop M is baby faced and has an angelic voice

the clips from the fully staged show that they insert whenever there is too long of an instrumental/to explain things

colm wilkinson and philip quast's confrontation makes me want to chew on my laptop screen. so good. so crisp

baby cosette gets spooked by a balloon popping during castle on a cloud but barely flinches and keeps singing

the entire cast in the background of master of the house bopping back and forth in time. they are so here for it and it's amazing

philip quast's stars. he's so fucking good. i'm insane about him

michael maguire as enjolras's little happy dance when gavroche tells them that lamarque is dead

michael ball as marius somehow gives himself literally heart eyes whenever he talks about cosette. i can see them. it's so funny

during a heart full of love, colm wilkinson and philip quast are so invested in the background. they're leaning over to whisper to each other. they are besties

lea salonga as eponine delivers "i know this house i tell you, there's nothing here for you. just the old man and the girl, they live ordinary lives" like a GODDESS she is EVERYTHING

michael ball surreptitiously wiping his sweat on lea salonga's hair during her death scene. mans is dying a little

drink with me features anthony crivello as a fucking stellar grantaire, and after his verse, enj comes over and puts his hand on his shoulder to comfort him for a very long time. complete with a lingering touch on the arm and everything. fantastic exr crumbs 👍

the clips from the full show of the final battle are hilarious. completely different cast (though only obvious to insane people like us.)

highlights include one of les amis right on the middle of the barricade doing like. a backwards worm he's so into his death throes. he always has me losing my shit

empty chairs at empty tables includes the fucking cruel choice to have the entire les amis cast of actors line up on each side of michael ball and just a step behind so that they're in shadows, all staring sadly at him for the whole song. gives the impression of all the ghosts of marius's dead friends looking on from the afterlife and demanding answers. heart wrenching. THIS IS JUST SUPPOSED TO BE A CONCERT, WHY ARE U DOING STAGING LIKE THIS

beggars at the feast has everyone in the background clapping/tapping along again. love seeing the thenardiers get their due appreciation

the 17 valjeans from other international productions enter after the finale and they all have their gavroches holding their country flags it's so fucking cute

and of course final encore with all the additional valjeans and the whole cast is fucking ACES

ANYWAY if ur looking for a production to watch that is good af this is the top of my list even though it isn't fully staged. it's sooooo. it's some good fucking food. happy barricade day!!

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irelise · 17 hours

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season 1: statement begins

i will always have a soft spot for season 1 Jon who takes his job at the disreputable spooky institute of spooks Very Seriously and lies about being older to seem more mature

design notes: lots of dress shirts and ties and sweatervests. Usually has his hair slicked back neatly at the start of the day but by the end it's an unruly mess. Lots of unimpressed scowls; tries to look appropriately business-y to statement givers but this is somewhat undermined by the fact the Archives constantly look like they're about to collapse around everyone's ears...

(first of hopefully five Jons through the seasons!)

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #my art #tma fanart

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svechnikovvv · 2 years

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NHL MASTERLIST

taglist: here

navigation: here

*this will be updated regularly*

TREVOR ZEGRAS

wildest dreams

not alone

christmas eve

good-luck charm

spooked

lake days & a broken nose part 1 part 2

hopelessly devoted

savior

always and forever

one summer

new year

eavesdropping part 1 part 2

sick days

we’ll be alright

not the same part 1 part 2

toxic

changed man

take care of you

you are enough

in my head

first time

aunt y/n & uncle trev

started as neighbors

troublemaker

tie the knot

the color violet

stressed out

braids

sunkissed

interview

happy birthday

JACK HUGHES

my kind of woman

trouble in paradise?

my knight in… a jersey? part 1 part 2

christmas eve

drunken nights

panic attack

wisdom teeth

neighbors

concussion

roadies

tender love and care

jealousy

insomnia

not yours anymore

locked out

so this is it

oculus

complicated part 1 part 2

scared

missing you

lake house blues

tutoring sessions

little secret

across the room

the first i love you

supermodel

surprise visits

hair stylist

QUINN HUGHES

lovestruck

the babysitter

tis the season

christmas eve

crashing down

ray of sunshine

in another life

better judgment

little things

hospital trips

father figure

when in chicago

ice cream

highs & lows

dad!quinn headcanon

JAMIE DRYSDALE

friend of a friend

3 is the magic number

frozen & sleepovers

soft launch

happy birthday jamie

NICO HISCHIER

not yours anymore (2)

ANDREI SVECHNIKOV

memories

secret relationship part 1 part 2

CALE MAKAR

coming soon!

ETC!

hughes!sister reader headcanon

jamie & his guitar au (coming soon)

fine line series

ever since toronto series

brady & andrei’s birthday

fighting major — auston matthews

#trevor zegras #jack hughes #quinn hughes #nhl hockey #hockey #anaheim ducks #vancouver canucks #new jersey devils #nico hischier #jamie drysdale #andrei svechnikov #cale makar #colorado avalanche #carolina hurricanes #del’s masterlist!

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tigwrbwetle · 1 month

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TMA Season 4!

What a CRIMINAL way to end the season, holy SHIT!

Now I understand why I’ve seen so many artists do scar maps of Jon, it really did all come together in the end. And the way Elias, or Jonah, really, orchestrated it all with the cherry on top of giving Jon a false statement that he couldn’t stop himself from reading; truly the master plan. The words for the Watcher’s Crown ritual itself were very cool, just the right amount of nonsensical almost-rhyming to make it flow nicely.

And the fact that three of the most iconic TMA quotes/moments happen so close together near/at the end of season four is WILD; I was not expecting all of that! First we got “Where are his eyes?” “Where they’ve always been, Martin. Watching over my institute.” THEN “Look at me Martin, what do you see?” “I see… I see you, Jon. I see you!” and to wrap it all up “Jon…?” “Look at the sky, Martin! It’s looking back!” *maniacal, distorted laughter.* Absolutely insane place to leave off. (Also the bonus of Jon using his named attack of “I see you!” on Peter Lukas).

I can’t forget Basira and Daisy, either. Their story is so good, I love me some tragic yuri. (Although for their sakes I hope it gets less tragic tbh; I want them to be happy 🥺). But I’m not that hopeful, considering we got ~2 minutes of Jon and Martin being content at the safe house before things really went to shit. At least Melanie got away, she’s been through so much. And I’m happy she got together with Georgie, that’s so sweet 🥹

The Extinction and the fact that new fears can emerge was an interesting plot thread for this season, both for how it fit with larger events and how it gave us a new kind of spook. I liked the hunger-world amusement park one the most, I kept thinking about it when I went to the fair myself the other day. I also noticed there were more episodes where it wasn’t 100% clear which fear entity was behind the statement, or even that there were multiple involved. Like with ‘A Gravedigger’s Envy’, it could be both The Buried and The End. It was fun to see how the fear entities could be mixed and matched, then of course to find out how that aspect, too, fits into the big-picture meta-plot. After having episodes with this type of spook, it makes more sense how no ritual can succeed if it tries to separate one fear entity from the others.

Season four tied up a lot of loose ends and got the official statements of big names that have been lurking around since season one, like Simon Fairchild, Annabelle Cane, Adelard Dekker, Peter Lukas, and of course Jonah Magnus himself. Personally, I’ve been wondering about the statement of Mr. Paul MacKenzie and which fear entity was responsible for his demise since season one, so I’m glad we got the statement of his son so far down the line to say ‘Spiral’ for certain.

I can’t believe I’m already about to start season five, this has gone too quick!!

#the magnus archives #tma s4 spoilers #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #basira hussain #daisy tonner #melanie king #jonah magnus #the panopticon #very cool #very spooky #very gay

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always-outlander · 1 year

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Outlander 7x04 Spoilers & Easter Eggs “A Most Uncomfortable Woman”

Lallybroch

Jemmy is older! New actors and actresses have arrived and two years have passed. They are fixing up Lallybroch and restoring the inside. My question is how are they affording all this?

The preview at the end of the opening credits shows a desk which is very important for the Bree and Roger storyline.

Jamie and Claire on the road

Why are these two SO CUTE?! These two have done a wonderful job conveying elements of their younger selves. Ian is worried about Arch Bug following him around and it is beginning to haunt him.

William!

William and his cousin are in Wilmington discussing the excitement of the looming war and their eagerness to partake. William has been assigned to a post in New York. We get a horrific fire ship scene from the books which in all honesty made me cry in the books. It’s just as horrific in the show but thankfully they made it less gruesome visually than described. This is the first scene where Williams honor is in display and he does the right thing.

Captain Richardson assigns William as a messenger through to great Dismal Swamp/Town. The names he’s instructed to deliver the notes to are Samuel Cartwright, Henry Carver, Joshua Harrington. In the books, he’s also given the name Washington (!!!). After that assignment he is to travel to New York to meet with the rest of the men. Book readers know that he has a bit of an adventure and detour before that happens, however.

While in the forest Williams horse is spooked by a snake and he falls and is injured by a stick through his arm. In the books this poor guy is constantly lost, constantly being heckled, constantly complaining. He wanders through the woods for days before he is uncovered by Ian and Rollo. The scene between Ian and William was one of my favorites of this episode, and Young Ian is easily one of my favorite characters.

While they switched up some minor details, the shows version of this encounter is still very insightful into Ian’s time with the Mohawk, and William asks him questions about the Mohawk’s thoughts on showing fear or distress. He himself is trying to be brave while injured and Ian tells him of the death song. when thinking about what he would sing, William calls himself by his full name, then at one point says ‘William James’ and you can tell Ian is having very complicated feelings about it. William James was the name Jamie had given to him as a child in Helwater, his secret papist name. I loved this detail in both the show and books. Jamie is still having an impact on him, even without him realizing it.

Book on Time Travel

Roger is writing a book on time travel for Jemmy and Mandy, documenting all they know about it. He discovers that the musket ball is gold and mull over asking Jemmy about it. Jemmy claims pixies took a clock apart and Roger and Bree know he’s lying.

Bree is interviewing for her new job at the Hydro plant with a very frustrating man who completely underestimates her abilities. This was actually a great scene for her to show off her brains. I think most people have forgotten just how smart Bree is. She gets the job but comes home to a distraught Roger who feels like he’s failing to support their family in the traditional ways. Their experience going back in time has shaken his beliefs of God, and he has felt like he is breaking his promise to Jamie and Claire to provide for her and their kids.

Jemmy continues to behave strangely and tells Roger and Bree there’s a nuckelavee in their yard. They have a discussion about his powers and his believe in magic and how to foster that while still keeping it a secret.

Wilmington

Cornelius Harnet reappears and is tied back into the war by a blackmail. He conscripts Jamie to go to Fort Ticonderoga in New York. I love the scene we get from the season preview where Jamie states that he wants to fight for his family and because he couldn’t ask for anyone else to fight in his place. Claire can provide him with the confidence that this is a war they will win.

I think Sam has been outstanding this season. He has done a great job of subtlety in his acting. Ian wants to fight for the land too, and be a part of the change for the Indians. Claire promises she will go with Jamie and provide her medical expertise.

When in Wilmington Tom plants a mighty kiss on Claire which shocks her to near silence. Tom acknowledges the fire and that her and Jamie are not dead as he believed. He admits to placing the obituary in the papers as he could not leave flowers on her grave. He calls Claire A Most Uncomfortable Woman and admits he has only loved two woman, his wife and Claire. The loving of her has led him to his salvation, but the loving of her will bring him no peace while she lives. He absolutely knocked this scene out of the park.

Tom asks if Jamie knows about his feelings towards Claire, and Claire has a very awkward conversation about his love towards her. Tom tells her how he escaped with his mind and literacy, and was employed as a secretary thanks to his ability to write. Tom also heard that Allan had left the Ridge but Claire omits to tell him the truth of that matter.

Jamie & Claire

I have to crack up over Jamie and Claire discussing the kiss and Tom’s love for her. This scene was great at providing a moment for them to reconnect, while also adding some humor. The moment between them in the window was adorable. They also touch upon her hair turning white, coming into her full power one day, and have so many call backs to previous seasons. I loved them bantering over her sticking her with needles and the two of them having jealousy over others. There’s also a mention of Laoghaire, whom we know we will see again later this season when Jamie and Claire make it to Scotland.

The Hunters

We finally set eyes on Denzel and Rachel Hunter, who Ian delivers William to and they attempt to save Williams arm. William stating he’d rather die than amputate his arm was a parallel to Jamie wanting to die rather than remove his leg. They do not have to amputate but William ends up passing out at the idea of it.

Ian and Rachel have their first scene together and I can immediately see how she’s interested in learning more about Ian. They have chemistry which was very important. He asks Rachel to give William some money and keep the rosary beads.

Likewise you can immediately tell that William has a crush on Rachel. He attempts very much to flirt with her and Rachel for her part does entertain it. William has healed and Rachel tells William that Denny is choosing the side of Independence. They have essentially lost their place in their family and will now ride to Fort Ticonderoga on suggestion of a Samuel Cartwright whom William Carrie’s a letter for. William intends to go with them and we end the episode with Jamie and Claire’s arrival to Fort Ticonderoga. In the books this took them months to get to, so once again the storyline is being condensed greatly. In one episode they went from Wilmington to New York.

Preview of Episode 5

Jamie becomes more involved in the fight (very reminiscent of him at the table informing Charles Stuart before Colloden). A preview of the fort when it comes under attack. We got a snippet of Ian when he returns and sees Rachel again, and in the future, Bree begins her job at the plant.

Final Thoughts

The beginning of this episode I’m finding that the editing is at times clunky, and once again the speed in which we go through these scenes feels like they are just checking them off for the sake of it. For jamie and Claire to begin this episode in Wilmington and end it in New York is incredibly fast. Bree and Roger have aged up children, so that’s a large expanse of time the viewer has to adjust to. It’s a necessary evil of course (the books truly go on forever), but definitely something I notice each new episode that passes.

I love Charles’s take on William thus far, he’s far more likable than book William, and once again… JOHN BELL! He’s the stand out for me.

#outlander #outlanderedit #jamie x claire #jamie fraser #claire fraser #sam heughan #claire x jamie #jammf #caitriona balfe #james alexander malcolm mackenzie fraser #outlander spoilers #outlander parallels #outlander season 7 #outlander 7x04 #outlander ep: a most uncomfortable woman

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crescent-ffxiv · 1 year

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The Annual All Saints' Wake Pubcrawl

Who: You, your boo, and some spooks!

When: October 28th, 2023 at 7pm eastern.

Where: Starting up at the Gates of Nald in Ul'dah, then on to the crawl!

Wear: Tis the season to be spooky, so dress up accordingly in your best All Saints' Wake apparel.

Why: Because this is our 10th year!

What: -C-rescent Entertainment and friends are gathering everyone together to crawl there way across Aldenard, going from bar to bar, having a blast!

🍻 MASTERLINK 🎃

((Crescent club nights are meant to be a joyous occasion, and we understand if everything gets to be a bit much. Slipping out to somewhere quiet and returning is absolutely fine! Given the current atmosphere surrounding ‘clubs’, we’d also like to specify that while we do have a DJ providing optional music, our events are RP events, not twitch-streamed influencer parties.))

★ We’d adore your help in spreading the word, thank you! ★

#club crescent #balmung #ffxiv rp

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lefaystrent · 24 days

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Friendly Neighborhood Criminals Part 4

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairings: platonic Patton/Dark Sides

Summary: Tis the season for spooks.

Alternatively, this has nothing to do with Halloween and everything to do with how three criminals changed a young man's life.

Ao3 Link: click here

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

WARNINGS: Past child abuse, depictions of panic attack

-------------------------------------------------------

The Fall season comes in full swing.

It's Florida, so the temperature only dips slightly instead of plummeting like in places other than Florida. It's a cheery season regardless, because first comes Halloween, then Thanksgiving, and finally Christmas and New Years! This will be the first year Patton will be able to celebrate without walking on eggshells.

And Halloween! He's never been able to celebrate Halloween before! He had been told numerous times that it was the Devil's holiday, but all the kids in his old neighborhood had such cute costumes and their houses were decorated with carved pumpkins and funny skeletons. Patton is for sure going to get his hands on a pumpkin this year to carve himself!

And...maybe his new friends would want to carve some with him?

They've been sharing so much with Patton lately. By now, his home is practically overflowing! His fridge is always full, and just the other day Janus stopped by with a coffee table. He said he was going to throw the table out anyway, so it wasn't a big deal. Patton was touched all the same that he thought of him.

And therein lies the issue. What has Patton ever done for them? Other than not call the cops? That first night they met seems so distant now. And since then, they have given and given and-

What has Patton done? Just accept their gifts and kindness every time. A one-sided friendship like that is not a friendship at all! It was...

Selfish.

Patton's eyes grow distant as fog rolls in. A ringing buzzes in his ear.

He's been trying hard not to think about it. To remember. He just wants to think about the positives in his life now. He wants something to look forward to.

You're so selfish. Don't you know how hard we've worked to raise you?

A wave of apathy shrouds him. His hands tremble, and he watches stupidly as he drops what he's holding. That's right, he's supposed to be stocking the shelves. They have lots of totes to work. He likes the repetitiveness of stocking, and he enjoys filling up the empty holes on the shelves, to line them up all neat and pretty. It makes him feel good, like he's made a difference or something.

Why are you crying? I haven't even hit you yet.

Patton can't breathe. Joan has come over to talk to him. They're standing right there, and Patton can't breathe, can't move. Joan likes stocking with Patton. They told him so. They said that Patton's always cheerful and puts them in a good mood. And Patton can't make them mad. He can't disappoint. He doesn't want this to happen at work. He's been so good, so good–

Children are like snakes. They lie and they take, and they take–

If that's true, then why did they keep him? Why didn't they just...let him go? If they hated him so much?

Joan has him by the shoulders and the touch scalds. He's sitting down on the floor. When did that happen? He doesn't remember sitting or falling, he's just there now. And Joan's face is pinched with worry.

Oh.

He's messed up.

***

Patton sits huddled in the break room. Joan had removed him from the store floor at some point. Time is coming back to him sluggishly. The tightness in his chest remains, but he'll be okay. He'll figure out how to smile again soon. He just needs a breather.

Perhaps the season has brought an onslaught of memories with it. It would explain why he hasn't slept much these past few days. And why his stomach rebels at the mere thought of putting food in his mouth. When he lived with his parents and he was really hungry, his mom used to eat in front of him and tell him how good her cooking was–

Patton's fists clench on his thighs. He takes a deep breath that rattles his lungs.

He's not there anymore. He's not.

It's a cycle, the thoughts. They catch him off guard and he has to build his barriers anew. He forgets that he's supposed to be waiting for Joan to come back. At least, he thinks he's supposed to wait for Joan to come back and let him out. He's not supposed to open the door. Dad hates it when he tries–

The door opens. Joan has returned and they hold the door open for a black clothed figure.

Patton squints. "Janus?"

"Hello, dear. What's this I've heard about a dizzy spell?"

Patton can't sus out why Janus of all people is standing here. Here, in this dirty breakroom with its white plastic table and microwave that doesn't latch closed correctly. Janus dresses too nice to be in a retail store breakroom. Yet he walks in like he owns the place.

"What are you doing here?" Patton says woodenly.

Joan frowns. "He was on your emergency contact list. I'm sorry Pat, but I think you should take the rest of the day off, and I'd worry about you getting home alone."

"You're my emergency contact?" Patton wonders. He's pretty sure he left that blank on his application form.

Joan's frown deepens. "...did you not know?"

Janus butts in and starts petting at Patton's hair with a gloved hand. "Poor thing is so exhausted, he must have forgotten. Come along, Patton. I have the car waiting outside."

"But....but I have to work," Patton tries. He really tries. The thought of going back out there, pretending to be happy, it breaks something inside of him. But he has to. He can't let them down.

Janus leans forward to meet his gaze. His eyes soften. Patton didn't know he could look like... like that. "Patton, sweetie, it's okay to rest when you need to."

"It is?"

Janus's jaw clenches and before Patton can think he might be mad at him for speaking, the softness is back and his voice is lilting in sympathy, "Yes, sweetie. It's better to take care of yourself early, before you run yourself into the ground. You've worked hard enough. Your manager was just telling me what a good employee you are. They want to make sure you're healthy. Will you help me do that?"

Patton can't deny him. He lets Janus haul him up and pull his arm around his for support. Arm in arm, Janus bids Joan a farewell and they leave the store.

As they walk, Janus pats at his hand and tells him that he's doing a good job. Patton doesn't believe it, but it's nice of him to say it. It's odd to see Janus here, without the other two. Whenever it's all of them, Patton can use the others as a buffer. Janus still intimidates him. It's not his fault; Patton just can't be normal.

Outside, there is indeed a car waiting for them. It's a sleek maroon sedan. Patton doesn't know cars past that. It's fancy and probably worth fifty grand at least. It makes him wonder how they can afford stuff like this by breaking into poor people's apartments. There has to be more going on in their lives, other jobs that Patton isn't privy to.

Janus ushers him into the backseat and follows him in. It's leather interior, of course. In the driver's seat sits a familiar face.

"Your worst nightmare, reporting for duty," Virgil says, deadpanned.

"We really must work on your people skills, Virgil," Janus drawls. He doesn't wait for Patton to buckle himself in. He reaches over and does it for him, leaving Patton to blink at what just happened.

"Like you work with me for my people skills," Virgil fires back. In the rearview mirror, his shadowed eyes meet Patton's, serious. His tone shifts, gentling. "You okay back there, Pat?"

Patton wonders if he looks like a deer in the headlights.

He hums an affirmative and nods.

"Cool, ready to get home?"

"Actually, Virgil, I was thinking a change of scenery might be in order."

Virgil shoots Janus an unimpressed look. "You don't think he wants to go home?"

"He said he doesn't," Janus lies smoothly. "Let's head back to the lair. It'll be good for him."

For some reason, Virgil startles and whips around to stare wide-eyed at Janus. "What? Why? Why there? We could go literally anywhere else!"

"Because I said so. And also, because it will most likely be the best place we can take him that won't stress him out further. Wouldn't you agree?"

Virgil growls out some protests, but in the end he faces forward and jerks the gear shift into reverse. They cruise out of the parking lot and down the road they go.

Patton most certainly never mentioned a desire to not go home. Why would Janus lie about that? And what is the lair? Patton thinks of cartoon villains with their evil lairs. Maybe he's being kidnapped and he'll never be seen again. Mwhahaha.

Patton doesn't watch out the window like Janus does. He stares forward at the back of the driver's seat, letting the world pass around them. Partway through the drive, Janus holds his hand out to him. He doesn't look over, but the hand hangs there in the air, waiting.

Twenty seconds pass, and when it's still hanging, Patton reaches up to grasp it in both of his. He sneaks a peek at Janus, but nope. The man acts as if nothing is occurring.

Patton ensures that he doesn't hold too tightly. He lets the hand sit in his lap, palm upwards, and he kind of runs his fingers over Janus's. The glove is smooth cotton, not as silky as he originally thought. He plays with the finger joints and fiddles with the glove tips, and he doesn't think about bad things.

The lair is revealed to be a sinister looking apartment complex in downtown. And by sinister, it's completely average. It's a series of gray brick buildings, each with second floor apartments with outside staircases. Virgil pulls up to one of the buildings.

"Last stop, all passengers please depart," Virgil mutters. He doesn't wait for them and hops out himself. Patton watches him take the stairs two at a time and duck into a second floor apartment.

Janus snickers, "He's probably rushing to clean before you see the pigsty he and Remus live in."

Patton slides his attention over to him. Janus hasn't made a move to remove his hand or reprimand him for still holding it. He's watching Patton, warmth brimming in his eyes that can't be for him. He props an elbow at the window and leans his chin on a fist.

"They live here?" Patton asks. It's dumb of him to ask, because Janus more or less just confirmed it, but he can't stop himself.

"Oh yes, like the gremlins they are."

"Why are we here Janus?"

"To visit said gremlins in their natural habitat."

"...why am I here, Janus?"

And there it is. Patton has finally found the will to question them in their endless series of complicated generosity. He wants to know more than he wants it to continue. He needs answers, even if it costs him.

Janus appraises him. He doesn't act confused or angry. He knows exactly what Patton means. "Because believe it or not, I meant it when I said you deserve a rest. And letting you go back to that lonely apartment of yours will only be counterintuitive. You'll look at those same walls and that brain of yours will try to play tricks on you. Don't think I haven't noticed how tired you are."

Patton swallows back the shame. "I'm sorry," he whispers miserably.

Janus swoops in and nudges his chin back up from where he looked away. "Don't be sorry, darling. Be angry. Be gallantly angry at this world that has failed you. Live to spite those that tried to ruin you. Don't let them win."

Patton grips at the hand in his lap, and the hand squeezes back. "I don't like anger. It scares me."

"When you first met me, I scared you, didn't I?"

It's true. As much as Janus has done for him now, Patton can't rid his mind of the yelling from that night, the sheer ferocity of it.

Janus swipes a thumb across his cheekbone. "I'm sorry that I did, but I can't say I regret it. Do you know why?"

Patton shakes his head.

"What came after that night?"

They did. They stayed in his life. They filled the empty void in his apartment and his soul. They kicked off his new lease at life with a flurry of chaotic excitement. They were so interesting, and complex, and different than other people. Most days, Patton waited for when they would show up next.

Janus lets him think about it. He doesn't have to answer; Janus can see where his mind strays. "That wasn't so scary, was it? It's alright to be angry. It's what you do with it that matters. Some of the most influential people changed the world for the better simply because they got angry enough."

Patton glances down at the hand he holds. He leans in a little at the hand still placed on his cheek. "You're not mad at me though, right?"

Because even now, he has to make sure the voices in his head aren't right.

"Never, love. Never."

***

The inside of Virgil and Remus's apartment is a cluttered mix of Gothic meets scene kid. Decorating the walls are band posters, artwork of live action and cartoon TV shows that are somewhat recognizable, and haunting landscape paintings. There's a metal shelf entirely dedicated to skull sculptures. Centered on the middle shelf is a giant crystal skull with a gear shaped clock in its mouth.

Patton looks up in wonder at a large, black spiderweb hanging from the corner of the ceiling. Nestled inside are various stuffed animals, some of famous fictional horror monsters and lots of Pokémon. Like so many Pokémon. It continues with little figurines of them on floating shelves.

"Oh," Patton utters, glancing this way and that. There's just so much to see! There's a massive boardgame collection on the other side of a dining table, filling up every inch of two shelves pushed together. And there's a neon standing lamp shaped like a martini glass! And elegant black and purple curtains that you'd find in a vampire's house. And goodness! The centerpiece of the table is a small rainbow Christmas tree decorated in Halloween ornaments! It's got little orange pumpkins and black bats. And sitting in one of the chairs is a human sized plastic skeleton, head tossed back like it's in the middle of a good laugh.

"Wow," Patton says in awe. Lair indeed.

He jumps when a door slams. It's Virgil. He's pressed back against a door and smiling sheepishly.

"Just don't open this one," he says.

Janus stands there, arms crossed. "Did you just toss your collective mess in there to worry about later?"

"....no."

"Right, I suppose that's where the dead bodies are stowed then?" he suggests. Then he turns around where Virgil can't see to share a secret shake of his head to Patton to let him know that he's kidding.

"No, that's Remus's room."

"Indeed. Well, that certainly won't come back to bite you later. Let's eat then! I don't know about you, but I'm famished."

They filter down a little hallway to the kitchen. Despite this being Virgil's and Remus's apartment, Janus knows where everything is located. He opens cabinets to pull out spices and a mixing bowl and orders Virgil to retrieve some thawed chicken from the fridge.

"Remus was gonna make chimichangas."

"Well, Remus isn't here, so we're going to use it to make alfredo. He'll be absolutely devastated when he comes home to a meal already prepared."

Patton watches them while fiddling with his fingers. He doesn't want to interrupt but he doesn't want to stand there uselessly. Did they even want him to follow them to the kitchen anyway? Patton could be intruding. Maybe he should–

"Patton dear, could you come sit up here please? I have a task for you."

Patton obliges and follows Janus. He hesitates when his 'chair' is indicated to be the kitchen counter. Virgil doesn't bat an eye, so he hops up.

"Wonderful," Janus approves. "Now, Virgil is going to cut up the chicken for me while I prepare a bread option for us and perhaps a salad. I need you to supervise Virgil while he works."

Virgil snorts as he drains the chicken package into the sink. Patton doesn't think Virgil needs supervision. Patton's the youngest person here, he's sure.

Janus whispers behind a hand, "He has a thing about raw meat, so keep an eye on him, will you? Oh also, here, eat this."

A pudding cup materializes out of nowhere and is deposited in his hands along with a spoon. It's chocolate and vanilla swirl.

"Oh, okay," Patton responds too late. Janus has already moved across the kitchen. Virgil slides in on the counter to replace him.

"Don't listen to him, he's a worry wart. And that's coming from me."

Patton fights back a grin at their antics of playfully trying to undermine each other. "I don't know wart you mean," he says quietly, and it's the kind of joke that he would usually keep to himself. The kind that no one wants to hear and only he thinks is funny.

But Virgil...he laughs.

Dazed, Patton watches Virgil hide his face into the shoulder of his hoodie where he gives an adorable snort-giggle.

"What's so funny?" Janus calls over, hearing the bout of amusement.

With a big grin plastered on his face, Virgil tells him, "I said you're a worry wart, and Patton said, 'I don't know wart you mean'."

"Terrible. Absolutely horrendous. Tell me more."

And Patton keeps them company while they prepare dinner. Virgil chops the meat, Janus tosses together a salad mixture and pulls out a bottle of wine, and Patton nibbles at his pudding in between telling shy puns that he's collected for years.

Dinner is ready by the time Remus returns. They hear his motorcycle engine rev as they're setting the table.

Janus rolls his eyes. "Of course he shows up after it's already ready."

Four plates are dished out and a minute later, Remus swings open the door. He's shuffling his feet in a dance, tossing his keys into a pretty ceramic bowl while he sings.

"With the taste of your lips I'm on a ride~"

And then he stops mid-twirl as his eyes land on their get-together. More notably, the fact that Patton is sitting there at the table beside the perky skeleton. He goes unnaturally still, a perfect statue in leather studs.

Patton offers a timid wave. Virgil throws a breadstick at him to no affect. "Just come eat, you doofus."

A sly grin stretches up Remus's face. "Did you guys kidnap a cute little puppy while I was away?"

"Is it really kidnapping if it's consensual?" Janus debates. "Also, we're having chicken alfredo. I tried to tell Virgil you wanted to save the chicken for chimichangas, but he just wouldn't listen to me."

Virgil hacks into his wine glass and throws a breadstick at him next along with some colorful swearing. Janus laments the waste of carbs, the only thing he's truly sorry for.

Remus saunters over and sits across from Patton. He doesn't seem broken up about the change of meal plans at all and tucks into dinner. He slurps down a noodle messily.

"So Pattycake, what's a guy like you doing in a dank hole like this?"

"Oh, your place is really cool actually... I like it, it's got a lot of..."

"Skulls?"

"Clutter?"

"Diseases?"

"Character," Patton finishes after everyone takes a turn.

Remus shrugs. He offers a bite of pasta to the skeleton, but the skeleton must not be very hungry and chooses not to partake. He carries on eating unperturbed.

And they eat together, and chat together, and laugh together. As if Patton isn't invading their space. As if he belongs there.

Patton's hands only shake a little bit.

After the meal, Remus lays down in the middle of the living room floor, limbs star fished out. He begins snoring less than a minute later.

Patton gawks at him in amazement. "Did he really fall asleep that fast?"

"You should see him fall asleep standing up," Virgil says. He leans closer to Patton, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "Better yet, I've seen him fall asleep with his eyes open."

"That's possible?!"

"No, which is why I don't think he's human."

Patton stares at Remus in a new light, and he must be making a face because Virgil sniggers. The volume doesn't bother Remus in the slightest. If anything, he snores louder.

Janus collects the dirty dishes and piles them together. "Remus had a long night. I say he's earned himself a rest...for now."

"Do you want some help?" Patton asks, jumping up.

Janus waves him off. "Don't worry about it. You're a guest. If anything, our host here should be tidying up."

Virgil scrunches up his nose. "Ew, dishes. Sounds like pleb work."

Janus goes to cuff him on the back of the head, and for a second Patton's heart leaps into his throat, but Virgil ducks out of the way and scampers off in a comical run, snickering and calling Janus an old man.

"This is the thanks I get for raising them," Janus says flatly in a way that belies his amusement. He gathers what dishes he can and carries them off to the kitchen.

Patton sits at the table alone with the skeleton. Janus said he doesn't need help...but could that be a test? He doesn't seem that mad at Virgil for skimping out. In fact, he acted like it was to be expected.

He doesn't want to let the moment pass though and get it wrong. Just in case, Patton scoops up the remaining glasses and takes them to the kitchen.

Janus has begun filling the sink up with soapy water. His jacket has been removed, and he's in the middle of rolling up the long sleeves of his yellow button up. The gloves are gone as well. There are tattoos swirling up his forearms.

He takes one look at the dishes in Patton's arms and he clicks his tongue at him. He comes forward to take them from him. "Thank you dear, but I have this part under control. Why don't you go spend some time with Virgil? He could use some company. Plus, I think you're a good influence on him."

"Really?" Patton blurts out, distracted.

Janus smiles kindly as he deposits the dirty dishes in the sink. "Don't act so surprised. Virgil's more lively when you're around, and Remus actually settles down now and then. Now run along. Make sure they don't get up to trouble for me."

Patton scurries off.

In the living room, Virgil lazes on the couch, head resting on the arm. The TV remote spins in his hand.

Virgil spies him and asks, "Wanna watch a movie, Pat?"

Patton agrees and soon a film is playing. It's a superhero movie, one of the Avengers movies. Patton hasn't seen much of the others, so he listens to Virgil explain the characters and bits that he doesn't recognize. Virgil offers to watch them in order, but Patton enjoys listening to him more.

Eventually, Virgil's descriptions become less frequent. Patton glances over to find he's nodded off. Remus snores away on the carpet, dead to the world. From the kitchen, Patton can hear the dishes clinking lightly.

He thinks this is what home is supposed to feel like.

Later, Janus finishes cleaning up the kitchen. His boys have been suspiciously quiet, so he goes to check on them.

In the living room he finds them all conked out. Virgil dozes on the couch, and Remus still on the floor, but the part that really inspires him to sneak out his phone and steal a picture is Patton.

Patton lays on the floor sound asleep, using Remus's chest as a pillow. He's tucked into the crook of his arm, and Remus snores on, oblivious to the cute little puppy seeking warmth from his big guard dog.

Janus is making that picture his home screen.

#sanders sides #patton sanders #virgil sanders #remus sanders #janus sanders #friendly neighborhood criminals #writing #fanfiction #panic attack #child abuse #past child abuse

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